The clubhouse was buzzing with excitement. Those who had witnessed the bombing took center stage, describing the experience to the less fortunate ones, who had only heard the explosion. The room resonated with questions and speculations. Why was there only one bomber? Why not a squadron? Was this an isolated incident, or a warning? Maybe it was just an inexperienced pilot who had lost his bearings and needed to lighten his aircraft to conserve fuel so he could get back home. Well, what are we, then? Pieces on a game board? Filip thought. What does it matter whether the attack is deliberate or accidental, to a dead man?
“My uncle says the Germans have moved south, through Czechoslovakia and Ukraine. Crimea could be next, Odessa and Yalta, while most of our troops are engaged to the north, defending the cities,” one boy said soberly.
“Why would the Nazis want Yalta? For the mineral baths, or the figs and melons?” another challenged.
“Durak. For access to the Black Sea, you fool, with Turkey on the other side.”
A dark-haired girl in a faded blue dress jumped up and cranked the phonograph. “Let’s dance. Pomirat’ tak s mouzikoy. If we must die, let’s at least have music.”
It was a sentiment everyone agreed with. Soon the room was alive with energetic bodies moving to a jazzy polka beat, laughing and twirling, making up new steps, singing along with mindless lyrics that spoke of love and hope and more love and love again. They moved in the moment, their joy as irrepressibly desperate as it was spontaneous.
They took turns cranking the machine, playing tune after tune without stopping, changing partners midstep, as if the only thing that mattered was to keep moving until they dropped, exhausted and happy, into the nearest chair. No one spoke while the music wound down, the last notes contorted into a weird, slow rendition of the original sprightly tempo.
After a few minutes, two girls went to the kitchen to brew tea; through the open door, the others could hear them talking as girls do, in easy camaraderie, assembling the mismatched cups and saucers each young person had contributed to the communal cupboard.
“A game of chess?” Filip’s friend and frequent game adversary Borya inquired lazily, brushing damp, sandy hair out of his eyes.
“Maybe later. I want to play something for Galya,” Filip slid one of his mother’s records out of its cardboard sleeve.
“What?” Galina glanced at the cover. “Yevgeniy Onegin? It’s by Pushkin. We read it in school. We even listened to some of the music, remember? All about love, what else?” She raised her eyes to the ceiling and recited in an expressionless voice: “Onegin scorns the young Tatiana, kills her sister’s fiancé in a stupid duel, then finds, years later, that Tatiana is the only woman he can ever love. But she is married, of course, and refuses to betray her aged husband by indulging the undeniable passion she has felt for Onegin since their first meeting.” She sighed. “It is a good story. I’m just not sure it needs to be an opera.”
“Chai gotov,” one of the girls sang out from the kitchen. “Come get your tea. And we have mulberry jam, too, thanks to Galya’s mother.”
“Where’s the cake?” Borya joked, filling a chipped cup and stirring in a generous spoonful of jam. “You know I never have tea without cake.”
“You forgot to bring it, balda. You numbskull, who even remembers what cake tastes like?” someone quipped, and everyone laughed.
“Galya, I know you don’t love opera, but listen to this one aria,” Filip pleaded in an urgent whisper, ignoring the general banter.
Galina turned away from the group, still laughing. “All right, then. I can see you will give me no peace. Let’s hear your ahhhria,” she stretched out the word, rolling her eyes, setting off a new wave of hilarity.
“No, really, play it for me,” she relented, noting the stricken look on his face, the faint quiver of his smooth cheek, the hurt in his eyes. “You know we’re all friends here.”
Filip hesitated. Was it worth the risk, the possibility of ridicule? But these were his friends, after all, his only friends. He placed the record gingerly on the turntable. With infinite care and complete accuracy, he brought the needle down about halfway across its glossy, spinning surface.
Galina’s face lit up with the first notes. “Kouda, kouda? Kouda vy oudalilis’,” she sang along softly. “Why, this is Lenski’s aria, lamenting the loss of the innocent days of his youth. Then Onegin shoots him. Dead. So sad and beautiful. Everyone knows this.”
“Yes, yes. It is beautiful,” Filip agreed impatiently. “But listen, now. This is Onegin, expressing his own thoughts about what is about to happen. Do we have to do this? Is there a way out? Why do good friends have to threaten each other’s lives over a silly jealous dispute, a meaningless party prank?”
“I know this, too, I have heard it before…”
“But here, here…,” he emphasized as Lenski’s limpid tenor mingled with Onegin’s baritone, the lines crossing from unison to harmony. “Do you see? In weaving the voices together, it is Tchaikovsky’s subtle rendering of Pushkin’s brilliant idea. In creating these two characters, these friends and country neighbors, isn’t he revealing two sides of his own nature? He is both Lenski, the soulful sensitive poet suffering the throes of romantic love, and Onegin, the cosmopolitan sophisticate trapped in the suffocating boredom of provincial life. He, Pushkin, is both!”
“Hey! I’m soulful and sensitive, and bored with life in this provincial town,” Borya cut in, striking a theatrical pose. “Does that make me a poet?”
Filip ignored him. “I picture this scene with the two men back-to-back, each lost in his own thoughts, refusing to bend to the bonds of friendship, unable to see a way out of the imminent tragedy. When Lenski dies, it is the victory of arrogance over decency, not just onstage but also in Pushkin the man, himself. It is brilliant, you see?”
“I… think so. I never thought about it like that,” Galina said, her interest aroused by his enthusiasm. In truth, I never thought about it at all, crossed her mind, but remained unspoken, out of respect for the passion of her friend’s revelations. She did not know if what he was saying was true, but she could see how deeply he had thought about it.
“And then Pushkin the poet gets killed in a ridiculous duel over his wife’s flirtation with a French officer. So you could say it’s prophetic, too,” added a voice out of the group who had gathered around, almost in spite of themselves, to hear what was going on.
“Yes. And Tchaikovsky knows that, and of course, we know it too, so it adds another layer of meaning.” Filip’s head bobbed up and down.
“Or maybe Pushkin just couldn’t resist playing a part in his own drama,” Borya drawled. “I’m sure he never imagined he would be the one to die. It wasn’t in the script.”
“I guess none of us do,” Filip mused, seeing again the bomb backlit by sunlight and feeling, for the first time, a shudder of fear run down his spine in an icy stream. The others must have felt it, too. They grew silent, avoiding each other’s eyes.
“Well, thank you, Professor.” The dark-haired girl jumped up and rummaged through the pile of records strewn across the table. “How about one more dance before we go home?”
The group moved away, began dancing almost before the music started. Filip took out his handkerchief and wiped invisible dust off his mother’s record with care, replacing it gently in its sleeve.
“Come,” Galina said, cupping his elbow and peering into his face. He was still flushed with excitement at the audacity of his performance. “I’ll show you how to fox-trot.”