by Fay Weldon
‘But why has score paper run out?’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘Now, of all times? Especially as Prokofiev’s no longer in Leningrad to hog it all.’
The clerk gave an uncertain laugh.
‘I wasn’t joking.’ Shostakovich spoke morosely. He had an increasing and not irrational fear of being stopped in his tracks. Stopped by military developments, as the crucial battle at Mga was still raging and the German lines were coiling closer around Leningrad. Stopped by Nina, demanding they leave the city. Stopped by lapsed concentration, exhaustion or illness. The music he’d written over the past weeks was like a steam train at his back, bearing down, forcing him on. It was bad enough thinking about what he still had to write, without fretting about what he was supposed to write on. ‘Can’t you give me something?’
The clerk shuffled through logbooks as if to postpone the bad news. Finally he looked up. ‘It appears our deliveries have been temporarily halted.’
Shostakovich sighed. ‘Please try to get me some, by whatever means you can. It’s extremely important.’
In recent days the clerk, having witnessed the departure of almost all regular Union visitors, had become increasingly gloomy. The building was a ghost-ship with his puny reluctant self at the helm, and outside a fearsome storm was brewing. But now his chin lifted. ‘You mean to say you’re still composing? And it’s something important? I suppose it’d be impertinent to enquire what it … might be.’ His sentence ended in a nervous squeak.
Shostakovich dropped his fire helmet with a clang. ‘I’m not sure. That is, I can’t speak about it.’ By the time he’d stooped, banged his head on the desk and retrieved his helmet, his dislike of the clerk was complete. His wife and his best friend: these were the only two who’d possibly earned the right to enquire about his work in progress. In fact, due to past experience, neither Sollertinsky nor Nina had asked very much at all. How would a spindly idiot behind a desk have any insight into Shostakovich’s rough black notation?
‘Just move heaven and earth to get me some paper,’ he said curtly.
‘I’ll try, sir. I hear that you’re fire-watching now?’
‘Yes, I’m keeping watch on the roof of the Conservatoire.’
‘How ironic!’ The clerk peered at him deferentially. ‘For so long you’ve nurtured our city from inside that building, and now you’re protecting us from its heights.’
More than ever, Shostakovich wished someone else would enter the room and save him. But the Union, once full of people he wished to avoid, was dismayingly empty. ‘I suppose it’s ironic,’ he muttered.
The clerk was beginning to look elated. Never before had the chance arisen to talk to Shostakovich at such length! ‘I’m hoping to join you at your post, perhaps as early as next week. Now that most of our musical best have departed, my work here has almost disappeared. And physical disabilities prevent me from going to the Front.’ He stuck out a thin leg. ‘Polio. Struck when I was six. My mother feared for my life — but now, perhaps, it’s saved me.’
‘Your limbs, my eyesight.’ Shostakovich spoke with the fearsome civility he reserved for the overly familiar. ‘Any firebombs that fall on our city will be dealt with by crocks and cripples.’
‘Indeed. We, too, have our part to play.’ The clerk’s expression was almost coquettish.
Shostakovich stepped back. The pull of comradeship, so desired by others, aroused in him a kind of physical repulsion. ‘I must go,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ve got work to do, though all too little paper on which to do it.’
The streets, bathed in early sunlight, were relatively calm. Tanks lay under tarpaulins and the trams overturned across intersections looked as if they, too, were sleeping. Sandbags were piled around the bases of statues, while boarded-up monuments floated like unwieldy arks on the cobblestones. Shostakovich knelt beside one to retie his bootlace and realised he could no longer remember what was concealed behind the boards. He’d always been in such a hurry, rushing to the Conservatoire, rushing back to the apartment.
A sudden roar made him jump. Fuel trucks with flags fluttering from their roofs — ‘Defend the gains of the October Revolution!’ — were rumbling across the square in the direction of the train station. Glimpsing the faces of the men behind the streaked windscreens, Shostakovich could tell that some of them were no more than seventeen or eighteen. What did the Revolution mean to them? Well, now they’d have their own battle to tell tales about — if they survived. He wiped his eyes and hurried away.
When he got home, the apartment was quiet and dark. Very quietly, he laid his helmet in a corner and pulled off his boots. The bedroom door remained closed.
He tiptoed to the side table. The top drawer was locked: was the key still hanging in the crockery cupboard? He opened the cupboard door little by little and groped along the wall. A cup spun on the edge of the shelf; he caught it in mid-air. Thank God! The door behind him was still closed — and there it was under his fingers, the small iron key, the shape of work to come. His clenched stomach eased.
No sooner had he unlocked the drawer than the bedroom door flew open, and out rushed Maxim, loud and furious in his calico nightgown. ‘I won’t stay in bed any more!’
Nina appeared, her hair in a glossy ponytail. ‘Sorry. I tried my best.’ Half-apologetic, half-defiant, she padded across the room and began unhooking the blackout curtains from the top windows.
Next came Galina, her face lighting up at the sight of her father. She twirled in front of him and began singing in a slightly self-conscious way. (Sollertinsky was to blame for this; ever since he’d announced that her voice was promising, she preferred singing to speaking.) ‘Where was Papa all night long?’ she sang. ‘Does he like my morning song?’
Shostakovich tried to smile. ‘Yes, Papa likes it, but he’s very tired. He’s been on a rooftop all night, looking out for fires, and now he has to work on his music.’
‘If I couldn’t find a fire,’ sang Galina, ‘I’d go and join a choir.’
‘I’m hungry,’ growled Maxim. ‘Damn hungry.’
‘Don’t swear,’ said Nina, ‘or you’ll stay hungry all day.’ Simultaneously she boiled water, mixed porridge and combed Galina’s hair. Watching her, Shostakovich thought she looked like a beautiful, severe, many-handed Madonna.
‘How did it go last night?’ She looked over one shoulder as she spoke. Her enquiry was sharp-edged, as if she hoped that finally the firebombs had arrived, a bright white shower falling on the Leningrad domes and merging into a running field of fire. For as soon as the Germans began bombing, even pig-headed patriots like her husband would be forced to leave.
He thought back to the night he’d just spent under the velvet August sky. The moon, so low and large he could set it swinging like a pendulum. The familiar streets were transformed into an unfamiliar tableau, fountains and buildings like paper cutouts rimmed with light. Far away on the horizon came the occasional flash of a different light: German gunfire and the Soviet reply. But this, too, had seemed unreal, no more than an operatic effect. On the Conservatoire roof the hours had fallen away, and by the time sunrise stained the eastern sky Shostakovich had lived through several lifetimes.
He stared at Nina, dazed. ‘It was quiet. Yes, extremely quiet. Perhaps our troops will hold Mga after all, and the Germans will be forced to retreat.’ A melodic line hung in his head, somehow connected to the bright moon and the silence, but now it was in danger of disappearing altogether.
‘Do you actually listen to the radio reports?’ Nina placed the pot on the stove with a clang. ‘Or do you mentally rewrite them for your own convenience?’
Galina leaned against Shostakovich’s legs like a cat. ‘What’s that you’re holding?’
Stroking her smooth head, Shostakovich felt the first waves of tiredness breaking over him. Perhaps he should lie down for an hour and gather some energy for the task ahead? ‘It’s something my Da made. He made it when I was a boy and he was working as an engineer.’
‘What’
s it for?’ Maxim stared at the spidery gadget, forgetting his hunger.
‘It draws five lines at once. You can make musical paper with it. I need some because the Composers’ Union has run out and I have to finish my march.’ This last sentence was largely for Nina’s benefit: an explanation without any tedious detail.
‘Your march? That boom-boom one we’ve heard on the piano?’
‘It won’t end with a boom, Galya’ He cast a longing glance at the workroom door. ‘It will end with a sigh, and perhaps a few tears. It will end quietly — as long as I can get some quiet time to end it.’
‘Are you really low on paper?’ So Nina had heard his plea! Now perhaps he’d be allowed to leave the kitchen, fighting off the need for sleep, beckoning to the faint sounds he’d heard some hours earlier.
‘Yes, God knows what they’ve been using score paper for. That numbskull Prokofiev probably took a stash to the Caucasus for scribbling his crap on. And Khachaturian took the rest to the Urals. It might as well be used as toilet paper.’ He spoke lightly; winning Nina over, even temporarily, always made him feel better.
She was laying out mugs and spoons on the table. ‘Are you eating with us?’
‘I’m not hungry. I got something at the Union canteen.’
‘Is that so?’ Nina regarded him steadily. ‘What did you get — white lies with onions? You’re getting so thin, you need to eat.’
‘Stop fussing!’ He lost his patience. ‘I’ve got a job to do. And it’s a damn sight more important than perching on a rooftop, watching for non-existent bombers.’
He slammed his way into his workroom and barricaded the door with a chair. Don’t try to come in, he prayed, opening the lid of the piano. There was no time for recriminations and apologies.
Much later, he raised his head. He could hear a hammering — not the thudding ground-bass of his strings, as he’d first thought. It was definitely external.
With a sigh, he went out into the main room. It was empty and tidy. The dishes were stacked away. The children’s overshoes had gone from beside the door. The onslaught of knocking continued.
‘Who is it?’
‘Dmitri!’ The voice was familiar. ‘It’s me! Let me in.’
Alarmed, he flung open the door. ‘Nikolai! What in God’s name has happened? Are the Germans inside the city gates?’
Nikolai stumbled past him and sank down in a chair, his chest heaving. He looked as if he’d run all the way from his apartment, some fifteen blocks away. ‘It’s Sonya! It’s … my … Sonya.’
‘No! Tell me she’s safe. Has Pskov been attacked?’
‘She never got there. I’ve just had word from my wife’s sister. The train never arrived. At first they thought it was delayed — nothing unusual, as some trains have stood in sidings for days, waiting for the all-clear. But now —’ Tears ran down his cheeks as silently as rain. ‘Now it’s been a week, and there have been reports of a German attack on the line to Pskov. They can’t say which train was hit, but it’s likely —’ He stopped and laid his head on the table, crying so hard the wood creaked under the weight of his grief.
Shostakovich hovered beside him. ‘You mustn’t give up hope. These reports are often bullshit — ninety per cent rumour, ten per cent hearsay. You’ve been intending to join the Conservatoire in Tashkent, haven’t you? Why not go there as planned, and surely you’ll soon hear good news about Sonya.’ But his head was still ringing with the notes he’d just written; the thudding of the timpani held the authority of a death march, and he found it hard to believe his own words.
‘I can’t go away now,’ said Nikolai, lifting his head. ‘I must stay here, in case she makes her way home.’ He wiped his eyes and blew his nose. ‘I must find something to do while I wait for her to come home. Perhaps I can work in a munitions factory. Or lend my support to the Radio Orchestra.’
‘That will raise the spirits of our melancholic conductor!’ Shostakovich, clumsy from thirty hours without sleep, tried for a joke. ‘If Elias gets one of Russia’s finest violinists to join his ragged band, he’ll smile for the first time in a decade.’
Nikolai’s swallow was painfully loud in the quiet room. ‘I came to you not just because you’re my friend. I hoped you might help me find out the truth.’
‘The truth about what?’
‘About what happened to the train. The Kremlin listens to you, after all. Your name’s known by the top authorities, not only in the cultural department but also in defence.’ He fixed his eyes on Shostakovich. ‘I ask you — I beg you. Would you make use of your position to find out the truth about Sonya?’
A light breeze rattled the window frame; Shostakovich took off his glasses and began polishing them with his handkerchief. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said at last.
Nikolai stood up in a rush, his chair crashing to the floor. ‘I’ve offended you! If it were anyone but Sonya, I’d never ask for such a thing. I know you loathe asking the Party for privileges, that you never do it even for yourself, that you despise people who try to use your influence for their gain. I know all this, and I’m sure you hate me for presuming. But it’s Sonya — it’s my Sonya!’ He backed away from the chair as if it were a body on a battlefield.
‘Please believe me, Nikolai. If I could do anything to find her, if I could make any phone calls or send any telegrams, I would do so instantly. But from the day the Germans breached our borders, my influence has counted for nothing. I can’t even get score paper to continue my work. Stalin and his generals are concentrating on military strategy, not musical matters. At present, in official eyes, I’m smaller than an ant.’
‘Of course.’ Nikolai’s hectic flush had faded, leaving his face waxy. ‘You’re right. I’ve been grasping at straws.’
‘As one does, when the river is closing over one’s head.’ Tears stung Shostakovich’s eyes; he’d just remembered Sonya’s small hand on his arm as he’d walked her home down Nevsky Prospect. Was it possible the train carrying her to safety was now a twisted mess of metal? Carriages splintered apart, fragments of bone scattered over the dry ground?
‘I must go.’ Nikolai sounded more definite. He picked up the chair and set it neatly in at the table. ‘I’ll go to the Pravda offices to see if anyone there knows anything. I’m sorry if I interrupted your work.’
Shostakovich kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Don’t mention it. I’m quite used to interruptions. You know what it’s like trying to work with youngsters —’ He stopped, bit his lip and rushed on. ‘Even if my name were General Shaposhnikov or Marshal Voroshilov, I’d be unable to help you. Our commanders are masters of chaos, attempting to steer Russia with neither a plan in front of them nor experience behind them. Details go unnoticed, the bigger picture confounds them. We’re in the hands of fools and idiots, thanks to the way the army was decimated by our own leader. You don’t think the bumbling generals who survived the purge would know where evacuees are, do you, when they can scarcely locate their own brains?’
‘I understand what you’re saying.’ Nikolai’s head drooped. ‘It’s hopeless, of course. But nonetheless I must go on searching.’
‘It’s not hopeless,’ urged Shostakovich, ‘and you must go on hoping. Hearing Sonya play, I felt sure she was destined for a great future. I still feel that now, and my instincts are seldom wrong.’
‘I have the cello. Perhaps, like the beam of a lighthouse, it will bring her home.’ But Nikolai walked to the door like a blind man, hands outstretched as if to stop himself falling.
Back in his workroom, Shostakovich sat at the desk for some minutes, his shoulders heaving. Then he wiped his face on his sleeve, picked up his father’s shaky hand-made gadget, and began tracing staves on the backs of old composition essays as if his life depended on it. The metal spider moved lightly and crookedly over the paper, leaving trailing lines in its wake. Page after page, rhythm soothing away thought until the chaos of the world was reduced to five clean but uneven lines.
PART III
Autumn 1941
The descent
September was cold and grey. Every day the sun hid behind thick cloud as if avoiding the sight of German tanks poised at Leningrad’s gates. The urgency of the summer had been replaced by a strange lethargy growing like moss over the surface of the city. Ordinary activities were interspersed with extraordinary ones but, whether shuffling in bread queues or training for grenade-throwing, people spoke in flat voices and their faces were as dull as the gun-metal sky.
Shostakovich was feeling increasingly exhausted. His legs ached and there was a constant pain behind his eyes. ‘Perhaps it’s because my thirty-fifth birthday is approaching,’ he said to Nina. ‘I’m becoming an old man.’
‘Fire-watching all night and composing all day is enough to make anyone feel old. Besides, you always feel ill when you’re writing. Once you’ve finished this work, you’ll be fine.’
‘Once I’ve finished! The problem is —’ He took a burning gulp of tea, glanced at Nina, who was grating potatoes, and plunged into an admission, hoping it wasn’t a mistake. ‘This is only a first movement. Although this one may be done in a few days, there’ll still be a second movement to write, and then a third and a fourth.’
‘It’s going to be … a symphony?’
‘I’m afraid so. You’d think twenty-five minutes of thunder and lightning would be enough. But a few days ago I was forced to acknowledge that there is more to come.’ He remembered the moment with something close to annoyance. As he’d dragged a bucket of sand up the steep steps to the Conservatoire roof, suspicion had hardened into certainty. The final grumbles of the main theme, the tanks fading into the distance — they weren’t final. There was more to write.
Nina gave a small sigh. Perhaps she was remembering the last stages of the Sixth Symphony, when he’d plummeted into such a severe depression he couldn’t get out of bed? Mixing flour into the grated potato, she made a face. ‘I could do with an egg.’
