Shostakovich swore that he no longer committed that error.
Dmitri Dmitriyevich, can you put in a little more self-sacrifice? And maybe—
Don’t worry, don’t worry, I’ll do what I can, the composer murmured wearily.
And heroism? Listen up! We want to get the message across that anyone can be a hero.
I really love, so to speak, heroism. I’m going to squeeze some in this very instant.
(Far away, our Black Sea fleet was firing. Glikman’s brother Salomon had just been killed. Nearer at hand, Field-Marshal Ritter von Leeb sounded the timpani. Across the street, a stinking, shadow-cheeked man clutched his handful of bread. He was there every day. If only he could write him into his symphony. He’d find a way.)
I was saying, maybe more optimism.
Well, it would seem that—
We don’t believe you’ve taken note of how optimistic Leningraders are. After all, thousands starved here during the Civil War, but that didn’t keep Leningrad down!
You don’t remember that, do you, Dmitri Dmitriyevich? You were too protected by your privileged background.
Please excuse me, but in fact I, well, my grandfather—
We know all about that grandfather of yours. You’re lucky he’s dead.
For example, if you rewrote a few measures in a major key…
I understand, said Shostakovich with a coiled smile. That would certainly improve it immeasurably, although perhaps in this case—
And then that so-called Rat Theme or Fascism Theme or whatever it is, well, frankly, Dmitri Dmitriyevich, there’s been some concern. How long is it?
How long? Let’s see, let’s see; I believe it’s two hundred and eighty bars. What does the length have to do with anything?
No wonder Konstantinovskaya left him! Shostakovich, have you ever once satisfied a woman? I know why they call you a masturbator!
No, that’s all fine, Dmitri Dmitriyevich. That’s irrelevant. Our concern is that it begins too melodiously, which might mislead the masses into believing—
That I like rats?
Always the joker!
That I’m a, a, so to speak, a Hitlerite?
Out of your own mouth! You ought to be extremely careful. So if you could…
I appreciate your criticism. He who has ears will hear. I can see I’ll have to think deeply about this, Comrade Petrov…
But, please, Dmitri Dmitriyevich, none of this is meant to detract from the majesty of your symphony. (What crap! put in Comrade Alexandrov.) It’s truly very striking, especially the loud parts.
I’m very grateful—
But you need to work faster. Can you finish it in a week?
A week, perhaps, is, so to speak, somewhat—
It’s quite good, really. There’s hardly a drop of your old individualism in it—
Thank you, thank you, my dear friend. Well, our life is so full of brilliant themes just now…
They recommended that he follow the example of his colleague Khrennikov, who’d always persecuted him, who would persecute him to the very end, and who for that reason among other reasons of a similar kind got to be present at the capitulation of Berlin. Shostakovich accordingly promised to let himself be guided by this genius. (As I used to tell Elena, I am a person with a, how shall I describe myself? With a very weak character. I am not certain that I can achieve happiness.) The third man spat on the floor. Thanks again for that, dear friend. In every way that he possibly could, he acted as though they had triumphed over him, that he’d actually swallowed all their filth. Could any of them even name the dominant of any scale? Well, well; technical knowledge is surely, how should I say, overrated, especially when all you need to know is—ha, ha!—how to break bones.
They reminded him, as if he could possibly forget with the loudspeakers screaming it every day, of Comrade Stalin’s decree that any soldier who surrendered deserved the supreme punishment. He didn’t want to surrender to defeatism, did he? Then they appointed him chairman of the Home Guard Theater, and in an instant he’d composed twenty-seven popular songs.
By the end of the week, nearly everybody in Leningrad was humming his “Oath to the People’s Commissar,” which was actually very, how should I say, complicated, because the scoring, well, it only pretends to be idiotic. The “organs” were happy with him for that; his song ended by praising the generalship of Comrade Stalin. As he peered down from the Conservatory roof, he saw a troop of Komsomol boys marching off to mine more factories and bridges. Someday his son would be doing that, if he lived. They were singing “Oath to the People’s Commissar” in two-part harmony.