That evening we went to an anniversary concert at the Tchaikovsky Auditorium. Shostakovich’s ‘Leningrad’ Symphony, No. 7 was the star item in a programme of celebration, such a sublime and moving performance that I knew I would never hear it played so heart-rendingly again. After the first movement everyone in the crowded theatre stood for a minute’s silence, in remembrance of the so many million dead — and so much misery. Others as well as myself had tears on their cheeks before the music resumed. At the finale the applause went on and on, as if the following silence would be too much to bear.
After such a moving experience it was hard to take any more, so we left the concert hall and stood in the square outside for what could be seen of fireworks from the Kremlin. Hundreds of people cheered at each technicolor shellburst of blues, greens, and spectacular floral reds.
Tuesday, 10 May
‘Again in the Metro with Marina’ seemed like the refrain of a song, though from what era I couldn’t say. This time she took us on a tour of the most interesting stations, many built during the worst years of the 1930s. Construction went on even in the Second World War, when the Germans were within thirty miles of Moscow. Stops were further apart than in London, but each underground hall was decorated by examples of Soviet art and sculpture. One like a vast ballroom was lit from chandeliers, no spot of dust visible in their soothing light.
At the Tetryakov station we were met by the poet Glyeb Shulypriakov, a friend of Marina’s, whom Ruth had talked to in London a year ago at the launch of the anthology of Russian women poets. He led us on a walk through the old Merchants’ Quarter, now a residential and business area but with many of the original buildings and churches preserved. He had a flat in one of the houses, where we had tea and discussed poetry — what else?
Later, on our way back to the hotel, a man on the packed Metro offered me his seat. He was so generously persistent that I sat down, although I felt no need to. When people flowed out at the next station he took the place by me, saying he had been to Liverpool as a sailor. There was much he wanted to add but couldn’t, and I knew how he felt. His face was a portrait of frustrated intention to speak. Neither was my Russian good enough, except to say how beautiful Moscow was. He searched one pocket after another to find something he could give me as a memento of our meeting. Perhaps he imagined I was one of the veterans from England (I hoped not) but he found a small wrapped sweet and, his face shining with happiness, presented it to me. We shook hands several times and I got a bear hug — as if we’d had a vodka or two — before he went out.
We took a whole week more or less out of Marina’s busy life, but she was indefatigable on our behalf. At five that afternoon she came to the hotel so that she and Ruth could go over the poems they would present at the Bookberry, a large bookshop well known for poetry readings. I sat in the lobby for a smoke, waiting for the British Council car to take us to the event. Until it began I walked the well stocked and laid out shelves, with many foreign titles in Russian, and some in the original languages. But pop music wailing throughout made contemplation and browsing difficult.
Ruth and Marina had such a large audience that a search had to be made for extra chairs. Sugar-Paper Blue, with its theme of Akhmatova in Leningrad, went down well.
We were then driven to the place for my performance. I couldn’t fix exactly where it was in relation to anywhere else in the city, in spite of having a modern and accurate street plan. I had never, as a passenger, been able to look at a map without feeling car-sick.
When a man on guard at the door asked if I would like some vodka I said yes, certainly. Taking an unlabelled bottle from under his table he bubbled two good measures into paper cups.
I opened the talk by saying that the writer is essentially a communicator, between himself and whatever readers he might be lucky enough to have. Then I gave an example of communications in one of my jobs before I had thought of becoming a writer, as a wireless telegraphist, sending and receiving messages between myself and aircraft flying from Darwin to London. To break the ice — it nearly always does — I brought out my Morse key and oscillator, and tapped a short telegram of goodwill to the audience, saying beforehand that if an amateur radio operator or ex-Marconi man among them could transcribe what was sent, I would give him (or her) a signed copy of my latest novel. No one won the prize. The only time anyone had was in Rostock some years ago, when an ex-ship’s officer deciphered the words correctly
I read a condensed part of my novel The German Numbers Woman, with a resumé from Marina; then, after a few poems, talked more about life as a writer. The session ended with questions at ten o’clock. We went on to a Ukrainian restaurant with Anna Genina, the charming director of the Moscow British Council office.
Wednesday, 11 May
We were expected at the studio of Radio Kultura for interviews at ten, and got there well on time, but the dragon of a woman guarding the door of the building said we didn’t have proper identification. She was only persuaded to let us in after a stern call from upstairs.
The round table discussion of our life and work was skilfully guided by the young presenter, and went on for almost two hours, before our ‘business lunch’ at a place called Pal Joey’s.
With barely time to change at the hotel we were motored to a conference at Foreign Literature Magazine. Their offices weren’t as opulent as in Soviet times, when every issue sold millions of copies. Even so it had a circulation of several hundred thousand.
The editor in chief, Alexei Slovesny, and a dozen members of the editorial staff, asked us about the state of fiction and poetry in England, and whether we could recommend anything that might be suitable for their readers. Ruth mentioned the names of several poets which were new to them. They seemed well enough informed about contemporary English fiction, knowing the titles and authors of many recent novels. They hadn’t however heard of John King’s books such as England Away and The Football Factory, so I explained briefly what they were about.
The discussion, with tea and biscuits, lasted until half past four, when we were ferried to the British Council offices. We had tea again, and walked from there to the Library of Foreign Literature, where a good-sized audience awaited us for another reading.
Then I spotted George, sitting slightly apart by the wall. I had asked about him several times already, and Marina dialled his old telephone number, but no one had answered to the name of Andjaparidze. This didn’t surprise me, for his mother and aunt with whom he had lived must have been long dead. My only hope was that news of our visit would get around, and he would turn up at one of the venues.
Now he had. He could hardly stand, tried, but I asked him not to persist. He held up his two sticks saying he could only walk properly with them. He was in pain, and looked older than his sixty-three years. His daughter, who accompanied him, told us he mustn’t stay out late, because he was quite ill. George said she was religious in the Orthodox way, and always made sure he was all right when he went out — being a dutiful (and beautiful) daughter. Because of the crush, and the uncertainty of what would happen afterwards, we arranged to meet the following night. He said we would have much to discuss.
Ruth and I read, with Marina translating, more or less a replay of the previous evening. From there we went to a party at the flat of James and Kim, of the British Council, where we were so entertained I gave them a signed copy of the book that hadn’t been claimed at the Morse competition the night before.