Why did he choose me? First, I was young, and it was before youth, more than anyone else, that Shostakovich wanted to justify himself. I was devoted to his music and to him, I didn't tell tales, I didn't boast about his kindness to me. Shostakovich liked my work and he liked my
*In many instances Shostakovich had not even been asked to sign, since such a formality was considered unnecessary. After all, how could anyone possibly doubt that Shostakovich, like every other Soviet citizen, adulated the leader and teacher? Thus there appeared exalted praise for the
"wonderful works of Comrade Stalin" in Literatumaya gaz:eta (September 30, 1950) over the signature of D. Shostakovich. He had never even read the passionate panegyric.
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book on the young Leningraders; he wrote me about it several times.
His desire to remember, which would arise impulsively, had to be nurtured constantly. When I spoke with him about his dead friends, he was amazed to hear me talk about people and events he had forgotten. "This is the most intelligent man of the new generation" was his final evaluation of me. I repeat these words here not out of vanity, but because I want to explain how this complex man came to a difficult decision. For many years it had seemed to him that the past had disappeared forever. He had to grow accustomed to the idea that an unofficial record of events did still exist. "Do you not think that history is really a whore?" he once asked me. The question reeked of a hopelessness that I could not comprehend; I was convinced of the opposite. And this, too, was important to Shostakovich.
This is how we worked. We sat down at a table in his study, and he offered me a drink (which I always refused). Then I began asking questions, which he answered briefly and, at first, reluctantly. Sometimes I had to keep repeating the same question in different forms.
Shostakovich needed time to warm up.
Gradually his pale face would turn pink and he would grow excited. I would go on with the questioning, taking notes in the shorthand that I had developed during my years as a journalist. (We discarded the idea of taping for a variety of reasons, chief among them the fact that Shostakovich would stiff en before a microphone like a rabbit caught in a snake's gaze. It was a reflex reaction to his obligatory official radio speeches.) I found a successful formula to help Shostakovich speak more freely than he was accustomed to, even with close friends: "Don't reminisce about yourself; talk about others." Of course, Shostakovich reminisced about himself, but he reached himself by talking about others, finding the reflection of himself in them. This "mirrored style" is typical of Petersburg, a city on water, shimmering, spectral. It was also a favorite device of Anna Akhmatova. Shostakovich revered Akhmatova. Her portrait, a gift from me, hung in his apartment.
At first we met in Shostakovich's cottage near Leningrad, where the Composers' Uriion had a resort. Shostakovich went there to rest. It was not very convenient and dragged out our work, making each resumption difficult emotionally. The work went smoothly once I moved xvi
to Moscow in 1972, taking a position with Sovetskaya muzyka, the country's leading musical journal.
I became a senior editor of Sovetskaya muzyka. The main objective of my move had been to be closer to Shostakovich, who lived in the building that housed the journal's offices. And even though Shostakovich was frequently out of town, we could meet more often.* Work would begin with a phone call from him-usually early in the morning, when the office was still empty-his jangling, hoarse tenor voice asking, "Are you free now ? Could you come up here?" And the exhausting hours of cautious exploration would begin.
Shostakovich's manner of responding to questions was highly stylized. Some phrases had apparently been polished over many years. He was obviously imitating his literary idol and friend, the writer Mikhail Zoshcheriko, a master of precisely refined ironic narrative (translations cannot transmit the fine, beadwork subtlety of his writing). Phrases from Gogol, Dostoevsky, Bulgakov, and Ilf and Petrov found their way into his conversation. Ironic sentences were spoken without a trace of a smile. Conversely, when an agitated Shostakovich began a deeply felt discussion, a nervous smile twitched across his face.
He often contradicted himself. Then the true meaning of his words had to be guessed, extracted from a box with three false bottoms. My persistence waged battle with his crankiness. I would leave, wrung out. The mound of shorthand notes was growing. I read them over and over, trying to construct from the penciled scribbles the multifigured composition that I knew was there.
I divided up the collected material into sustained sections, combined as seemed appropriate; then I showed these sections to Shostakovich, who approved my work. What had been created in these pages clearly had a profound effect on him. Gradually, I shaped this great array of reminiscence into arbitrary parts and had them typed. Shostakovich read and signed each part.
It was clear to both of us that this final text could not be published
•Jn addition to our main work, I also helped him with many less essential but burdensome affairs. Shostakovich was a member of the editorial board of Sovetskaya muzyka and he was expected to give written evaluations of materials submitted for publication. He was often asked for his support when there was a conflict over a musical problem. In such cases I functioned as his assistant, preparing .evaluations, replies, and letters at his request. Thus I became something of an intermediary between Shostakovich and the journal's editor in chief.
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in the U.S.S.R.; several attempts I made in that direction ended in failure. I took measures to get the manuscript to the West. Shostakovich consented. His only insistent desire was that the book be published posthumously. "After my death, after my death,'' he said often. Shostakovich was not prepared to undergo new ordeals; he was too weak, too worn out by his illness.
In November 1974, Shostakovich invited me to his home. We talked for a while and then he asked me where the manuscript was. "In the West," I replied. "Our agreement is in force." Shostakovich said,
"Good." I told him I would prepare a statement to the effect that his memoirs would appear in print only after his death (and subsequently I sent him this letter of agreement). At the end of our conversation, he said he wanted to inscribe a photograph for me. He wrote: "To dear Solomon Moiseyevich Volkov, in fond remembrance. D. Shostakovich.
13 XI 197 4." Then, just as I was about to leave, he said, "Wait. Give me the photo." And he added: "A reminder of our conversations about Glazunov, Zoshchenko, Meyerhold. D.S." And he said, "This will help you."
Soon thereafter, I applied to the Soviet authorities for permission to leave for the West. In August 1975 Shostakovich died. In June 1976 I came to New York, determined to have this book published. My thanks go to the courageous people (some of whose names I do not even know) who helped bring the manuscript here safely and intact. I have been supported since my arrival by the Russian Institute at Columbia University, where I became a Research Associate in 1976; contact with my colleagues there has been both beneficial and rewarding.