needles, I was immersed in a kingdom of silence. The pine forest—a forest that is mysterious, dense, devoid of the singing of birds—the impenetrable forest of nanny’s stories. Ivan Tsarevich [folk tale hero] galloped through it on his gray wolf. Making my way through the reddish trunks of the pines I felt a kind of indescribable joyous agitation, the expectation of “the beautiful” and vaguely foreseen. The most optimistic of hopes, the bravest of plans were born during these walks. With a living force they fed my monotonous existence divided by time spent in the laundry, the kitchen, and doing homework. The days passed slowly, marked like signposts on the road, by Varia’s letters. In her last letter she related to me that a teacher from the Advancement of Arts would be in Kiev on business. He promised to take me with him on his way back to Leningrad. Varia was now living with her high school friend, Vera Naumova. I could live there with her for a while until her final exams. She would notify me about the day of departure at the last moment. I shared this happily with the director. “That is good! You made a little money and you can take it with you.”
Three weeks passed after that. No other news came. Finally a letter arrived from Vera Naumova. She wrote that Varia had contracted typhoid fever, but that she was getting better and that nothing had changed regarding my trip to Leningrad. Ultimately, after another ten days of waiting, I was sitting in a second class compartment on a train heading toward the city of my youth in the company of a quiet, affable companion. The train clicked off the
A damp winter evening had fallen upon the city when, hurried along by impatience, I ran up the steps three at a time. On the fourth floor a business card on the door read: M. Naumov. I rang. They took their time behind the door which was opened by a small old lady. I entered and through the open door of the kitchen I saw the sturdy figure of Varia’s friend, Vera Naumova. She stood with her back to me without moving. Her shoulders shook with sobs.
“Vera, what’s the matter?”
167
“Variushka died. She had a recurrent wave of ulcers and could not endure it.”
Stricken as by thunder, I fell upon a stool. It was all over for me. All my plans, all my joys ended in this kitchen. Everything was cut at the root. The old lady, Vera’s mother-in-law, came in. She commenced to take off my damp coat, led me to the dining room, and sat me at the table. Everything occurred as if it was not me but someone else, a mannequin. Vera came in and embraced me while drowning in tears. I seemed to freeze and did not cry. I was given linden tea with something from a small bottle poured into it.
Evidently, I slept for a very long time. I awoke with the thought: Variushka is dead. I could not believe or comprehend this. I got up and walked out of the room. Some people came and talked with me, others wept. I remained quiet, my heart wrung. I could not believe it.
Only at the funeral did I realize the full extent of my misfortune. The open casket stood in the little hospital chapel. I bent over the delicate, waxen face with its closed eyes, long eyelids lowered, the thin hands crossed on the chest, the long white dress, like a bride’s, and a white rose placed at the feet. I kissed her forehead which was cold as marble. And suddenly my heart was pierced by an acute sense of hopelessness and a repressed scream burst from my mouth. Unfamiliar people took hold of me from both sides.
Then, for a long time, we walked along the streets behind the funeral hearse. For a long time I walked despairingly behind the casket of my beloved sister—always so far away and now gone forever.
Mikhail Gol’dshtein, My First Recital
In 1937, at the age of twenty, Gol’dshtein wrote his first memoirs encompassing some 400 pages. The great composer Dmitri Shostakovich, who perused them, suggested that they be hidden well but not destroyed. Gol’dshtein burned the manuscript in fear of discovery. As he notes, in a normal country the memoirs would have readily been published. He was to emigrate to Europe in the late 1960’s and continue his career as a violinist (cherishing his 1643 Amati violin). Finally, feeling at home in freedom, he turned again to his memoirs, forty years after the initial writing. The thought of that manuscript consigned to flames in 1937 never faded from his consciousness. Taken from Mikhail Gol’dshtein,
One cannot say that people in Odessa were bloating up and dying of hunger as they were in the other cities of Russia. Tasty dishes were available in restaurants. The abundance of mackerel helped greatly. It was eaten fried, smoked or raw. Mullet, bullheads, and fluke were also served. The selection was ample. Nor was there a shortage of alcoholic beverages. Home brew came to the rescue. Drunken Bolsheviks experienced great pleasure in demonstrating their militant revolutionary spirit in restaurants. They would discharge their firearms not only at the ceiling but at living human beings as well. Babel [Isaak Babel, the famous writer] would recall that in one restaurant there was a sign next to the piano player: “Please don’t shoot the piano player, he’s playing the best he can.” However, things were tight when it came to bread. But the Americans, out of the kindness of their heart, decided to save the Soviet regime which was being choked by hunger. Ships loaded
169
with grain began to arrive in Odessa. Lenin outfoxed the capitalists and cleverly took advantage of their sympathy toward the starving. But there was no sympathy for the innocent victims of the terror. No one reacted to the mass executions. The murderers received bountiful food rations. They feasted. Especially during their new holidays.
I remember the time when the fifth anniversary of the October coup approached. Huge red canvases smeared with slogans were stretched over dilapidated houses. Preobrazhenskii [Transfiguration] Street was renamed Trotsky Street. The Cathedral of the Transfiguration stood on this street. The faithful managed to keep it functioning. One could regularly hear the ringing of the bells from this cathedral. But some extremely logical person decided to rename it in honor of Trotsky Street: since the street was Trotsky, the cathedral should be Trotsky as well.
Celebratory concerts were being arranged in Odessa. There was no shortage of artists. The popular couplet- rhyming singers merely moved to the workingmen’s clubs. The concerts were broad in nature: mandatory revolutionary poems were read and songs were sung; magicians, acrobats, sword swallowers, comedians, and violinists playing serious classical music all performed.
Once someone came to Stoliarskii [a famous violin teacher] in order to select a violinist for a concert. I was the one chosen. I had been playing a Vivaldi concerto. After listening, the political commissar deemed Vivaldi totally compatible with the revolutionary spirit. My parents were told that I had to appear at a particular place at a particular hour or else. My parents humbly fulfilled this command and brought me to some smelly hall. I remember it even now. Someone was vomiting; someone was fighting and cursing. Apparently the audience at this concert sacredly held to the oath of Genghis Khan and did not wash. They smoked all kinds of crap. Breathing was
