Chapter 8 – Red Orchestra
The large wooden doors of the Leningrad Conservatory close behind the trembling little Orussian girl with a loud piercing squeak. Sanya stands alone inside the once grand reception hall, the sound of wind howling through broken windows, the hanging lights swaying with metallic creaks. Before her stands the main staircase leading up towards the concert hall. The marble steps were once lined with a beautiful blue and gold carpet, however now only scraps remain, and the rest taken probably to burn. There used to be paintings of legendary composers, of graduates from the school and of famous guests who visited hanging on the walls. Likewise these splendid artworks have disappeared, hopefully Sanya thinks; evacuated and spared from destruction.
With steady, slow steps the walks up the ice cold staircase, retracing steps she once took with great joy and happiness, only now filled with dread and immeasurable sorrow. Her feet somehow feel even colder against this stone surface than they did trudging through the snow filled streets of the city.
She hadn’t spent long here, only a few months, however those memories are some of her most precious. She can still remember the layout of the building, where her favourite classrooms are, where the best places to sit and watch the expert musicians dance about their daily business lay. She loved it here and once wished she could have shown her father around this world famous institution. She thinks however as she reaches the top of the dual row of steps that these memories are meaningless, that this building isn’t really the Conservatory she knows. This world isn’t her own, despite its unnerving similarity, its mocking familiarity, goading her with cruel thoughts and feelings.
With a deep breath of freezing air Sanya reaches the entrance to the main concert hall and after rubbing her numb hands together for warmth she pushes open both of the huge doors. Inside the vast cavernous hall sit row upon row where velvet seats once sat lined up neatly like soldiers. The balconies and railings are adorned with gold relief’s wrapping around the room with perfect craftsmanship, and a huge chandelier still hangs firm from the painted ceiling. The red curtains on the stage have been torn down, as have the drapes and linings. Several lights lay smashed on the floor, others only flicker with dying persistence, refusing to give up on the building they should be bringing to splendid life.
On the stage sits a black piano, polished and shining in what light remains. It’s a strange sight; why does this grand musical apparatus remain when all other objects of value have been looted and robbed away? Its bizarre majesty among this destruction is alluring to Sanya, it’s magnetic, intoxicating. With a hypnotic march she climbs onto the stage to examine the instrument. It’s perfect with not a scratch on its smooth wooden surface, no keys out of place, and all wires intact. A seat lined with leather padding and made of the same black wood as the piano stands below the keyboard. She runs her cold hands over the ivory topped keys, but not enough to make a sound, and breaths a deep sigh of calmness. She has experienced so much horror over the last few hours; at last she can finally feel relaxed.
Taking a seat she closes her tired eyes and hovers her numb fingers above the waiting keys. To Sanya all sound seems to vanish, all worries and fear disappears. With a single motion the entire hall is filled with the sound of the piano. Only one note at first, a test to make sure the instrument really is in working order. Sanya is satisfied with the sound and soon descends into a passionate, all consuming display. With her eyes closed the entire time she expertly drifts from note to note, her delicate hands flowing like water over the length of the gleaming white and black musical triggers. Her chest rises as she fills her lungs with precious air and she lifts her head back slightly, taking in the atmosphere of her performance to the empty concert hall. Soon the Orussian becomes completely lost in herself. All surroundings fade away, all that remains are memories.
Sanyas father was a passionate man, kind and loving. Despite the many difficulties of living in the Orussian Empire he always made time for his young only daughter. Sanya was the most precious thing to both of her parents and they never failed to let her know that.
It was on one rainy day when she still lived in Moscow that her father introduced her to the piano. Sanya had been bored and was counting raindrops from the misty window overlooking the city when she heard the most beautiful sound from behind her. Her father had been a musician for his whole life and always intended to have his angel follow in his footsteps. His first offering of the vast and wonderful world of music was a present; a song written especially for his daughter. It was a beautiful tune the girl would never forget and would find herself humming on long, cold nights alone.
The child fell madly in love with the piano that instant. It wasn’t long after that, on the recommendation of her parents, that she began attending a prestigious musical school in Vienna, an institution her father had attended in his own youth. At first she found it a lonely experience, far away from home and her beloved family. But after years of practice and dedication she found it a happy, beautiful existence.
It was one bright and warm summer weekend in the Ostmark mountains when Sanya last saw her father. He had taken the journey just to see his daughter again after a long year of busy absence. Together they breathed in the clear alpine air, strolled the streets of Vienna in a perfect daze. Perfect? That’s how Sanya remembers it.
Only a week after her father departed Vienna the Neuroi appeared over Europe. They lay waste to everything in their path and soon pushed deep into Orussia. The news of the fall of Moscow came as a crushing blow to the innocent little girl. Surely her parents, her father that she loved so much couldn’t be gone? At first she wanted to return to Moscow to search for them but as the reports of more and more Neuroi victories flooded in she decided that such a venture would be suicide. She had to find another way to save her family. She would find it very soon in the 586 Fighter Regiment of the Orussian Air force. Sanya; the musical ghost of Vienna would become a soldier.
Based out of Saint Petersburg before the formation of the 502 nd, Sanya began her military training. It was a harsh environment, far removed from the glamour and serine peaceful beauty of Ostmark. She had never really made any friends in Vienna and the trend of her shy, solitary nature would follow her to the shores of Lake Ladoga. Her lack of interpersonal skills did not go unnoticed by her superiors, who decided the best place for such a lonely girl would be night patrol. This suited Sanya just fine; in fact she preferred this peaceful existence, flying through the vast, dark and empty Orussian skies, using her innate magic to tune into radio stations from all across Europe as their signals bounced around inside the atmosphere. It allowed her to still indulge in her passion even when training and patrolling: music.
It was on one such long, quiet night when the phantom of the Petersburg skies detected a signal which almost stopped her heart. A sound on the airwaves she recognised better than all others. It was Sanyas song, the song her father had written oh so long ago. Only he would know such a tune, and to broadcast it in such a way that surely his witch daughter would detect it. Her father was alive! Sanya was sure and from her estimations the signal was coming from somewhere far beyond the Ural Mountains, beyond the land occupied by the Neuroi. With a small, subtle smile began humming along to her childhood song as she glided through the star spotted heavens over Orussia, aurora waving across the sky like banners of light.
With the knowledge of her fathers safety Sanya began to open up with her training partners more, as well as journey out into Petersburg on her leave from base instead of staying cooped up as she had been. It was at this time that she discovered the Conservatory, a place which reminded her so much of her old life in Vienna. She couldn’t study music here, not officially, she hadn’t the time for that, but being one of the witches dedicating themselves to defending Orussia the faculty of the school often accepted the quiet night witch whenever she appeared. She would sit in on lessons, attend concerts, study and practice her skills in music as much as she would her skills in combat. By the time Sanya graduated from the 586 she had become a beloved sight around the school, a black cat prowling the halls, purring with a silent smile.
She hadn’t spent long in the city, a little over a year before she was attached to the fledgling 501 st Joint Fighter Wing. Based out of Britannia she was forced to again leave her musical paradise behind, to find new friends and make new bonds. Luckily she would; Eila and her other squadron mates. It was difficult as it always was for her but in the end she had found a new family to care for and be loved by.
As her memories fade back into the recesses of her mind, she hears the sound of the piano still echoing out below her waving hands and she realises that tears are poring down her face. How long has she been crying for? How long has she been playing for? Slowly she opens her eyes, her long lashes sticking together with their dampness as she breathes out, casting a huge cloud of mist over the grand piano. She had been so caught up in her own thoughts that she had failed to notice the figure standing in the aisle below the stage. It’s only when the unknown visitor begins a rhythmic, soft applause, clapping amid the now silent hall that Sanya darts her head around in panic.
“Well done. You’re a little sloppy, need some work, but you have passion.” The figure says loudly. As Sanya looks over her one-man audience she finds him to be a fine looking gentleman dressed in a suit and tie, a pair of round spectacles balanced on his nose and a large, quite out of place fireman’s helmet sitting atop his head. Sanya stands up quickly, not sure what to do in this strange situation. He doesn’t look like the people she passed on the streets. He looks well shaven, clean and awake, far more alive than anyone else she’s seen. With an uneasy stammer the young girl manages to find her voice at last.
“I-I didn’t mean to… intrude… ” she says quietly, her knees together, hands shaking as the cold returns to her. “Are…you the man on the roof?” she asks.
“Ha! ‘The Man on the Roof.’ I suppose I am. I must say it was quite a surprise to see such a young lady wandering the streets during a bombardment carrying only a broomstick. Were you trying to clear the rubble? If I were a propagandist that would be quite the powerful image.” The man says as he walks up to the stage causing Sanya to take a few apprehensive steps away, almost knocking over the heavy piano stool. “Either that or you’re the maid.” he says with an inviting, friendly smile.
Sanya suddenly looks a little embarrassed, she had been carrying the broom all this time, clutching it tightly as her only means of escape should she need it. Now it rests against the side of the piano, far from her reach.
“I suppose we should start with our names? I am Dmitri Dimitriyevich Shostakovich. Who might you be young one?” the man says in a calming tone. Somehow Sanya feels warmer when he speaks. Maybe it’s just the satisfaction of hearing someone talk after so long, maybe his calm and confident demeanour is sparking memories of her father. Somehow his classical name makes Sanya feel at home, it even puts her at ease enough to use her own full name.
“I-I am Aleksandra Vladirmirovna Litvyak… But, please call me Sanya.” She stutters in a cute daze.
“What a beautiful name. What are you doing in here child?” the man asks softly, a look of understanding on his face.
“I used to come here a lot… I thought I’d be safe here…” Sanya whispers, fighting back a flood of emotions. “Saint Petersburg is dead…” she sighs at a loss for further words.
The room falls into a quiet silence once more. The man looks over the shivering girl with uncertainty. She does look beaten up and is clearly very cold, walking around in such scant clothing against the onslaught of the freezing weather. However much like himself she doesn’t look defeated, as if she hasn’t been at the mercy of Leningrad for very long.
“You're new here aren’t you, like me? I’m sorry you have to witness such things.” Dimitri says as he readjusts his glasses before taking off the bulky metal helmet. “But you must be older than you look to call it Saint Petersburg. Be careful doing that”.
“I’m sorry. I just kind of… found my way back here. How could anyone do this to such a beautiful city? All the people… those dead people outside…” Sanya weeps, tears welling once more in her green eyes. Noticing her sadness Dimitri sits with a pained grunt on the edge of the stage and motions Sanya to do the same. After a moment of hesitation she tip-toes slowly over to the precipice, adjusts her skirt with modest, lady-like precision and takes a seat next to Mr. Shostakovich.
“Unless you’re adapting it into music don’t concern yourself with trying to understand evil, Sanya. It will do you no good. The Germans murder us for our land and because they believe they are superior. They are fools.” Dimitri says confidently.
“I’ve never seen… or thought people could be so…” Sanya trails off; unable to speak the words she wants to say for fear that doing so may even taint her with such evil. After all the things she’s seen, she dare not talk of them.
“People can be savage, you’re a Russian you should know that. It’s not like we needed the Nazis to show us this.” Says Dimitri as he rests his large palm on the helmet sitting by his side between his lap and Sanyas. The young girl looks confused and flustered, spurring the gentleman on. “There were millions of dead Russians before the Germans came here. Human nature is…”
Basking in the silence of the great hall the pair sit side by side for several long minutes. Each one is thinking about what they’ve lost, why they came here. Though they haven’t said it out loud they can both tell that this building means a lot to them. After composing herself with a deep breath Sanya at last breaks the silence.
“Are you a fireman?” she asks meekly, gesturing to the helmet bridging the gap between the two. This question seems to draw a chuckle from the man.
“I suppose I was.” He says with a smirk. His vague answer only peaks Sanyas’ curiosity further, her shining eyes piercing into Dimitri to find the full story . “When the war broke out I wanted to join the Army, to serve my country as all Russians do, to defend Leningrad… my home. They said I was too important however. They wouldn’t make me a soldier, so instead they made me a fireman.” He goes on.
“That’s good. You were still helping people.” Sanya chirps with a smile.
“They never let me near any real fires. They just took photos as I wore a fancy hat.” Dimitri bemoans, tapping against the cold metal of his old helmet. “Then they evacuated me. But I swore I’d come back!”
Sanya is stunned by Dimitris’ passion in what he just said. He sounded truly dedicated, like he loves Leningrad deeply.
“You’ve come to save your home?” Sanya sighs, knowing the feeling.
“I am only one man, I can’t save this city. I can’t fight… but if I can rejuvenate Leningrad, if I can boost the morale of the people surely that means something. I’ve returned to play my music. That’s why I’m here at the Conservatory, a trip down memory lane, like you I imagine.” Shostakovich says boldly. Hearing that her strange visitor is here to make music lightens Sanyas’ heart. Colour finally returns to her pale face, her whole aura seems to bloom like a summer flower and she opens up like a white lily. For one brief moment she envisions this man as the embodiment of her loving father, a vision sent to drive her onward through the horror.
“You’re a musician then? You do look like one.” Sanya laughs quietly. Shostakovich can’t help but laugh at Sanyas’ ignorance here, but he takes no offence to her not knowing who he is. Instead the man looks back at the piano sitting like a grand monument behind them at centre stage.
“We’d come to move that piano to the Grand Philharmonic Hall. It’s been difficult finding instruments among the ruins. I was worried you may have come to burn it. You have talent young Sanya. That tune was… moving.” Dimitri says with a grin. The complement provokes a proud smile to cross the Orussians lips.
She doesn’t know who this man is but if her fathers song, which he had written so very long ago could move even this man then Sanya was happy. She had only played the piano in the spur of the moment, to ease the robotic emotional turmoil she felt, hoping it would awaken her from a bad dream. Instead doing so had brought about a saviour, in a sense.
“Thank you very much Mister Shostakovich. That means a lot to me. I- I have a lot to learn. If we ever get out of here…” Sanya says, her smile fading from her face slowly. Noticing her shift in tone Dimitri reaches out a hand to ruffle the teen’s fluffy silver hair. Sanya becomes quite shocked at his fatherly action, a bright blush illuminating her cheeks, her hair spring up messily.
“Music is an incredible thing. It has the power to unite us all, it’s a language that transcends cultures and borders, and no matter how much people try to control it, it will always be free… as our greatest form of expression.” Dimitri says as he gets to his feet to stomp across the wooden stage towards the piano. Running his hand as Sanya had across its waiting keys he sighs a breath of calm relief. “They once called my music ‘jumpy and neurotic’. They said it wasn’t what the Soviet people wanted. I tell you now Aleksandra Litvyak: today I will show the goons in Moscow what the Russian people want. I will show the invaders the strength of our people, our resolve. Leningrad will not be broken! We are Russian, which means we are angry!”
As Shostakovich bellows his devoted speech across the empty concert hall the doors at the far reaches of the vast room suddenly swing open. Cast in shadow from the blinding light outside a man stands huffing and out of breath. He walks with purpose down the torn up central aisle towards the stage, paying the young girl still sitting on the edge no mind. He has a message to deliver.
“Mister Shostakovich sir, we have a problem!” he shouts out in a tone quite unsuited for this place of perfect pitch and harmonic beauty. “ Mister Grigori, the pianist in row two… he’s dead sir. They found him this morning. I’m sorry.”
The news of another man’s death doesn’t seem to move Dimitri all that much. By now he must be used to it; however the words spoken with such bluntness do come as a shock to Sanya. She figures at this point death is a fact of life in this city. Walking to stand next to the girl Dimitri looms tall over her as he shouts back at the messenger.
“Give the orchestra my apologies. Tell them I already have a replacement in mind.” He says sternly before looking down at the confused apprentice at his feet.