by Fay Weldon
‘Aunt Tanya is needed here.’
‘For what? Cleaning? I can clean. Why don’t you send Aunt Tanya off to Pskov instead of me?’
‘Tanya isn’t cleaning,’ sighed Nikolai. ‘She won’t even be helping us out any more. She’s going to work with some other women, building blockades.’
‘Blockades? What are they?’
‘Obstacles to keep the German tanks out.’ Supposedly, he added to himself. He’d seen the small forest of concrete pyramids sitting in the fields to the south-west of the city, backed by spindly wooden fences. If the Panzers got that far, they’d roll through with little more than a bump. ‘Can’t we walk while we talk?’ he pleaded. ‘I have to be at the hospital by twelve.’
‘All right.’ But Sonya looked stern. Clearly, the battle was far from over.
They walked along the Moyka Canal in silence, but everywhere around them was shouting, hammering, the falling of timber, the constant clatter of wheels. The entire city was an anthill of activity, its citizens marching out in lines to dig and build. The energy infected Nikolai — not with a desire to be part of the action, but simply to believe it wasn’t all in vain. Leningrad, city of vapours and mist, built by dogged dreamers who’d balanced stone towers and gilt domes on top of quaking marshes! Foolhardy. He slapped his feet harder as he walked. Foolhardy and foolish. This had been a doomed city long before Hitler had set his sights on it.
Sonya led the way over the Antonenko Bridge. She walked in a perfectly straight line but the parting in her hair was crooked, zigzagging to the left and the right. As if aware of Nikolai’s gaze, she spun around. ‘Can’t you walk a bit faster? If you’re going to be on time, we’ve only got four minutes to visit the Horseman and leave again.’
‘Perhaps your watch is fast? By my calculations we have at least five and a half minutes to spare.’
Sonya ignored his half-hearted joke. She passed St Isaac’s Cathedral without a sideways glance, though normally she liked to walk up the steps and scrape her feet on the small iron oxen by the door. But when they reached their destination she gave a gasp. ‘The Horseman!’
In front of them was the familiar bronze statue of Peter the Great. He sat astride his huge rearing horse, face averted from the city he’d founded, eyes fixed eternally on a far horizon. His sword had a greenish hue towards the hilt, but its tip was bright from the touch of many hands and the bent fetlock of his horse had been stroked to gold.
‘What are they doing?’ Sonya spoke in a half-whisper.
The Czar and his horse stood as high as ever, but scurrying around the base, hacking away at the earth, were men and women with shovels and pickaxes. They’d driven poles into the ground, and were hammering a wooden platform on top of them. Immediately below the rearing horse stood an officer of the Home Guard. In spite of his shining brass buttons and his wide chest, he appeared puny, insignificant, as if he might be crushed by the giant hooves.
‘They’re putting a shelter around the Horseman.’ Nikolai stared at the bent backs and straining forearms, the jolt of shoulders when a shovel hit rock.
‘So that the Germans can’t hurt him?’ Sonya’s hand crept into his. ‘What would they do? Steal him?’
‘Maybe. Or smash him up.’
Suddenly a pile of wood tipped off the platform and slid, with a roar, all the way down to the bottom of the earth mound.
‘Incompetent fools!’ shouted the officer, hitting the statue with his whip. Wham! Wham! The strokes rang out over the grunting and hammering. ‘How the hell can we keep out the Germans with clumsy bastards like you as defence?’
‘He doesn’t need to hit the horse!’ said Sonya indignantly.
‘Nor abuse the men like that.’ Nikolai had just realised who the officer was: Vladimir Lisin who, many years earlier, had married a friend from Nikolai’s student days. Just three months after her wedding, Anya Lisin had pushed her way out onto the attic windowsill, balanced there for a second, then hurled herself into the street. Her skull had cracked, her delicate ribcage smashed, but her disappointed heart had gone on beating for several hours afterwards, as if rebuking the brutish Lisin for as long as possible.
‘We should get on,’ he said abruptly.
But already Lisin was slithering down the dirt mountain, his spurred heels digging into the ground. For a second it seemed his cold gaze would pass over them, then he gave a start of recognition. ‘Nikolai Nikolayev? Am I right?’
‘You are.’ Nikolai’s throat clenched with dislike. ‘But we’re just on our way.’
‘To —?’ asked Lisin, as if it were his job to oversee the movements of every citizen in Leningrad.
‘Papa has a hospital appointment,’ announced Sonya. ‘We mustn’t be late.’
‘A worthy attitude.’ Lisin slapped his boot with his riding crop. ‘Punctuality wins ground. Lateness loses wars.’ He laughed, revealing crooked and stained teeth.
Sonya stared up at him. ‘My father’s going for his medical examination for the army, and I must go home to pack my bags. I’m leaving Leningrad soon.’ There were bright spots of red on her cheekbones.
‘You won’t be leaving right away,’ said Nikolai, squeezing her hand. ‘But Sonya is right. We have places to go. Please excuse us.’
‘How’s your wife?’ Lisin seemed reluctant to return to work. ‘I remember seeing her years ago in a performance by the Leningrad Philharmonic. Tchaikovsky, if my memory serves me right. Such beauty, such talent! Is she still playing?’
‘My wife is dead.’ It had taken Nikolai four years to say this sentence without hesitation, and five to achieve it without a break in his voice. Now his words sounded as flat and chilly as the flanks of the metal horse.
‘Dead?’ Lisin flushed. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Such a looker! Such a gorgeous woman, dead!’
Nikolai clenched his right hand in his pocket. He wanted to smash Lisin to the ground, topple him like a tree in front of the labourers he’d been swearing at — and let them cover him over with soil and suffocate him.
‘My wife was indeed beautiful.’ He spoke as coldly as he dared. ‘As, I believe, was yours. The difference is that my wife was taken from me, whereas yours —’ He paused. ‘Well, of what value is life, when living is a hell?’
‘How dare you speak to me like that!’ Lisin’s face was florid but his eyes were as pale as a wolf’s. ‘What do you know about my marriage? What do you know?’
Several women stopped their digging to listen. Their half-curious, half-blank stares reminded Nikolai of cattle. So this is what we are reduced to, he thought. Before they’ve even marched into our streets, the Germans are reducing us to animals.
‘Come on,’ he said to Sonya. ‘Come away quickly.’
‘How dare you?’ Lisin was almost screaming. ‘You’ll soon know about living hell, damn you. The Germans will get you! You’ll be punished!’
Nikolai couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such rage. He spoke loudly over his shoulder, not caring if the staring workers heard. ‘Be careful on whom you wish that fate. Even the Third Reich doesn’t look kindly on men like you.’
Once they reached a small deserted square, he stopped and took a deep breath. ‘That’s a man whom it’s better to stay well clear of. Remember that, Mouse. If you ever see him again, put your head down and walk away.’
‘Why was he so angry?’ Sonya was breathless. ‘How did his wife die? Did the Germans kill her?’
‘Nothing like that. The Germans were still our friends back then. Maybe one day —’
‘When I’m older, I suppose —’
‘Even I don’t like thinking about it, so I’d rather you didn’t have to.’
‘He used very nasty language. The Nazis seem to bring out the worst in people. Whatever will happen to Aunt Tanya? She was cross enough before the war.’
‘In some families,’ explained Nikolai, ‘the eldest child ends up with the lion’s share of the responsibility. Aunt Tanya was a lot older than Mama, so she had to look after
everything and do most of the chores. I suppose that’s why she comes across as a bit —’ He had a sudden heart-wrenching vision of Tanya, scarf knotted around her face, driving a pickaxe into rock-hard soil.
‘A bit bossy?’ suggested Sonya.
‘Efficient,’ modified Nikolai. ‘And now she’s being efficient for the whole of Leningrad.’
‘God help her, wherever she is now,’ said Sonya cosily.
‘Sonya!’
‘What?’ Sonya looked defensive. ‘I’m just saying what Mrs Gessen said about Grandma Gessen.’
‘Grandma Gessen died of pneumonia. Aunt Tanya is ditch-digging somewhere near the Forelli Hospital. There’s a slight difference.’
‘I’m sure Mama’s glad to be in the sky right now,’ mused Sonya, ‘rather than down here being ordered about by horrible men.’ She walked in silence for a minute, and then caught Nikolai’s elbow. ‘Oh, no! I have to go straight home! I can’t come to the hospital.’
‘It’s just up ahead.’ Nikolai pointed past a line of trucks piled with concrete pillars. ‘Anyway, I don’t like you walking on your own.’
‘But I haven’t done my morning practice yet, and it’s nearly afternoon.’
‘Is that all?’ He was relieved. ‘Can’t you just add some time onto your afternoon session?’
‘No, it’s not the same!’ She stepped blindly into the street, narrowly missing an oncoming bicycle
Nikolai pulled her back onto the pavement. Her heart was beating so hard her whole body was shaking. ‘The check-up won’t take long,’ he said, though he suspected this was another lie.
‘You don’t understand! Morning practice has to be done in the morning, afternoon practice in the afternoon and evening practice after dinner. Otherwise everything goes wrong.’
‘What goes wrong?’ He began to feel concerned. ‘You mean your playing?’
‘Not just my playing. Everything!’ She flicked her braids back with desperation. ‘Things will not be … safe.’
Nikolai felt a chill run through him. What did she mean, things would not be —
‘Greetings, Nikolai Nikolayev and Sonya Nikolayevska!’ Shostakovich stood in front of them, dressed in a jacket and tie, his cowlick slicked back off his forehead. ‘Where might an esteemed violinist and a promising cellist be heading on such a fine day?’
‘Mr Shostakovich!’ In a second Sonya’s anxiety disappeared. ‘Papa’s going for his medical exam, although he’s promised he will try not to fight in the war. And I’m going home to do my practice.’ She fished her key out from her dress, the sunlight catching in the silver chain.
‘You have your own latch-key!’ Shostakovich recognised the importance of this instantly. ‘When were you entrusted with that?’
‘Only this week. Aunt Tanya isn’t home any more to let me in. I could have had one for a lot longer, though. I never lose things.’
‘If more Russians had your responsible nature,’ replied Shostakovich gravely, ‘our country wouldn’t be in this pickle.’ He looked at Nikolai. ‘So you’re volunteering? According to Sollertinsky, there’s no need in the world. You’ll be evacuated before it comes to that. The Philharmonia and the Conservatoire are two of the cultural jewels in our Great Leader’s crown.’ Behind his glasses, his eyes glinted with contempt.
‘Sollertinsky could be right.’ Nikolai nodded. ‘He always seems to know what decisions are being made behind closed conference doors. All the same, I’m going through with the medical exam as a kind of … superstitious precaution.’ This was as close as he could come to explain his motives, even to himself.
‘I fully understand. Sometimes intuition is the only voice worth listening to. It’s impossible to know or predict what will happen.’ Shostakovich glanced up at the sky. ‘Although Nina wants us to leave, I feel I have to stay for as long as possible. These are my streets. Leningrad has provided the ground bass to my entire life.’ He took off his glasses and rubbed the lenses on his sleeve. Unmasked, he looked both vulnerable and determined — much as he might have at the age of nineteen, accepting applause for his First Symphony from an enraptured audience.
‘But can you continue to work? In the midst of all this upheaval?’
‘I’ve finally forced them to take me — a four-eyed bat — into the Home Guard.’ Shostakovich looked satisfied. ‘I intend to hammer and dig and build until there’s no breath left in me. No doubt I’ll still be required to compose rousing tunes for the purpose of raising morale. But twenty-four-hour service is nothing more than I owe. I’d be nothing without Leningrad.’
‘I suspect the feeling’s mutual. The whole of the city takes pride in your achievements.’
For a second, Shostakovich looked testy. ‘It’s nothing. It’s my job.’ He shuffled his feet. ‘Well, I must be going. There’s no time these days for real conversation. Action — this is how it’ll be from now on. Possibly for a lamentably long time.’
‘I must go, too.’ Sonya pulled up her socks in a decisive manner. ‘My cello’s waiting, and I’ve got a lot of tidying to do.’
‘Tidying?’ Shostakovich looked approving. ‘We could do with you in our household. Things are too often in a state of chaos, especially now we no longer have our domestic help. I suppose you’re completely quiet when tidying?’
‘My quietness is one reason that Papa calls me Mouse,’ agreed Sonya. ‘By the way, who’s the bossy one in your household?’
‘The bossy one?’ Shostakovich considered this. ‘I think you could say that every member of my family is bossy. Myself, certainly, and definitely Mrs Shostakovich — not to mention my mother and Galina. Maxim is probably the least bossy, which is why he’ll make a second-rate conductor. He’s not enough of a dictator to be the best.’
‘He’s three years old,’ laughed Nikolai, clapping Shostakovich on the shoulder. ‘You may yet be spared the agony of having a conductor in the family.’
‘What’s wrong with conductors?’ enquired Sonya.
‘Nothing at all,’ said Nikolai. ‘One of Mr Shostakovich’s best friends is a conductor.’
‘Unfortunately,’ said Shostakovich to Sonya, ‘your father’s telling the truth. May I escort you part of the way home?’
‘Thank you.’ She tucked her hand under his arm a little primly, more like a grown woman than a nine-year-old girl. ‘I’ll be holding my thumbs all the way home,’ she promised Nikolai, ‘for good luck with your examination.’
‘Good luck, indeed,’ said Shostakovich. ‘Though I expect you’ll have no problem today. You’ll be pronounced either fit to fight or fit to toil. The difficulty will come later, when they want to remove you from the city altogether, telling you that preserving Leningrad’s culture is more important than preserving Leningrad itself.’
‘One hurdle at a time. At any rate, such conflicts of duty and conscience have dogged us long before this crisis.’ Nikolai spoke smoothly, but he felt a stab of anger at the way Shostakovich seemed to consider himself exempt from such pressure. Did he really believe the authorities would allow one of Russia’s most esteemed composers to stay behind, digging ditches, while lesser talents were removed to safety?
He watched Sonya parade away on the arm of Dmitri Shostakovich, possibly the most famous man she’d ever encounter. The upward tilt of her face suggested that she was engaging in polite conversation, possibly enquiring about Maxim’s extreme shyness, which seemed to prey on her mind, or Galina’s ambition to become a world-class ballerina. But at the corner of Dominkovskaia Street she turned to check that Nikolai was still watching, and raised her free hand in the air to show him that she was holding her thumb for luck.
The secretive nature of the Elias men
Elias’s father, although talkative, had been a secretive man. He was a shoemaker who’d hauled himself up by his bootlaces to reach a platform of unshakeable self-satisfaction. If his acquired veneer had chinks in it, if his grammar let him down or his table manners slipped, he refused to acknowledge these things. His armour was one of sup
pression, hammered out over many years.
An accomplished craftsman, he was an artist in one area only: the art of hiding things. Hiding his background, hiding his weaknesses, hiding remorse, nostalgia and grief. By the time Karl was born, Mr Eliasberg was already adept at ignoring anything that revealed the person he’d once been.
Often he strode about the house naked. The more physically open he was, it seemed, the less emotion he felt obliged to reveal. One of his few pleasures was bathing. As late as October, when the sky was leaden, he’d coerce his wife — who didn’t care for swimming — and his son — who couldn’t swim — into providing an unwilling audience. Karl and his mother would sit on their coats, on a carpet of dank leaves, watching as Mr Eliasberg pulled off his over-shirt and trousers and rushed for the water. After interminable splashing, he’d rise up from the weed-filled shallows, his hairy legs streaming and his pendulous balls hanging behind a penis shrivelled with cold. At this point Karl would avert his eyes and begin talking about anything, anything at all, so he didn’t have to look at him.
‘What’s the problem with Karl Eliasberg? Is he offended by the human body?’
Nearly thirty years later, Elias could still hear the braided emotions in his father’s voice: exhibitionism mixed with self-regard and scorn. It wasn’t the human body that had made his ten-year-old self squirm, simply the fact that it was his father’s body. In full view of his mother! Sitting there on her darned coat, her arms folded against the biting air! The shame of it all had seeped into his soul, just as the chill seeped into his bones.
Elias remembered this now, as he stood self-consciously in a makeshift cubicle, his shirt lying limply over the screen and his braces in shameful loops. ‘You can keep your trousers on,’ the doctor had said, before beginning his barrage of tests. Elias had flushed with relief. He couldn’t remember the last time someone else had seen his legs. He stood sucking in his breath, and avoided looking in the mirror that hung on the cloth wall.
