Great Historical Novels (72 page)

Nikolai piled the berries into Sonya’s favourite cut-glass bowl, and carried them to the table with a professional flourish. ‘For Miss Sonya Nikolayevska! The kitchen was informed that this is your favourite dessert.’

‘No, thank you.’ Sonya looked distantly at the bowl. ‘I don’t feel like blueberries.’

‘No?’ Nikolai tried to fluff them up with a spoon but instead mashed them to a pulp. ‘Not even berries handpicked from the outskirts of the city and smuggled past many greedy soldiers?’

‘Not even then. But thank you all the same.’ Like someone eating in a hotel dining room, Sonya folded her napkin neatly over her smeared cutlery. She surveyed Nikolai’s inept attempts at festivity: a candle wedged in a bottle, a drooping rose filched from a Conservatoire windowsill. ‘I’ll clear away now,’ she said, with a slight frown.

Once the dishes were done, she suggested that he might like to read while she straightened up the apartment.

‘But you straightened up last night,’ he protested. ‘Things couldn’t be straighter.’ This was quite literally true. The high-backed chairs, the rectangular table, the tea trolley with its few pieces of china: everything was positioned at a perfect right angle to the walls. Cushions lay on the sofa in symmetry; curtain-cords were neatly tied. Even Nikolai’s battered music stand stood to attention.

‘It’s important to do it every night.’ Sonya patted the end of the sofa as if summoning a dog. ‘Sit here and you’ll be out of the way.’

He pretended to read the noticeably thinner
Pravda
while watching Sonya out of the corner of his eye. There was something odd about the way she tackled her tasks, methodically yet somewhat illogically. She dusted each shelf once, then retraced her steps and ran the cloth over them several more times. Cleaning the drinks cabinet, she touched each corner repeatedly, murmuring, ‘Two, four, eight, twelve.’

‘Darling?’ He tried to sound casual. ‘What are you counting?’

‘Nothing. Don’t watch me, watch your newspaper. It’s your job to keep an eye on the war.’

He looked disparagingly at the editorial. ‘This paper tells us nothing, because apparently we’re supposed to know nothing.’ Nonetheless, he rustled through the paper as ordered. Between rustles, he could hear
Sonya’s small concentrated puffs of breath, which nearly made him cry.

When she disappeared to dust the bedrooms, he threw the paper aside. Nothing but unconfirmed Soviet victories on vaguely specified fronts, and governmental exhortations to be vigilant against traitors and spies. Indecision swelled inside him, making it hard to breathe. Was he being responsible — or was he simply wrong? After all, Shostakovich was stubbornly staying on in Leningrad, keeping his children by his side. But when it came to matters of principle, Shostakovich was almost obsessively romantic — a lunatic, according to Tanya, who heard tales from Fenya about the disarray in the Shostakovich household (lamps burning all night, bolted study doors, children running wild in the staircase, and Mrs Shostakovich sleeping on the sofa because her husband needed creative space). Yes, Shostakovich had the certainty of the truly selfish, whereas Nikolai was certain of nothing.

‘Certain of nothing,’ he muttered, ‘except that tomorrow I’ll be forced to part with the most precious thing in my life.’

That night he didn’t sleep at all. Instead, he concentrated fiercely on images: Sonya’s round eyes when she heard about the treasures removed from the Hermitage and shipped to Sverdlovsk (‘A thousand miles away? A million?’); the flush on her cheekbones when she laughed; the wispy arrows of hair at the back of her neck. Her rounded forearms when she played the cello, the dents in her right thumb from the bow, the calluses on her left fingers from the strings. He tried to file the pictures in his head, while knowing this was useless.

‘How long will it be?’ he whispered. ‘How long until it’s safe to bring her back?’ The window rattled, the clock clacked on towards morning, and he covered his head with his pillow. But he registered the passing of time in his nervous blood and his quick, uncertain heart.

The morning was much the same as any other. Sounds that had once been strange — marching boots, blaring loudspeakers, the wail of sirens — were already familiar. They blended with the noises of a more ordinary past — clanging dustbins and barking dogs, and the Gessens arguing in the back yard. The warm smell of porridge spread through the apartment, but it provided little comfort. Soon Sonya pushed away her bowl and disappeared back into her room.

‘Make sure we haven’t left anything out of the suitcase,’ called Nikolai through the closed door. ‘Did we remember stockings and mittens? I’m sure you’ll be home before the end of summer, but just in case …’ He looked around for something to do, began pouring leftover milk into a
flask, adding water to make it last longer. But his hands were shaking so badly the milk ran down the bottle and over the bench.

He gave up and sat staring at the closed door until the ticking clock could no longer be ignored. ‘Sonya, the train won’t wait! Can I help with anything?’

‘I’ll be five minutes.’ Sonya’s voice was distant but very definite.

Walking softly to the door, he laid his ear against the wood. He could hear her talking — was she saying goodbye to her dolls? Every now and then her voice rose in an enquiry, and then paused as if waiting for an answer. Nervous sweat prickled under Nikolai’s arms. He’d give her sixty seconds, and then he’d go in.

When the door flew open, he jumped back guiltily. Sonya stood there with her red winter coat around her shoulders. In her right hand she held her small battered suitcase, and in her left was the cello. ‘We’ve got a minute or two to say goodbye to the Gessens,’ she said. ‘It’s only polite, don’t you think?’

He was so dismayed he could hardly speak. ‘Sonya, you know you can’t take the cello.’

Her mouth fell open, forming a small shocked circle. ‘But I must! How else can I do my practice?’

‘You’re only allowed to take the minimum. Warm clothes, food for the journey, that’s all. Practice isn’t important right now.’

‘You’re a musician, how can you say that?’ cried Sonya. ‘Nothing is more important than practising. You sound like a stupid person.’

Suddenly Nikolai felt furious. ‘Do you think I make the rules for this bloody war? If you carry the cello on the train, it will be taken off you before you’re ten miles out of Leningrad. It’ll be smashed up for firewood, or given to an official as a bribe. How will you feel then?’

‘But if I go without the cello, how will Mama find me?’ She swayed in the doorway. ‘I told her that as soon as I reach Pskov, I’ll play, “Song Without Words” so she’ll know exactly where I am.’

Nikolai’s anger drained away. ‘Mama always knows where you are, with or without the cello. What about before your birthday, before the cello was yours? What about before you even started to play?’

‘I won’t go,’ said Sonya, staring at the floor. ‘I won’t go without it.’ Her fingers were stiff and unyielding, gripping so hard to the case that Nikolai had to uncurl them one by one. Glancing desperately at the clock, he shoved the cello inside the bedroom door and picked Sonya up.

‘We have to leave now! You’re going to miss the train and it’s your last
certain chance to get out.’ He blundered to the door, Sonya’s suitcase banging against his back, and fumbled with the handle.

‘Put me down.’ She turned her head away on an unnatural angle, as if she couldn’t stand looking at him. ‘Put me down. I’m not a child.’

The train station was chaotic, like an overfull stockyard; on every platform there was a crush of bodies. Women with large busts and loud voices shouted out names. Children with parcels of food dangling from their wrists cried and clung to the railings. Old women hovered protectively beside their piles of belongings.

Nikolai approached the nearest official. ‘Where do the unaccompanied children leave from?’

The woman glanced at her list. ‘Second platform.’ She wiped a drip off her nose with her sleeve.

Sonya looked at her with distaste and followed Nikolai to the inner side of the platform, sticking closely to the railings, touching every second bar with her left hand.

‘There’s the meeting point,’ he said. ‘I can see it. Hold onto my jacket, now.’ He began forging through the crowd of children; it was like wading through waist-deep water.

Sonya dragged behind him. ‘You mustn’t —’ she began, but her voice was lost in the blast of a train whistle.

‘What did you say, Mouse?’ Nikolai tried not to look at a group of mothers fighting over a dropped packet of food.

‘You mustn’t let anyone else touch the cello.’ Although the heat was growing, she looked frozen, her mouth like a small crack across ice.

‘Of course I won’t!’ He tried to concentrate on what she was saying, but already he could see children being hoisted onto the train.

At the end of the last carriage, another woman was ticking her way down a list. ‘Name?’ she rapped out.

‘Sonya Nikolayevska,’ said Nikolai, peering at the clipboard, pointing.

The woman moved the clipboard away. ‘Yes, Number 78. Is she wearing her number?’

‘A number! She doesn’t need to wear a number. She’s perfectly capable of speaking for herself.’

‘I’m nine years and five weeks old.’ Sonya’s voice rang out over the shrieking and crying. ‘I’ve been able to write my name since I was three.’

The woman ignored her. ‘They all need numbers or they can’t get on.’

Sonya’s face flared with hope. ‘I don’t have one! Can we go home?’

Nikolai’s stomach lurched; part of him wanted nothing more. ‘I wasn’t informed about the need to label my child,’ he said, looking directly into the woman’s eyes. ‘In any case, it’s irrelevant. She’s going to be met by her cousins in Pskov.’
Don’t argue with me
, he thought, or
I’ll snatch
that clipboard out of your fat bureaucratic hands and smash it over your head.

Angrily, the woman crossed off Sonya’s name. ‘It’s up to you. If anything happens to Number 78, it won’t be my fault.’

‘What will happen to me?’ Sonya grabbed Nikolai’s hand. ‘Will I be bombed? Will I be … killed?’ Her palm was slippery with fear.

Nikolai was no longer shocked at the anger he felt; it was touch and go whether he’d punch the woman in her officious mouth. Instead, he bent down and smoothed Sonya’s hair off her hot face. ‘Nothing bad will happen to you,’ he assured her. ‘You can take off your coat as soon as you’re on the train. It won’t be long now.’

Sonya leaned into him for a few seconds, breathing in, breathing out. ‘The Germans will be sent packing,’ she recited, as she and Nikolai had practised, ‘and Leningrad will be peaceful again, and I can come home.’

‘Exactly,’ he said, but his stomach was churning with guilt and terror.

A whistle blew as if signalling the start of a race. Sonya looked nervously over her shoulder. ‘Does that mean I have to get on?’

‘I’m afraid so.’ Nikolai’s heart was beating so hard he felt sick. ‘Got your … got your bag?’

The clipboard woman tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Get her on at once! The train will leave in one minute.’

Suddenly, Sonya was gripping Nikolai’s arm and tears were streaming down her face. ‘Please, Papa, don’t make me go! I’ll help more around the house, I’ll dig in the fields with Aunt Tanya. Please don’t make me go!’

‘My darling. My Mouse.’ Nikolai could hardly speak. ‘But I might be leaving Leningrad myself, you know that. It’s better for us both to be safe, so we can meet up later on.’

‘When?’ Sonya was crying so hard that her face and hands were wet, and she clung to Nikolai’s arm as if it were a life-buoy. ‘When?’

‘Get her on!’ The woman seized Sonya’s left arm and shook it. ‘Stop crying! Do you want to be left behind?’

Nikolai tried to free himself from Sonya’s grip, while the woman grasped her around the waist. For a moment the three of them were
caught in a bizarre tug-of-war: the woman pulling Sonya backwards, Nikolai pulling away, and Sonya held tight between them.

With the final blast of the whistle, she gave up. Her arms and legs went limp, and the official was left holding a bundle of red coat and jumbled limbs. ‘About time!’ She heaved Sonya up the steps, and handed her and her suitcase to an open-faced woman who drew her back into the crowded corridor. The door slammed, the train screeched.

Nikolai was shaking all over. Moving to one side, he tried to catch a glimpse of Sonya’s red coat through the slatted windows. A mass of tousled heads and flushed faces — but none of them belonged to Sonya. The train had swallowed her whole.

He couldn’t wait for the final moment, the grinding, roaring, smoking departure. He turned, trampling on feet. ‘Sorry. Sorry.’ Pushing through the crying women, he made for the exit. Once in the street, he stood with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath.

On the walk home, it felt as if gashes were opening in the soles of his feet and his strength and endurance were pouring away through them. By the time he reached the apartment, he could hardly stand. He sank down on the living-room floor, then crawled along the wall to Sonya’s door. Turning his head carefully, as if the movement might shake his eyes from their sockets, he looked into the room, and the hairs on his arms stood on end.