The Keeper of Secrets (18 page)

Chapter 32

T
here were nine of them around the table, five family and four neighbors. They ate and laughed and talked and made toasts to General Secretary Comrade Stalin and to Marshal Zhukov. Yulena told them about her adored professor Dmitri Shostakovich, and the exciting plans for the conservatory’s end-of-year concert. She saw Koyla’s expression harden when she mentioned Shostakovich but ignored it. Mama had worked so hard and it was Koyla’s birthday; the last thing they needed was an argument.

“Been fishing lately, Koyla?”

The question came from their neighbor Ivan Suvokinov.

“Not since the winter, Comrade; no time, and I didn’t want to leave Kati once she came close to her date.”

Fishing and the Party were the only passions her brother seemed to indulge in, and at times, Yulena was tempted to tease him about how the Great Father viewed his stories of the five-hundred-pound catfish on the river Don and huge salmon in Neva, but she knew that Comrade Stalin was not a subject for humor.

“My dream remains the Baltic sturgeon in the headwaters of the Elba,” Koyla added.

“An admirable dream.” Ivan was warming to the subject. “You know there are fish in the Elba with over eighty pounds of caviar inside them? I’ve seen them, with my own eyes.”

“So tell me, Koyla, how is the farm policy seen by the Party in Moscow?” asked Pavel Volkov, another neighbor.

Yulena suppressed her amusement; the two neighbors were easily impressed by power: Ivan pandered to Koyla’s interest in fishing, and Pavel knew he adored talking politics. Almost instantly her brother was on the edge of his seat and she could see his eyes bright with enthusiasm.
Here we go,
she thought.

“It’s a brilliant concept, you know. Before the next decade, less than two percent of all our land will be in private production and with State-set targets and quotas, we will achieve higher levels of productivity than ever before! Vegetables, meat, milk, potatoes, grain, and eggs.”

Yulena sipped her wine and smiled innocently across the table at him.

“So why are there so many shortages then? Why do we queue for hours for a loaf of bread?”

“We’ve been through a brutal war, Yulena. You can’t expect an economy of this size, even one guided by the Great Father himself, to recover from years of war so quickly. Of course there are shortages. We need more people to work the land, especially men. Comrade Stalin says that far too many of the workers on the collectives are elderly, female, and illiterate. It’s hard to teach them how to farm productively. But there are plans in place to encourage more men to move to the country and help produce food.”

“Encourage?” she echoed. “How will he do that?”

The atmosphere was heavy with a sudden intruder who’d slipped between the chairs, and his name was Fear. For all it took was one word, one question, one suggestion that you disagreed with any of the Great Father’s policies. Nada moved a couple of spoons around in the now-empty serving dishes and looked sharply at her husband. Yulena saw him catch the glance and immediately raise his glass toward her.

“Enough of politics. We’re on holiday and we should be celebrating. Yulena, my darling, will you play for us?”

She smiled at him affectionately. “Of course, Papa.”

“Splendid! Let us all go through to the drawing room and take coffee in there. Thank you for a wonderful feast, my dear, it was spectacular.”

Her mother accepted their congratulations and ushered them through to the large and comfortable drawing room. The doors were open onto the back courtyard and a welcome breeze floated in, heavy with the scent of flowers.

Yulena busied herself preparing the violin and tuning it at the upright piano in the corner. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ekaterina have a quiet word to her husband and her mother-in-law and slip away.

“Thank you for your patience. I’m ready now.”

The audience took their seats.

“Tonight I will play two pieces. One very old and one quite new. The first is the canzonetta from the Violin Concerto in D by Pyotr llyich Tchaikovsky.”

Her body moved constantly as she turned from her mother at the piano, to the audience, and then out toward the gardens. She played with power and passion, her technique confident if lacking in subtlety. The sound had an eerie quality, almost a gypsy refrain, and she put her heart and soul into it. When she finished, they all applauded loudly, especially her father.

“Thank you on behalf of my divine instrument. It is the interpreter of the composer’s genius. I merely do its bidding. Now, for something a little more modern.”

Without introducing it further, she launched into the refrain, melodic and light, yet with an undercurrent of something darker; a longing unfulfilled, passions unrequited. It echoed around the room and held everyone spellbound until the last hypnotic note. Vladimir let out his breath after what seemed like an age.

“My God! What was that?”

She lowered the violin and smiled.

“
That
was ‘Liebesleid,’ Papa.”

Koyla’s voice was tinged with suspicion, as she’d expected it to be.

“Who wrote it?”

“Fritz Kreisler.”

He was on his feet before she’d finished the name.

“He’s German. Yulena, how could you? I thought we agreed never to play anything Ger—”

“Actually, he’s Austrian, born in Vienna; and he’s now an American citizen. He hasn’t lived in Europe for years, and he certainly had nothing to do with the Third Reich. This piece was written in 1938 and means ‘Sorrow of Love.’ It has a companion piece called ‘Sorrow of Joy.’ He’s one of the most brilliant violinists of our age, Koyla, and he has a 1733 Guarneri del Gesú.”

Her brother was glaring at her, his anger looking for an outlet.

“All the same, I’ve heard you playing Bach and Mozart—”

“Another Austrian. And a complete genius. For goodness’ sake, Koyla, not even
you
can extend blame for the actions of Hitler onto the great composers of generations past. I flew against them, remember? They tried to
kill
me and I don’t include people who lived two or three hundred years ago. It’s plainly ridiculous.”

“Are you saying the policy of Comrade Stalin is wrong?” Koyla asked. His voice was quiet and his tone measured, but she knew he wanted her to say yes. Maybe he wanted to report her? Again there was an icy-cold moment of silence broken by Nada as she rose from the piano.

“It’s time for a sing-along, don’t you think? I thought we’d start with Rachmaninoff. Yulena, play the ‘Maiden Fair’ and, Koyla, sing for us. Please, darlings!”

The two siblings had been eyeballing each other across the room, but now Yulena turned away and smiled at her mother.

“Certainly, Mama. I need an E if you would be so kind.”

Koyla sang the words from the Pushkin poem “Oh, Cease Thy Singing, Maiden Fair” in his clear, rich tenor voice. He scowled at her as he watched for his cues, and Yulena wanted to burst out laughing at him. They were almost finished when the double doors to the hall swung open to reveal Ekaterina standing in the doorway, one hand gripping her lower stomach. Her face was very white, covered in a shimmer of sweat, and her eyes were full of pain.

“Forgive the intrusion”—her voice sounded rough, as if it was difficult for her to breathe—“but my baby has decided to . . . oh, God! Help me, Koyla!”

F
ifteen hours later the local doctor and an ancient babushka delivered Ekaterina of a healthy baby boy. He was over nine pounds and the effort almost tore her tiny body in two, but she was conscious enough to hold him. Wrapped in swaddling and yawning with obvious exhaustion, he peered up at her through tiny slit eyes. Koyla strode over to the bed and kissed her forehead gently.

“What an effort, what a wonderful woman you are. Hello, my boy!”

He reached out and stroked the chubby face with one finger.

“What do you want to call him?” Ekaterina murmured. The pink-and-white bundle was beginning to swim before her eyes.

“He will be a great servant of the Party. I know this. He will achieve great things for the Motherland. I think we shall call him Sergei. It means ‘servant.’ Sergei Koylaovich Valentino.”

She smiled happily, then her grip on the baby loosened as the room swirled into a dancing whirlpool of light and she felt a huge rush of warmth between her legs. Four hours later Ekaterina Valentina died from a massive postpartum hemorrhage, and the household was plunged from joy into profound grief.

Chapter 33

Moscow

February 1948

Y
ulena had truly believed that things would change after the Great Patriotic War. During the 1930s, as she grew from an uncertain young girl into a confident and articulate woman, she’d watched the purges of the intellectuals and the scientists and the military and always held her tongue. The horror grew throughout the decade, but then suddenly they were all united against a common enemy and the military restored her respect for men in power.

It was a freezing day in early February and, as she sat toward the back of the Great Hall at the Moscow Conservatory, her heart was breaking. This was the scene of some of her musical triumphs and she adored the place. With its intricate plaster decorations and portraits of famous composers in oval frames surrounded by laurel leaves, the high ceiling, and the lovely half-circle-shaped boxes, it seemed to enfold her in a sense of history and pride. What would the great musicians think of the debacle currently taking place on the stage? she wondered.

Through tear-filled eyes she gazed at her professor Dmitri Dmitriyevich Shostakovich, in his dark suit, striped shirt, and striped tie. He wore round black-rimmed glasses, his black hair cut short, and a serious expression on his long, thin face. One by one the others were taking turns to criticize him and his music. He was accused of being a “formalist,” writing music that was too elitist and inaccessible to “the common people.” Finally she could take it no more and she dragged herself to her feet and walked out.

When she got to the apartment, Mama was playing with Sergei in the lounge. As always the boy gurgled with delight at the sight of her and held up his chubby arms. He was eight months old and his father had seen him twice. Both Nada and Vladimir understood that Koyla was consumed with grief and didn’t want to see the child. Fortunately for Koyla, his mama was delighted to take over the care of her grandson and told him she would continue for as long as was necessary. She believed that in time her handsome and talented son would find another wife and that he’d do his duty and choose someone prepared to raise a child that wasn’t hers. Until that time Nada and Yulena made sure that Sergei didn’t go short of attention and love, and Vladimir tolerated the noise and found him a captive audience for all his best stories of the Great Patriotic War.

Yulena swept Sergei up into her arms and hugged him.

“Hello, my little prince. When is Papa due home, Mama?”

“Soon. How did it go today?”

Yulena hesitated, but it was her mama and she understood musicians.

“Horrible. Secretary Andrei Zhdanov has issued a decree. Not just Dmitri; he also names Comrade Prokofiev and Comrade Khachaturian. You should have seen them, Mama, all standing on that stage and criticizing him. They have no talent. He has more talent in his littlest finger than they will ever have. His works are banned and his family will have their privileges withdrawn, and the concerto he’s working on, Violin Concerto no. 1 in A Minor, no one will be able to play it. Honestly, I could—”

“Enough, sweetheart. I do understand your frustration and anger, but you must always remember your papa’s position.” Nada’s face was sympathetic, but her eyes were grave, cautious. Yulena swallowed hard and rocked the baby in her arms.

“So what shall we talk about? How has Sergei been today?” she asked brightly.

“A little angel, as always. I took him to the Hermitage Gardens for a walk, but it was so cold we came home. But he does love the snow.”

Yulena put him down on the carpet and gave him a well-chewed wooden rattle.

“I must practice. Can you tell Papa that I need to talk to him when he gets home?”

“Of course, my darling girl. Don’t worry about the professor; they’ll not stay mad with him. He’ll repent and then everything will be forgiven, you’ll see.”

Yulena paused at the door, her violin case in her hand.

“I very much fear you’re right, Mama.”

An hour later Vladimir knocked on the door to his daughter’s room. He’d stood outside for ten minutes and listened to the fascinating interaction between violin and human brain. For long passages it sounded close to perfect and then the flow was broken by a jarring note; she’d curse and start again. She played some Vivaldi and then some Brahms, and he couldn’t help but wonder what his son would think of her choices. How could two children, from the same genes and with the same upbringing, be so unbelievably different?

“Come.”

Her voice was clear and strong and confident. He opened the door and went in. She stood in the middle of the small room, barefoot, a music stand in front of her and sheet music lying on her single bed.

“Hello, precious. I do love to hear you play; it lifts my old heart!”

He kissed her on each cheek.

“How was your day, Papa?”

“Ahh, as always, full of paperwork. The people of the occupied zones have no idea how much paperwork they create. Give me an old-fashioned battle any day. And how was yours? Your mama tells me it was not a good day for the professor?”

He could see her choosing her words before she spoke, assessing how much and what to say. He knew she understood that he walked a fine line in an administration fueled by paranoia and secrecy. The people he worked for would expect him to betray his own daughter to them if she had unpatriotic opinions and not think twice about it, but it was an unspoken pact between them: he could never betray her and she would never really give him cause.

“They’ve denounced him for a second time and banned his works. When he finishes this amazing violin concerto, no one will be able to play it. But, as Mama said, he will repent and then all will be well again.”

Her father shrugged heavily. “I know you don’t agree with Comrade Secretary Zhdanov, but he has his reasons. What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Sit down, Papa.”

She pushed the sheet music aside, and he lowered his massive frame onto the bed. She put the violin and bow away in the case and took her time; he watched her expectantly and patiently.

“I want to leave the conservatory. I know I’ve almost finished there, but I want to have private lessons instead. Mikhail knows everyone and he can find me a teacher who won’t lecture me all the time about politics.”

She was avoiding his gaze.

“Can he find you someone as good as the teachers you now have?” he asked thoughtfully.

She looked surprised; perhaps she’d expected anger?

“Oh yes. There are many wonderful teachers who have to work privately.”

“You mean they’re banned?”

“Some. Would that matter?”

At last her eyes met his. She was trying not to look too fierce, but he could see the hope and it hurt him. He sighed.

“Yulena, you know that the Great Father himself takes a special interest in me, and my family. He has guided Koyla’s career and suggested him to Comrade Beria. Without the Great Father’s interest, Koyla would still be writing Party tracts for farm workers; now he’s doing important work. And he asks me often how you are and when you’ll be ready to play for him. You simply can’t leave the conservatory and learn from a teacher who’s banned. They have subversive ideas—”

“How can you know that? You’ve never even met them.”

“Neither have you. They’re just recommendations from Mikhail, and he was a friend of Sasha’s.”

When he needed to make a strong point, one she could not refute, he brought up the name of Sasha. Her best friend for many years, Sasha had become increasingly strident in his criticism of the Party and Comrade Stalin. He’d started writing for an underground newspaper, and then one day he’d simply disappeared. His mother had had one letter, from a labor camp in Siberia.

“So am I,” she said quietly.

He put his arm around her shoulder.

“Darling, I know that you’re upset by what happened today, but it’s a minor thing. It’ll be over in months. Comrade Shostakovich knows what he must do to reinstate himself, and he will do it. Please, think no more about leaving the conservatory. It’s your destiny.” He pointed to the violin case. “
That
is your destiny, to play with the Moscow Philharmonic.”