Tag: espionage

Jazz with Ella

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excerpt

said Chopyk with only a hint of irony. He stroked his beard and stared at her with curiosity in his eyes. “I understand from Maria that you have a class scheduled for this morning.”
“Yes,” replied Jennifer tersely. Don’t explain, don’t apologize. Last night is none of his business. “I want to hear the students’ experiences in Leningrad. I have my own to share, too.”
“But I also know that you have been cancelling classes while in Leningrad….”
“As we discussed that first night,” she broke in quickly, starting across the lobby.
“Yes, agreed…but….” Chopyk followed, taking small, deliberate steps beside her. She matched his fussy gait. What is this nonsense all about? Surely he isn’t going to punish me?
“Since I have been carrying on with classes while in Leningrad for any who care to study,” he sniffed, “I think it only right that you should lead both groups, juniors and seniors, while on the Volga cruise.”
So that was it. Once again, he had hit her at her most guilty moment. He wanted to lounge on the sundeck reading his academic papers and not have to deal with a pack of rowdy students.
“Certainly. I’d be happy to do that,” she answered. “I know how one’s research suffers when class prep is a priority,” she added archly. He appeared not to notice her tone of voice. They entered the dining room in silence.
★
That morning she ended her class by presenting a poem that Volodya had written out for her: an excerpt from “Spring in Leningrad” by the Russian war poet, Margarita Aliger. Jennifer told the students the story of the Leningrad mother who had suffered during the siege and how her son, Volodya, had been moved by this poem. Despite her own sense of loss, Hank’s bad mood and Ted’s hangover, the students rallied and they recited it in Russian, then took a stab at translating it.
“O city without light, without water!
One hundred and twenty five grams of blockade rationed bread…
Savage rumbling of trouble
from the pitiless, dead sky.

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Jazz with Ella

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“Sit with me here on this bench,” he said, taking her hand gently. “You asked to know about me and my family. So look around you. Except for my mother and aunt, most of my family are here. My father fought the fascists—just outside of the city. He wasn’t a brave man. He had no choice. To serve in the army was better than dying in Leningrad.”
“And your mother?”
“She survived the siege. She had no food except the ration. She didn’t get skinny though. She puffed up, she told me, her legs swollen—and her face, too—with disease.”
At that moment, Jennifer could feel a disease working through her own body in sympathy, a horrible nausea, her head heavy, her arms like lead, then only emptiness.
Volodya went on: “That first winter, 1941, she told me that many people froze to death on the streets. Those who survived were too weak to bury the others. So they just stepped over the dead on their way to stand in the food lines.”
“But she lived?”
“Somehow she lived. When the city was liberated, my father returned and nursed her back to health. He had an army ration; it was only a little more food than the usual ration. He died two years after I was born in 1947. He had been wounded in the chest. He couldn’t breathe.”
“That’s ghastly. So your mother had to raise you by herself?”
“Yes, she and her sister. But I don’t tell you for pity. This is what I want to tell you.” He stood up. “Look around here—at this memorial. All the memorials around town are built in honour of our glorious fallen comrades. So many memorials for the dead.”
Jennifer had a glimmer of understanding now. She shook off the nausea.
“A few years ago I looked at how my mother was living—how damp is her apartment, how she still stands in line for food, and I decide to write to Comrade Brezhnev. I asked him how come so many things are done for the dead and so little for the living.” Jennifer shifted uneasily. “Soon two special men came to my mother’s door. You know what this means, special men?”
“KGB,” she whispered.
“Yes, they question my mother. What is her son doing? Does he make trouble? The neighbours see these men come to the apartment.

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Jazz with Ella

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Excerpt

As she and Michael drove down Fourth Avenue in the beater car they had just bought at a used car lot and had not yet fully paid for, she fell in love with the area. It was August under a cloudless sky and her window was rolled down. Chestnut trees hung over the street. A man in a bright serape and sandals was juggling vinyl pins in front of a health food store. Another man was handing out copies of what appeared to be the local newspaper, The Georgia Straight. Music blared from speakers in a record shop. Crowds of tanned young people roamed the streets carrying radios and backpacks. No one seemed in a hurry and everyone smiled. “Peace, peace,” one man called out to her holding up his fingers in a V as they drove by.
“Let’s live here, Michael, not in the student apartments. They’re so god awful concrete and gloomy.”
As usual, Michael’s reply was brief. “Maybe.”
He’ll come around as soon as he lives in Vancouver a while, she thought. Maybe he and Paul will become friends.
But that faint hope, borne briefly as they got out of the car and entered Paul’s building, was quickly dashed.
“Isn’t this great?” Paul said right away, hugging her and spreading his arms wide to take in the wicker chairs, battered sofa, tiny kitchen and a balcony with a glorious view of the ocean. “It reminds me of California, you know, where I grew up. I love it here.” He seemed so relaxed, so laid back, as they said out in Vancouver. He shook hands warmly with Michael who returned the handshake but stared at him as if he were a lab specimen.
“It’s great to see you here, finally, Jennifer. And Michael, too. Let me show you around.” They examined some of Paul’s nicer possessions including a collection of Russian literature and a brightly polished samovar, with Jennifer ooohing and aahing periodically.
“We’re quite close to the Russian community centre here,” he told them. “It’s cool to visit.”
“It’s perfect,” she cried. “Isn’t it, Michael?”
Paul relaxed. “Just about. The only thing that would make my life complete here would be a girlfriend. Sue and I broke up.” Immediately Michael’s expression changed from one of puzzlement to repugnance. He began to bristle, Jennifer thought later. It had to be jealousy. But why? Paul had always been her good friend. Michael knew that, accepted it, or so he had said. Men, she thought with exasperation.

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Jazz with Ella

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He didn’t seem to have much family left except his grandmother in California and Jennifer felt as if she had been cast out of her own. They sat in the campus centre’s uncomfortable chairs, too hard for sleeping, just soft enough for flopping, smoked cigarettes—even though neither were smokers—and talked far into the night. At first she thought she wanted to sleep with him and made a few subtle overtures.
Jennifer had lost her virginity during the first year of college to a fraternity man who pressed his attentions on her in the back row of the movie theatre. From there, a succession of eager males had dated her but only a few had captured her interest. She didn’t believe in saving it for her husband, but she wanted respect from her partner. She wanted to find the right one—someone to love when lovemaking would be a passionate, full experience.
Paul was good-looking, tall, grey-eyed, with pronounced cheekbones, and as they wandered the campus together, she found herself wondering how he would look naked, whether he would be a good lover. But when she invited him back to her shared apartment for a nightcap, he told her about his girlfriend in Vancouver, a chemistry major who sounded as exciting as two planks of wood. Jennifer backed off. In his polite, contained style, he offered her nothing but a companionship that she would soon learn to treasure. At the end of the summer they kissed on the lips, promised to write to one another and he suggested that she apply for graduate work at his university where they could be colleagues. This parting tenderness made her feel warmer than the parting kiss of her many dates. Paul was special, no doubt about it. But he wasn’t the one.
The summer had scarcely faded into autumn before she met Michael. She had noticed him in the line-up at the cafeteria; he always ate at about the same time each day, moved his tray through the line efficiently, then always sat in the same spot, a table by the door. One day when the cafeteria was full, she thought what the hell and asked if the seat opposite him was taken. Politely, he gathered up his sprawling papers and books and indicated the seat. Then he returned to reading. She studied him. His most obvious feature was bushy black eyebrows. His thick full hair dropped to his shoulders in the current style. He was wearing a white cotton shirt with embroidery and she could see his well-proportioned body through the material.

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Jazz with Ella

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the civil rights movement would make headlines in the Soviet Union. It would probably be couched in the language of the state extolling how the slave masses had risen up against the capitalist oppressors or some such jargon. She realized she had not seen a single black person since her arrival in the country, although Moscow University reportedly attracted African students.
“Excuse me. I am naïve,” he went on. “I must ask a very important question. Promise me not to laugh?” She nodded. “Is it only black persons who make jazz music in Canada or America? Or can white people like me make jazz?”
She tried not to grin at his earnestness. “Why would you ask that? Lots of people of all colours play jazz! You’re safe there to play whatever music you want…” She could see his discomfort, so she continued more gently. “It’s true, jazz has its roots among black musicians, that’s for sure. Many of them grew up singing in church choirs, like Aretha Franklin, for example. She’s my favourite. Do you know her?”
“No, tell me.” They spent the next while with Jennifer dredging up anything from her memory that she had ever learned about jazz, gospel or blues in the west to share with Volodya. While they were engrossed in this, Alya tapped on the door and entered with a bottle of brandy, some cheese, bread and a cut-up cake that she served. She settled herself comfortably with an air of possession. When the three were seated, the woman’s eyes swept up and down Jennifer appraisingly. She asked the usual questions in broken English. Where did she work? Was she married?
Jennifer responded more quickly this time on the marriage question. She had decided to answer questions with the vague, “My husband and I no longer live together,” rather than a more elaborate explanation.
Volodya switched on a radio that played American swing music. “It’s time for Voice of America,” he told her. “Reception is good at this time of day.”
“They must be broadcasting from somewhere outside of the Soviet Union?”
“Military base in Germany, I think.”
“Please eat,” said Alya, who was not having any of the cake herself.
Jennifer was just getting ready to ask Alya about herself when the woman swung toward Volodya in a gesture of approval. She rose, made her apologies, and left the bedroom with a significant glance at the bed.

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Jazz with Ella

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Volodya stirred from his place on the bench, one arm over her shoulders. His face betrayed an odd mixture of pride in his home and uneasiness at the conversation. “You have no idea how much suffering,” he replied. “This very spot, these buildings around us, were built by Swedish prisoners of war during Peter’s time. This was a swamp and many of them died working in it, their bodies beneath us in this earth.” He shuddered. “Then, of course, there was bloodshed during the Revolution… That boat—you can almost see it from here, the cruiser Aurora—it fired the first shots after Our Leader, Lenin, arrived in the city to rally the workers in 1917. Those years meant war and famine. There is not much recorded because the state does not want to remember those bad times.”
“The city was under siege again in the Second World War, I know,” added Jennifer, “and many died of hunger.” She felt privileged to hear the stories of its history from a real Leningrader and not from their pedantic tour guide.
“Yes, those years are well documented. The destruction was visited upon us from the Nazis, not from the revolutionary forces.” He fell quiet for a time. “I love this city,” he went on, “but it illustrates a horrible truth. It seems that anything that rises up and is good must always be built on suffering. This city has a legacy of suffering and bloodshed but it has survived, and it’s good. What was that word you used? Joyous?”
“Yes, joyous,” and the thought of the untapped beauty still to be found in this extraordinary place made her swell with emotion. She leaned over to kiss him, not for the physical act of kissing, but because she wanted to seal that thought with something meaningful. He was surprised at her gesture but soon kissed her back. When they finally fell gently away from one another, a few faint stars had appeared in the sky.
★
On the fourth day in Leningrad she noticed that, suddenly, the stores were stocked with Israeli oranges. Everywhere women shopped in pairs, each carrying one handle of a shopping bag overflowing with the fruit. At the end of a long afternoon together, Jennifer and Volodya stood

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Jazz with Ella

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“Wow!” She applauded wildly when he finished. But he didn’t stop. Ernesto left for a few moments then reappeared quietly with an enormous, half-empty box of chocolates wrapped in brown paper which he offered to her. They were old, mottled with discolouration, probably kept for his infrequent visitors, but she took one and thanked him. He left again hurriedly and this time returned with a saxophone. She settled back to listen again, a Duke Ellington number that she recognized as “C Jam Blues.” Ernesto stepped in for a few riffs on the sax then put the instrument down to take up a chair beside Jennifer and listen to Volodya play. Although he appeared to be studying the keys as he played, she felt him look up every so often, gauging her reaction. Was that simply a performer who loved an audience? Or something deeper, more demanding? She wasn’t sure and felt a slight shiver.
“Are you cold?” Ernesto leaned over to her and offered another chocolate. “Even in summer this room is cool.” Volodya ignored them and continued to play.
“No, thank you. It’s a wonderful room. It was once so elegant, I think.”
“It was the formal dining room for the house when the bourgeoisie lived here. You see how this wall cuts off the rest of the room? When it was whole, the dining room took up 30 square meters of floor space—all for one wealthy family.”
“And was the piano here then, too?” she asked. “It looks old.” Now, she noticed how the black lustre had worn down to a scuff in many places, how the legs were chipped. “You must be the one who keeps it in tune?”
“Yes, I take care of it. It’s also pre-revolutionary.” Here, Ernesto smiled with pride. He might dismiss the ostentatious living quarters of the wealthy, but he obviously cherished their toys. “It’s why I can’t leave the apartment. I won’t leave without it and we can’t fit it through this door.” He laughed out loud and Volodya glanced up and smiled.
“So it sat here all during the revolution and the siege of Leningrad and everything?” she asked. “I’m surprised someone didn’t burn it for firewood during those terrible winters.”
“Someone loved this piano—dearly,” Ernesto replied, then he added sheepishly, “and you know I only let those play who also love the piano. Vlad is a flashy scoundrel, but he loves to play.”

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Jazz with Ella

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At first when she heard someone calling out her name, she thought it was the kid next door who had first shown her the chipmunk. Crouched in the trees, she suddenly realized that it was Doug who was calling. Let him call, she thought. I’m having fun here. Even when she caught the panic in his childish voice, she had stayed, resentful. Finally she emerged from the grove to see the neighbour’s son flying down the slope and into the water and to see her mother racing out of the outhouse with a look of unveiled horror on her face. All of them running, running past her, ignoring her.
★
Douglas was buried in Toronto, in the small graveyard near their home. Jennifer’s father became even more distant with her, and the very life went right out of Jennifer’s mother. She blamed herself for not keeping watch, and oddly enough, she also blamed the lake, but not Jennifer. It was too deep, too wild. Yes, she should have been more vigilant, but they should never have gone to such a dangerous place, she told the family.
Jennifer knew the lake was not the problem. She had been the problem. She had let her brother drown. Though her father had said nothing to her, she knew that he would add another black mark to her name in that mysterious record book that parents keep.
Later that same year Lila got word that her sister Eva had been killed in a car accident. She could scarcely mourn—she was already in such a depression over Douglas. Bad things come in threes, Lila told Jennifer. Sure enough, her friend Svetlana’s daughter contracted polio and died. Now Lila wanted to keep Jennifer home from school where she would be safe from the disease that was crippling so many children. But Jennifer and Jacob insisted that she attend school, and Jennifer stayed healthy. She loved school and earned mostly As. From her school life she drew much of the attention and encouragement she was not getting at home. Her teachers thought her a model pupil.
At home, her mother had retreated into silence and servility. Her father rarely spoke to Jennifer, directing his commands through her mother: “Have the child clean up the kitchen. Make sure she’s dressed for Sunday school.”

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Jazz with Ella

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Jennifer had the feeling she’d been checkmated. He had not been concerned at all about her disappearance—he only wanted to ensure she did more than her part.
“Which students?”
“David needs to develop better written skills. This is a credit course for him, and right now I can’t give him a passing grade. And then there’s Lona. Don’t know what to make of her. She wants a grade for the course, too.” His voice descended to a hush. “I really don’t consider her a serious student.” He hesitated and Jennifer remembered that she was supposed to be finding out Lona’s agenda and reporting back to Chopyk. It didn’t seem very important to her.
They had reached her room, but under no circumstances was Jennifer inviting Chopyk in. “I’ll deal with the students, Professor,” she said abruptly. “Goodnight now.”
He harrumphed by way of comment, bowed, and left her. By the time her head hit the pillow she had already forgotten how irritating he was.
She dreamed a familiar dream. She was hovering over a lake or a pond—sometimes she was in the lake—but this time she floated above it. Her fingernails had unaccountably grown extra long like those of a Chinese mandarin, and she clawed the water searching for the face that she knew would be there. The eyes that stared up at her from among the water weeds were usually familiar eyes—her little brother—and she must save him. She alone could save him. But her outsize talons snarled in the weeds and she could not scoop up the boy. Water trickled through her fingers. And when she gazed into his eyes—now she was closer, inches above the water—she saw not her brother at all, only the blue grey eyes of the attractive stranger, sinking fast.

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Jazz with Ella

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She stopped at the Blue Bridge, paced on past the Marinsky Palace built for the Grand Duchess Marie, and caught a glimpse of what must surely be ballerinas arriving in a chauffeur- driven car at the Kirov Theatre, their graceful arms laden with costumes and carryall bags. She would attend the ballet. It would be glorious—probably Swan Lake or Giselle.
Suddenly she felt a jolt of pain, a sensation that she recognized as missing Michael. Missing him lots. Was it just missing someone to share the experience with her? Well, she would have that experience with David or Paul. That was okay. Heck, Michael didn’t even like the ballet. Yet she couldn’t help but remember one of the last times they had enjoyed each other’s company. Was it last February, March? It seemed like a million years ago. They had walked to a movie together, through an uncharacteristic sprinkle of snow over Vancouver’s Point Grey, each of them preoccupied. The sadness and distance that enveloped them had lasted all the way to the show, but once they entered, bought popcorn and seated themselves in the sticky seats, they both relaxed. It was a funny film, and he held her hand in the dark. Later, they returned to their married students’ apartment talking together with more animation about the movie, about her essay, about his thesis supervisor.
“What went wrong?” she finally asked him, knowing he would understand that she wasn’t talking about his recent lab experiment. Also knowing that he wouldn’t be able to answer. He would only shrug. In fact, it seemed that her life was very full of loved ones who wouldn’t talk to her. Still, those moments of communication: the laughter in the cinema, the caress on her hand, the discussion about her essay—they were all good. They were shared.
Jennifer continued to stride briskly, restlessly, until she had executed a broad loop which eventually brought her back to the River Moika, one of the many canals that fragmented the city into an island network.
Here, the houses hung over the water, their upper windows nearly touching the shade trees. A graceful wrought-iron bridge, the width of a footpath, led across the Moika into a neighbourhood of worn tenements. She approached it confidently.

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