“Oh, of course, think of the tragedy,”
said Kolya, adopting the professorial
tone he used for high sarcasm. “We
can’t let the great ones die. If I were in
charge, I’d push the other way. Put the
famous on the front lines. Shostakovich
takes a bullet to the head? Think of the
outrage across the nation! Across the
world! RENOWNED COMPOSER
MURDERED BY NAZIS. Anna
Akhmatova, she was on the radio, too.
You remember? Telling all the women
of Leningrad to be brave, to learn how
to fire a rifle. Now where is she?
Shooting at Germans? Hm, no, I believe
not. At the Works, grinding shell
casings? No, she’s in fucking Tashkent,
pumping out more of that narcissistic
verse that made her famous.”
“My mother and sister left, too. Doesn’t
make them traitors.”
“Your mother and sister weren’t on the
radio telling us all to be brave. Look, I
don’t expect composers and poets to be
heroes. I just don’t like hypocrites.”