The Keeper of Secrets (19 page)

Chapter 34

Moscow

March 1953

O
ver the next few years, both Vladimir and Koyla traveled in the course of their duties to the Motherland. Vladimir was a military adviser and spread his considerable wisdom among the Communist bloc, East Germany, Poland, Romania, Bulgaria, Hungary, and Czechoslovakia. And then when Comrade Stalin agreed to help his ally Kim Il Sung in North Korea, he sent some of his most trusted military personnel, including Vladimir.

Koyla had traveled with the Great Father to China and was instrumental in generating the propaganda needed to explain the Party’s help for North Korea. He grew more and more incensed by the West every day and took every opportunity to tell his friends and family about the corrupt capitalist foe that the Great Father fought so patriotically on behalf of the Motherland.

The trips and the importance of his work also gave Koyla a reason to keep his distance from his son. His mother was doing a wonderful job, and when he saw Sergei, the boy was respectful, quiet, and well cared for and listened to his father’s opinions with solemn eyes. But those slightly slanted eyes reminded him of his beloved Kati, even if they were a light green like his and not deep brown like hers, and he couldn’t spend long in the child’s presence without feeling an emotion that he otherwise kept buried.

By early 1953, Koyla was deeply involved in some of the darker campaigns of the Party, things he wouldn’t share even with his parents.

On a late winter day in early March, Yulena was playing the piano for a delighted audience of one five-and-a-half-year-old boy. He was large for his age and strong, his eyes were quick, and already his language skills were well developed and he adored music.

“What would you like next?” she asked.

“The lullaby,” he cried happily, clutching his knees to his chest and rocking.

“Ah, my brave Cossack solider . . .”

She turned back to the piano and began to play the sweet, mournful tune. She didn’t need to look at him to know that her voice and the music would hold him enthralled.

“Sleep, good boy, my beautiful,

bayushki bayu,

quietly the moon is looking

into your cradle.

I will tell you fairy tales

and sing you little songs—”

The door to the lounge flew open, and Koyla strode into the room. The delighted child launched himself upward and threw himself at the man’s legs.

“Papa!”

“What are you singing?”

His face was white, his hair rumpled, and his clothes disheveled. He bent and scooped Sergei into his arms. She stood up, alarmed by his appearance.

“Nothing. Just a folk song. Koyla, what’s wrong? What’s happened?”

“Where’s Papa?”

He handed Sergei to her without glancing at the boy. The child’s little face crumpled with disappointment, and she felt a sharp stab of anger; why couldn’t he even pretend to care?

“At the Kremlin, where would you expect him to be? Say hello to Sergei at least!”

Koyla ignored her request.

“He hasn’t rung?”

“No. What’s wrong? For goodness’ sake, tell me what’s happened. You’re frightening him.”

Koyla slumped onto the sofa and buried his face in his hands. Yulena stroked Sergei’s hair. The child was on the point of bursting into tears.

“Shoosh, bubba, everything’s all right,” she said soothingly.

Koyla looked up. “He’s had a stroke,” he said in a dull monotone. “He’s dying. They think he’ll maybe last another day.”

A strange mix of emotion began to stir in Yulena’s stomach, but the strongest feeling was the beginning of joy.

“Who?”

His voice, when he answered, was raw with grief and disbelief and hardly sounded like Koyla at all.

“The Great Father. Comrade Stalin is dying. Yulena, he’s going to leave us.”

Two emotions hit Yulena at once. She knew she mustn’t show her brother that this news was music to her ears, because he’d never forgive her. And secondary to that, she knew that Koyla was suffering the second great loss of his life and Stalin’s death would leave him inconsolable. Instinctively, she sat down beside him, Sergei still in her arms.

“Tell me what you know, then we’ll try and ring Papa.”

He drew back from her, his body rigid.

“They found him last night, the guards. They hadn’t seen him all day, but they didn’t check on him until evening. He’s unconscious . . .”

“Who do you think will succeed him?”

He looked at her sharply. “Why?”

“Well, Papa talks about them, Comrade Khrushchev and Comrade Beria—”

“What does he say about Comrade Beria?” he interrupted.

She shrugged. “Marshal of the Soviet Union and he has never held a military post.”

Instead of contradicting her as she’d expected him to do, he seemed not to hear. Something was different about him and it was more than grief. . . .

“Koyla,” she asked quietly, “what are you afraid of?”

He got to his feet and began to stride around the room.

“Yulena, I have to go away for a while and I need to know that you’ll keep Sergei safe.”

“Of course. Go away? Where? Safe from what?”

“Away from Moscow, just for a while.”

“Why?” She knew the concern in her voice was growing. He hesitated and then turned to face her.

“This is between us. Whatever Mama and Papa ask you, you tell them nothing. Agreed?”

She nodded.

“I’ve been working on a very important campaign, something that the Great Father expressly authorized. Something that would benefit the Motherland and all true Russians. But now, with the Great Father about to leave us and someone else—well, there may not be such a level of understanding of what we’ve been doing.”

Something akin to dread was replacing her secret joy. “What have you been doing, Koyla?”

“An anti-Semitic propaganda campaign.”

She couldn’t hide her shock. “But we have Jewish friends.”

“I know, but this wasn’t aimed at them. This was to condemn the Jewish doctors who’ve been trying to poison our great leaders. Thirty-seven Jews have been arrested.”

“And you think Comrade Stalin’s successor could disapprove?”

“If it’s Beria, he will. I’ve heard murmurings that the Great Father had approved the plans of Comrade Ignatiev to deport all the Jews to the farthest camps, as far from Moscow as possible. But I have no proof. They might want me to incriminate . . . I don’t know what methods they’ll use. I just think it would be best if I went away for a while.”

He bent down and kissed Sergei on the top of the head. She tried to grab his arm, but he pulled away and walked to the door.

“Make sure he doesn’t forget me,” he said simply and then he was gone. Yulena sat very still, her brain racing and tears starting to fill her eyes. She hugged Sergei to her and felt his little body shaking. They began to sob at the same time.

Chapter 35

Sochi, Russia

Summer 1962

S
ergei sat on the warm sand and watched the water lapping at his feet. It was yet another scorching-hot day and he was counting to a thousand before he ran into the cooling water. He loved numbers and he loved setting himself tasks: how slowly could he eat his meal and not be scolded by his grandmama, how many times would his grandpapa walk around the lawn before he settled in the summerhouse, and how long could he hold his breath under the water, even how many days it would be before he got another of those stiff, formal letters from his father in Berlin.

He knew that his father was an important part of Walter Ulbricht’s government and that they’d built a massive wall around the West German part of the city. When his grandmama had told him that his father was getting married to a German woman and asked if he’d like to live with them, his response had been instantaneous. He didn’t know his papa at all, couldn’t speak German, and couldn’t imagine life without his grandparents. Although he hadn’t been involved in the final discussions, he knew his opinion mattered to them, and they decided he was too old to adapt to his father’s life. Nevertheless, his grandpapa told him he should be proud of his papa’s work. He was a bright child, however, and he could tell that his beloved aunt Yulena wasn’t so sure.

Aunt Yulena. How many hours would it be before she arrived? He tried not to be impatient and yet he wanted to see her so badly. She brought laughter and music into the house, and she took him on walks and talked to him as if he were already grown up. Damn! Now he’d lost count somewhere in the seven hundreds and he’d have to start all over again . . . or maybe not. He leaped to his feet and ran into the water, his tall body plowing through the delicious coldness.

W
here’s Sergei?”

Vladimir laughed heartily. “Nice to see you too, precious. He’s outside in the garden, with your mama. She had to do something to keep him distracted. He’s been counting the seconds until your arrival.”

She left her suitcases in the lounge and walked through the open French doors onto the lawn. Nada was showing Sergei something in the flower bed, their heads very close together. He was thickset and long limbed, with black hair and his father’s high forehead. Her heart leaped at the sight of him.

“Hello there.”

They both looked up at the sound of her voice. Sergei ran across the grass and threw his arms around her.

“Aunt Yulena!”

She kissed him on each cheek.

“Hello, handsome. How tall you are. I swear you’ve shot up in four months.”

She could see by the blush that he liked the compliment.

“How was it? I want to know everything.”

She laughed and broke away from him to kiss Nada. “Hello, Mama.”

“Hello, my darling. Come into the house. I’ll make some iced tea.”

Sergei took her arm and walked with her. “Which city did you like the best?”

His voice was lower than she remembered, and there was a trace of dark down on his upper lip.

“Oh, Paris. It was amazing and they just loved us. We played an extra concert and they applauded for what seemed like hours—”

“How’s the violin?” he asked suddenly.

Yulena smiled at him.

“She’s just fine; she loved the trip, but she missed you. I will play for you later.”

After dinner Yulena told them all about the tour of Russian and European cities that her quartet had undertaken. It wasn’t easy to get permission to leave the country, although Comrade Khrushchev’s policies were considerably more liberal than those of his predecessor. Vladimir had used his influence to secure the necessary visas, and she knew he took a measure of responsibility for the success of the venture. Yulena was a regular first violin with the Moscow Philharmonic, but she loved the quartet more than anything.

Sergei hung on her every word, his pale eyes shining and his expression one of rapt concentration. He bombarded her with questions about the sightseeing she’d done, the monuments she’d seen, and the food, the shops, and the hotels. At last Nada called a halt and reminded them all that it was late, Yulena was tired, and they could start again tomorrow. Reluctantly Sergei kissed her good night and went upstairs to bed.

“He’s growing up, Papa,” she said as she accepted the glass of brandy he gave her.

“Yes, he is. He’s a good boy, bright and interested in his studies. He plans to go to the State University and study geology and material sciences.”

“Still? I thought his passion for mathematics would’ve taken over . . . or music,” she added with a wry smile.

“He has an eye for the future, and he knows that the Motherland has enormous natural resources. There’ll always be work in extracting those treasures. He also knows that our comrade secretary has had meetings in the West and sees them as a rival, not as the evil we were led to believe they were. In time they’ll need those resources and they’ll pay. He knows that between us, Koyla and I, we can get him a good job in that line of work.”

“And music will never give him the kind of life he could have working in an industrial company,” she added as she watched the moonlight dancing on the water.

“It’s given you a good life.”

“True and I’m very grateful. And now I’m off to bed. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

S
ergei woke early in the morning and read for a while, did one of the math puzzles in the book his aunt had brought him all the way from England, and then got dressed and went down to the beach to watch the water. There was an onshore wind and the green water was whipped up to decent peaks with frothy whitecaps. He was fascinated by the patterns in the wave sizes and how what appeared to be random was actually very regular. Then he made some geometric shapes out of small rocks and tried to change them by moving as few parts as possible. Finally, hunger got the better of him and he wandered back to the house.

As he stepped onto the lawn he heard voices. He stopped and listened. It was his aunt and his grandpapa and they were talking in the summerhouse. Something in the tone of their voices told him it was not a normal conversation. Very quietly he followed the vegetation around to the back of the outbuilding, so he could listen and not be seen.

“You can’t,” Vladimir said with an unmistakable note of finality.

“Ever? Or not just yet? I told you, I wouldn’t do anything until Sergei was an adult. He’s fifteen, so that’s another five years at least.”

“Ever.”

“But, Papa—”

“But Papa nothing!”

It was a roar of fury, and it made Sergei shrink back into his hiding place. He’d never heard his grandpapa so angry.

“All your life you’ve lived for yourself. If we hadn’t stopped you, you would’ve expressed your views without thought to anyone else. God knows what that would have done to your brother’s career and to mine. I know you disapprove, Yulena, but you can’t leave, it is just . . . unthinkable.”

“It’s not because of my views, I’ve explained that. It’s because of my career, my music. There are so many more opportunities in the West. Amazing orchestras and gifted conductors—”

“And Comrade Kondrashin is not gifted?”

“Of course he is. He’s wonderful, but he’s one conductor and one orchestra. In the West, I could play with many and maybe even make a recording. Other artists are doing it, Papa. They request to leave and the government lets them go.”

There was a silence.

“And their families pay. I see what happens in the government. Yulena, I know how these men work. It’s the disgrace, the shame. A child of mine not wanting to live in the Motherland. How could I explain that? When the country of your birth has given you so much, nurtured your talent and trained you—”

“And I
am
very grateful.”

“Then show it. And what about us? We’d never see you again. Sergei would never see you again. How could you think about doing that to him? You’re all he has. You’ve been like a mother to him.”

Sergei couldn’t hear what his grandpapa was saying; the voice had been replaced by a roaring noise in his head. It was too awful to think about, his beloved aunt Yulena, gone? He stood up and ran across the lawn toward the pathway to the beach, and something inside him just wanted to keep running forever.

W
hen Sergei didn’t come back to the house for breakfast, Yulena set out to find him. He was at the end of the beach, sitting on a rock watching the boats racing each other in the distance. His back was to her, and he didn’t turn around as she approached.

“Sergei?”

“Why do you want to leave me?”

His voice sounded small and frightened. She sat down beside him.

“I don’t,” she said simply.

“You do. I heard you talking to Grandpapa. I know he won’t let you, but why do you want to go anyway? Everyone leaves me.”

“I want to be a better musician than I can be by living here. I want to play with the best orchestras and have instruction from the best conductors. It has nothing to do with wanting to leave here; it’s more about wanting to be there. In an ideal world I’d be able to learn and have all those experiences and then come back. Bring my knowledge home and teach it to others. But the Party doesn’t allow that, not for the likes of me. If I left, it would be forever. Go if you must but don’t come back.”

“That’s unfair.”

“Yes, it is. Life isn’t fair, and sometimes I think it’s less fair here than anywhere else in the world. Sergei, darling, look at me.”

He turned to meet her gaze. He’d been crying.

“I’m going to make you a promise, and I swear to you I will never break it. Okay?”

He nodded. She picked up his hand and cradled it between her palms.

“I promise that I will never leave. I’ll never do anything that means I can’t see you anymore. Whatever happens, I will always be right here.”

Slowly his face was split by a smile, and she could see relief in his eyes.

“That’s very good,” he said quietly.

“Nothing in the world means as much to me as you, not even my precious violin. Now, I bet you’re hungry.”

“Starving.”

“Good, because there are sausages and
grenki
with your name on them!”

T
he music swirled around him as he closed his eyes and listened. The scherzo had sounded technically demanding and frenetic, as if the man were possessed. When the passacaglia started, Sergei stirred suddenly in his seat, because it was a motif he recognized. It was the Stalin theme from the Seventh Symphony and a little bit of—what was it? He knew it, almost there. It was Beethoven! It was the fate motif from the Fifth Symphony. Aunt Yulena would be so impressed that he recognized it. As the movement progressed, the violin seemed to cry above the deep resounding notes of the orchestra, as if its heart were breaking.

Sergei sat in the Great Hall with his grandparents, mesmerized, listening to David Oistrakh play Dmitri Shostakovich’s Violin Concerto no. 1 in A Minor with the Moscow Philharmonic. Somewhere on that stage his aunt was playing her Guarneri violin; he couldn’t see her but he was sure he could hear her. Oistrakh played the 1702 Conte di Fontana Stradivarius and Sergei definitely agreed with his aunt’s opinion: her instrument was superior. But this piece of music was important and Sergei understood why.

Between 1948 and 1955 the piece was banned after Shostakovich’s second denunciation, but now the world could hear it, in all its glory. Music was the rhythm of life, and no matter what the Party did or said, they could never suppress the soul and spirit of the people, expressed in music! His heart swelled with pride at the thought of all those people sitting behind them listening to this exquisite composition, and some of the most beautiful sound was coming from his aunt and her violin. One day she would be center stage and he’d be right there to cheer her on.