Barry of irrational kindness, which was all important to their survival. Without Pushkin’s celebration of the city, they would have nothing to fight for. And Simonov’s words kept the front alive and inspired.” The poet said all this freely, unreservedly, as she knew it in her heart to be true. The majority, however, was not convinced, and her articulation fell deaf on their ears and evoked fierce retort. “On the contrary,” chimed in the biologist, the youngest man at the table, who had a perfect figure, chiseled cheek bones, but sad, brownish eyes, and who was no longer afraid to speak his mind, “it was precisely these words you mention that distracted Leningraders from focusing their fleeting energies on finding bread and water, which is clearly what saved the city. If they had decided to put down War and Peace, and think up new recipes for bread, save meat for when it was necessary, and ration butter effectively to store fat for that infamous winter of ‘41 and ‘42, losses would have been minimal. During times of great hardship, pleasure is not paramount; it takes a back seat to utility.” Feeling completely self-satisfied, he sat back in his chair with an air of superiority, licking his lips and waiting for someone with the gall to disagree. After a moment of pondering, the musician, from the seventh seat, with neatly combed hair and perfectly circular frames, asserted himself. “The soul needs sustenance as much as the body does. Only music can inspire, emotionally and physically, enough to overcome against great odds. Were it not for ‘The Blue Kerchief ’ to keep the soldiers at the front inflamed in passion, and the Symphony to pierce the hearts of not only our Leningraders, but even the Germans as well, all would have been lost,” the musician uttered so beautifully that half the room was on the verge of tears, while the others hardly listened to this touching garbage. Not bothering to address the musician’s points, the historian, a robust, yet cultivated man with a thick white beard, a pince-nez barely hanging on to his nose, and a bellowing, intelligent voice, silently placed his hands on the table and spoke up. “It is a simple historical fact that the Road of Life saved the city. Hundreds of thousands of tons of supplies were brought into the city through this sole gateway to Leningrad. Naturally, bread and water were vital, but fuel, ammunition, and an escape route were just as necessary.” Each sentence uttered ignited more and more excitement. As the members became more comfortable, they spoke up more frequently and had to force out their ideas in quicker, less thoughtful words. “And I suppose the radio played no part, or the newspapers?” the journalist managed to spit out in annoyance. Side conversations emerged from debate. The painter turned deliberately to his neighbor, the musician, and questioned him about his remarks. “How can you say with such absoluteness that music is the only thing capable of such inspiration? Music is lim-
ited; it requires notes and rhythm and melody, while paint can be anything and everything. Did Shostakovich truly do more than Serov, for instance?” The historian challenged the journalist about the significance of the destruction of the Badaevsky warehouses. One of the engineers interrupted him, explaining the idiosyncrasies of the railway built out of Leningrad, completely irrelevant to the discussion at hand. Their aggressive tones added fuel to the fire and eventually insults and ad hominem attacks led to threats. “You’re incorrigible.” “Your crooked nose fits perfectly with your twisted mind.” “I know your supervisor well. We shall see if you have a job tomorrow.” Throughout the entire discussion, Number One sat quietly, only noticed by his deep, nasal breathing, as though sucking the erudition out of the room, exaggerating his smile while things escalated. Not knowing what to do, the director opened his mouth to calm the room, but Number One gave him a reassuring hand gesture, and just before punches were thrown, stood up, scanned the board intently, and addressed the members. “Comrades, I appreciate all of your remarks, and I find them helpful. However, I think I can clear up the dispute with an answer that will satisfy all of your requirements for what was necessary for survival in Leningrad,” he began, speaking calmly, but inciting fear at the same time. “If we can conclude that each of you has made a valid point, there can only be one thing, or rather, one entity, capable of bringing every one of these notions into existence, and that is the government. Take words, for instance, which our esteemed poet offered up as a solvent to the problems that plagued Leningrad during the Great Patriotic War. It is too simple to say that Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and others saved the city through their works, as it is the government that allows these books to exist. That holds true for music, art, and the like. Only through the tolerance and wisdom of the government could these things exist and be used in a utilitarian manner. And to our colleagues, the historian and biologist, what kept the fascists at bay enough to open the Road of Life, and bring in bread and supplies, if not the Red Army, a branch of our Soviet Government? And again, it was our government-run military, instilled with greatness by leadership from Stalin himself, that finally defeated the Nazis, pushed them away from the city, and set our people free from repression. Stalin’s achievement as a father to a nation in danger solidified every citizen’s Soviet characters, which allowed the arts and sciences to facilitate the saving of the city. Where would we be without him, nurturing us, making us who we are, giving us the strength to accomplish what we have accomplished? No, comrades, books and food are only meaningful when tied to something greater. In fact, if the city managed to ward off the fascists in just the same way, but not in order to fight for
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