He was four when the first clear signs of his musical talent appeared. His mother spotted them at once. By the age of six, at his own request, he was learning both the piano and the violin. When he was seven his father declared: ‘Perhaps he’ll be a concert pianist.’ But at eight Rosa had said: ‘I don’t think so.’ And it was true, as time passed, that though he had a remarkable gift for playing, young Dimitri would often prefer to compose little tunes of his own than spend the extra hours needed each day if he were to climb the rocky path to the performer’s art. Now, at twelve, he went to the excellent Fifth Moscow Grammar School near Arbat Square and studied music voraciously in his spare time.
And prepared for the revolution. There was never any question about that in Professor Peter Suvorin’s home. They all worked for it. Two years ago, they had been up many times all night while Rosa typed out revolutionary articles on her typewriter, and young Dimitri had often been used to take them to various distribution points. It was thrilling to know that he was aiding the great cause.
And now something even more exciting had happened. His father was in the Duma. He had gone to St Petersburg.
It had been a great step. After boycotting the first Duma, the Socialists had decided to participate in the second. ‘If we can get a large number of Socialists in,’ Peter had explained, ‘we can smash the Tsar and end this farce once and for all. Use the Tsar’s own Duma to abolish him!’
‘And then?’
‘A Constituent Assembly elected by all the people. A democratic government. All the Socialists agree about that.’
Freedom. Democracy. The new world was about to begin. And his father, the distinguished Professor Suvorin, was a part of it. Life was wonderful.
Yet there were still things that were puzzling. Why was it, for instance, that his Uncle Vladimir was so rich while they lived so simply themselves? ‘Your father has no interest in all that,’ his mother told him with a dismissive gesture. But as he got older this explanation did not seem quite enough. Though he and Nadezhda were like brother and sister, he knew their parents were not close. ‘If your father had his way,’ the little girl had once remarked, ‘Mama says you’d put us all in the street.’ And then, with perfect innocence: ‘If that happens, Dimitri, can I come and live with you?’ He had promised she could, but it had always seemed odd to him that his kind Uncle Vladimir did not understand the need for revolution.
And then there was his mother. Why was she always so anxious? Was it possible, Dimitri had wondered, to love people too much? When his father left for St Petersburg, Uncle Vladimir had offered to let Dimitri stay with them so that Rosa could accompany Peter. She had refused; yet ever since, each day, had constantly moaned: ‘Do you think your father is safe there? I’m sure something will happen to him.’ She would even fret at night so that, by morning, there were dark rings round her large eyes.
It was late March when the incident occurred. Peter Suvorin was away in the capital and Dimitri was returning from school one afternoon when, having followed an unusual route, he found himself in a long narrow street.
The street was empty. A few bare trees could be seen down the sides; here and there were patches of dark ice in the gutters. A dull grey light pervaded the place.
He was halfway down before he heard a scuffle and saw the little gang, and even then, it did not occur to him to be alarmed.
There were only half a dozen of them: four young men and two boys about his age. They came out of a courtyard and then walked along on each side of him for several yards before one of the young men spoke.
‘I think he’s one.’ They all continued to walk.
‘You do? Hey, boy, what’s your name?’
‘Dimitri Petrovich. Suvorin,’ he added as firmly as he could. He was not sure what this all meant.
‘Good Russian names, young Mr Suvorin. Shall we leave him, boys?’
‘Maybe. Look at his face though.’
‘True. We don’t like your face, Dimitri Petrovich. Why don’t we like his face, boys?’
‘Looks like a kike.’
‘Right, Dimitri Petrovich. That’s the problem. You sure you aren’t Jewish? Not at all?’
‘Quite sure,’ Dimitri answered with confidence, as they continued to walk.
‘What’s your mother’s name, boy?’
‘Rosa Abramovich,’ he replied.
‘Aha. Where’s she from?’
‘Vilnius,’ he replied, in all innocence.
‘A Rosa Abramovich from Vilnius. Then your mother’s a Jew, boy.’
‘She is not,’ he answered hotly. But they had stopped, and surrounded him. ‘She’s a Christian,’ he shouted furiously, not because he had anything especially against the Jews, but because the accusation was a lie. Seeing the boy’s genuine rage, the little gang hesitated.
And it was then that Dimitri did a very foolish thing. ‘Don’t you touch me,’ he shouted furiously. ‘My father’s a deputy in the Duma and you’ll be in trouble.’
‘Which party?’
‘The Social Democrats,’ he said proudly. And instantly realized his mistake. He had heard of the Black Hundreds of course – the gangs of right-wing thugs who beat up Socialists and Jews in the name of the Tsar. But somehow he had always thought of them as the large groups their name suggested; nor, since he was a good Russian, had he ever considered they could have anything to do with him.
‘Kike! Socialist! Traitor!’ The little fellow went down at once.
He had only received a black eye and several kicks in the ribs when a carriage entering the street caused his assailants to break off. Half an hour later he was safely back at home, and though shaken, was able to eat some supper.
But there was one aspect of the whole business that mystified him. ‘They said you were a Jew,’ he told his mother. And was therefore even more astonished when she confessed that it was true. ‘I converted when I married,’ she explained. They had never told him before.
And from that day, her nervousness seemed to get worse.
Strangely, whatever these events meant to his mother, they did not mark Dimitri; and this was due to an extraordinary aspect of his make-up.
It was to do with music.
Ever since he was a little child, Dimitri had thought in terms of music. From as long as he could remember, notes had suggested colours to him. As soon as Rosa showed him the different keys on the piano, each had possessed for him its own distinct character and mood. At first these discoveries belonged to a musical world which he associated with the instruments he played. But then, when he was nine, something else took place.
He had been in the little church beside his home one evening listening to vespers. The church had a fine choir, and the haunting melodies of the chanting were still with him as he left. It was sunset when he stepped into the street and the sky above Moscow was gold and red. For several minutes, he had stood gazing towards the glorious colours in the west.
And then, trying to express what he saw, he had chosen a chord. It was in the key of C Minor. After a moment, he had added another.
It was odd, he thought: he had chosen the chords. He had imposed them on that sunset. Yet as he looked, it was as though the sky were answering him, saying: ‘Yes, that is my sound.’ And in his mind the chords and the sunset became one.
He had walked back into the courtyard, next. There was the mulberry tree, the reddish light catching its upper branches, warm shadow below. And now he heard another chord and a little melody; and this time the music came so instantly that it was as if he had not chosen it, but heard it.