This is an excerpt from my new book, The Concert. Based on a true story from World War II, The Concert traces the efforts of a group of musicians, writers and artists to defy Hitler’s invasion of their beloved city of Leningrad and attempts to starve them to death. Channeling creativity, showcasing hope, they summoned their strength, against the odds, to perform a symphony written by Dmitri Shostakovich, about the Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union.
If you like this excerpt, please buy the book here. Audio book coming shortly.
Chapter 5: The Invasion
The world was at war, but in the summer of 1941, Leningrad was peaceful, even serene. In years to come, I wondered whether it had been planned that way, either by the authorities or by the fates, to catch us by surprise. But on that sunny Saturday in June, there was no hint.
The city was marking the Festival of the White Nights, that summer interlude before winter set in, when the sun shone all night and the human heart knew no limits. As I looked out our window, I saw fishermen lining the Neva River, impatient at their lines. I knew trumpeter Eddie Rozner and his jazz band would be setting up soon for an all-night session at the Café Ice Cream & Green Frog. I imagined students finished with their exams walking arm in arm across the Republican Bridge, a cast-iron span designed in 1901 to join the Winter Palace to Vasilevskiy Island. In this spirited city, even the weather was celebrated with drama. I couldn’t wait to join the throngs.
Radio House, where broadcasters and musicians both honed their skills, was marking the occasion with a company-wide picnic. It was well-known I was more interested in words than food, but I hoped my offerings would pass muster with some of our more gourmet-driven friends. Katarina Orlova and I had become great friends since my dinner with his family so I asked her what the Zelenskys were bringing. Just hearing her answer – fried falafel with yogurt sauce, cold sweet potatoes spiced with pepper and cinnamon, figs and nuts – made me hungry. It also made me realize how trite my contribution was – cold borscht in a jar and hard-boiled eggs, cheeses and fruits. If my menu were a novel, I thought, critics would decry it as a cliché of ethnic Russian fare.
I had been busy of late – preparing my latest book of poetry for publication, conducting interviews for Radio Leningrad, sprucing up the apartment Nikolai won from the Housing Department as a reward for his military service in Poland. He had been away for less than six months, and I saw few scars, relieved to find him still the handsome, vigorous man I had married. His war stories suggested he had flourished in the Red Army, and I worried he might join the ranks permanently. After my release from prison, he had promised never to join the Army. But then, I mused, I had promised not to air my political views on the radio. Most of my poems were about the current winds of change.
“Lots of bread,” Nikolai called out from the shower, “don’t forget the bread.”
“Maria’s bringing the bread. She has a suitor at the bulochnaya.”
My sister Maria was the beauty in the family, a big-name actress in Leningrad’s musical theater. At 28, she had yet to marry. She seemed more attracted to admirers than to love. Or perhaps, she was afraid of commitment. No matter, I thought, if she had a sweetheart at the bakery.
“Well she may be a musical star but you are the whole firmament to me.”
Nikolai was standing in the kitchen now, a towel tied at his waist, still dripping from the shower. As he leaned over to kiss me, smells of soap on his sensuous skin overcame any thoughts of menus.
“We have to meet Maria at the tram in an hour.”
“Time is what we make of it.”
Afterward, as I luxuriated in Nikolai’s arms, I told him Maria was also bringing a new beau.
He rolled his eyes.
“She’s got a beau at the bakery and another one on her arm? Busy lady.”
“Never mind her,” I teased. “You just bring your A game in chess, because I intend to beat you with my small but mighty pawn.” Along with our picnic basket, I had packed a chess set. This was a necessity in any Russian gathering, given the game’s 1000-year history in our country, where many still believed that Ivan the Terrible had died while moving his king. High symbolism that.
“You are welcome to try my dear, but your Nikolai has powers other than those of the bedroom.”
He smacked me on the rear, and left to get dressed.
If you like this excerpt, please buy the book here.
I had no idea! If you notice any errors of fact or detail please let me know...Audiobook has been much delayed (if that is your preferred venue) but well worth the wait I think. This reader much better than last. Hopefully out next week or two. Hope you both are well. It is a difficult season for me, but I am surviving. :-)
I was born in Leningrad- haven't been back in 40+ years though!