PART II
Enemies
1
THE LITTLE THEATER GROUP came together almost out of desperation. They were only eight people, local residents who gave their time to this artistic pursuit in affirmation of some measure of free will. Their offerings were modest, of necessity—no one had much money or time, and productions had to be restricted to plays with few characters onstage at the same time. Promotion consisted of two or three small hand-lettered signs placed at news kiosks. But people came, packing the abandoned storage shed for every performance, paying what they could, escaping for an hour or two the rigors and uncertainties of life in time of war.
Three of them had professional training. Fyodor, a grand old man with the abundant white hair and aristocratic bearing of Leopold Stokowski, was director and impresario, drawing on his many years in legitimate theater, on both sides of the lights, to shape the troupe’s efforts into a presentable performance. Luyba, whose promising film career had faded with the loss of her good looks and the genetically inevitable thickening of her ingenue’s figure, could still interpret any female character with convincing and only slightly overplayed finesse. And Mishka, who supported himself with petty thievery and personal-scale black marketeering; he used his native gifts to play a comic role like nobody’s business, counting on his expressive face and beer barrel body for the full range of physical humor while peeling off clever lines as if his life depended on it. As, no doubt, in his frequent brushes with law enforcement and competing operators, it sometimes did.
The others were amateurs, drawn to this activity for their own reasons: exhibitionism, self-delusion, missed opportunity, emotional escape, intellectual curiosity. Filip was among these, introduced to the group by a colleague of his father’s.
“Your boy has talent,” the man had opined, admiring the watercolor landscapes Zoya had displayed on every available wall of their little flat. “The set man they have now at the theater group is an art teacher at the gymnasium who needs to spend more time on paying work to support his family. Filip could paint scenery and learn a thing or two from him while also helping out.”
This time there were no objections from either parent. “Just keep up your schoolwork,” his father admonished with a stern look.
“And don’t stay out too late,” Zoya added, smiling in relief at this nonpolitical use of Filip’s time. It had nothing to do with Young Pioneers, and mirrored her own lifelong passion for theater.
Filip had no interest in performing. In the two years he stayed with the troupe, he successfully resisted most of Fyodor’s attempts to draft him into a speaking part onstage. He would do the occasional walk-on servant or messenger if pressed to the limit, but knew that any lines he spoke would be wooden and unconvincing. He was best as stagehand, moving with feline quickness across the floor, arranging furniture and props with silent efficiency.
“It is the best job,” he told his mother over the late-night cup of tea they often enjoyed together alone, his father having gone to bed to rise early for work. “Every play needs a set—you can’t just have people walking around talking—what kind of theater would that be? So my job is really important. Even if I make a mistake, the actors can fix it by moving something or changing the dialogue on the spot. I don’t have to worry about humiliating myself by forgetting my lines or tripping over a chair.”
“And the painting?” Zoya asked, glancing wistfully at the glass sugar bowl, half-filled with diminutive cubes she had long since denied herself, saving the precious rationed commodity for her husband and son. It was a sacrifice that she suffered with secret satisfaction. Neither husband nor son was aware of her yearning for sweetness as she sipped her bitter tea.
“Oh, Mama, the painting is excellent. I learn more every day. Sometimes I imagine I’m like our famous Ivan Shishkin, painting in the forest.” Filip colored slightly at this immodest comparison; he knew full well that his cardboard trees with their randomly stippled leaves were a far cry from Shishkin’s lush Russian landscapes. “Not that I can ever be that good,” he amended, feeling the need for at least a show of humility.
They talked on a while, until an irritated cough from the other room reminded them that it was time for sleeping. “And I love building the backdrops, too,” he added, rising and pushing his chair against the oilcloth-covered table. He popped a sugar cube into his mouth, washed it down with a last sip of cold tea. “I love to see how things fit together, what makes them stand up, how lines and angles can fool the observer’s eye into seeing what I want them to see.”
Zoya rose, too. She kissed his downy cheek, his face still flushed with adolescent enthusiasm. Who knew what obstacles lay in the path of his youthful ambition? For now, it was enough that he was too young for military service. In a city overrun with German occupation troops, she nurtured the hope that soon it would all be over, Stalin and Hitler would somehow cancel each other out, and life would go on like before, or better. She would be free to go to church, and her boy would attend university and blossom into the influential man his aspirations promised he should become.
She covered the sugar bowl. “Good night, son,” she said quietly to his retreating back.
The question of music came up at the planning meeting for the summer season. The only music they had used, to this point, was an occasional medley of folk tunes Mishka cranked out on his accordion during scene changes, if he was not cast in a major role in the production. For the new season, the group had planned an evening of one-act plays: a serious, if sentimental, emotional piece, and a popular farce bordering on burlesque. Mishka was featured prominently in both, and would be too busy with costume changes to play at intermission.
“In any case, accordion music is not suitable here,” Fyodor mused, raising his teacup to his lips and setting it down again with deliberate grace. “We have a major shift in mood between the two pieces. We need a palate cleanser to help the audience make the transition.”
“You mean like bread and butter between vodka shots?” Mishka pulled on the homemade cherry brandy in his own teacup. “A bit of marinated herring?”
“More or less.” Fyodor smiled indulgently, remembering evenings in Paris and St. Petersburg, the frosty elegance of sherbet between courses of exquisitely prepared food, the company of lovely ladies, the belief that this enchanted life would never end.
“We could use a gramophone,” Luyba suggested. She leaned back in her chair and laid her lacy knitted shawl across her generous knees. “I have some very fine Chaliapin records. I met him once…” She stroked the shawl absently with pudgy fingers, as if it were a favorite lapdog.
“Hm. Chaliapin is very fine, of course, but his basso may be too heavy for our program. I think we need something else. Something light and charming that the audience can get caught up in, to clear the emotional residue and prepare them to receive the second play.”
“I know just the thing,” Filip said, jumping to his feet. “But I have to arrange it.” He had been sitting quietly at the corner of the rickety table they used for their conferences. He wasn’t sure what he could add to the process of decision making, didn’t quite understand what was expected of him, but he had an idea. “I should know by tomorrow afternoon, Fyodor Andreevich.”
It was the last week of school. Eighth grade final exams were over; those who passed would have satisfied the mandatory minimal educational requirement and would soon be free to enter the workforce or join the army. Galina was among these. Her father, Ilya, had arranged for her to start working in a toy store downtown in time for the summer season that still brought a few intrepid travelers to this world-famous resort. Some food items were in short supply, and strictly rationed, but toys could be bought for money, and people wanted them. The growing number of German occupation troops quickly became regular customers, too, buying wind-up dancing bears and rosy-cheeked country dolls for children back home.