Sounds of War

An exclusive look at the

makings of the book.

Cindy Chen

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Table of Contents

Introduction …………………………… p2 Outlines ………………………………... p5 Research ……………………………….. p12 Drafts & Edits …………...…………….. p15 Deleted Scenes ………………………..... p22 Cover Art ……………………………… p35 Closing Notes ………………………….. p39

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Introduction

I started writing Sounds of War the summer before my

senior year for a school project. The project is mandatory for

all the seniors in my high school, and I had only two months

to complete it. For this project, students may choose to do

anything they would like as long as it challenges them and

contributes some way to the community.

I chose to write a novel and combine my love for

writing and music. The pieces I chose to mention in the story

and the interpretations for them were my own, and Anna’s

love for music and the piano was very much inspired by my

own.

When I finished the project on August 4th, I put up a

campaign to sell my book—as well as raise money for a

literacy charity (which is how I incorporated the requirement

that it had to give back to the community). My love of books

had gotten me so far in life, and I wanted to help those who

didn’t have the resources that I had while growing up.

Writing Process

I started planning the book on the 16th of June (I

could’ve started on the first, but I was a bit of a slacker at the

beginning of my summer—which actually made wrapping up

the book really rushed).

Originally, I wanted to write a historical fiction on the

composer Dmitri Shostakovich from the perspective of his

daughter. After learning that I could run into legal issues

because his daughter is still alive, I decided to go in another

direction: writing about somebody that was one of his

students, or just influenced by his music. The end result was

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very different from my original idea, but Shostakovich still

played a major part in the plot and Anna’s development.

The research was daunting, as I wanted an accurate

portrayal of life in 1941 Leningrad, but I also wanted to make

the story my own. During the first week of writing/research

(I did both together since I didn’t have much time to waste), I

was so caught up in the research that it was almost impossible

for me to write anything. Eventually, I let go, though, and the

story started to take a life of its own.

When writing the first draft, I felt like I had to meet a

daily word count goal: 2000 words. Not too bad, but I tried

to get that done as fast as possible every day. Word of advice:

don’t do that. The writing will suffer. I completed the first

draft on July 6th—but it was nowhere near how I wanted the

story to be. I had in my hands a novella of 28k words. I

wasn’t happy with it, and I didn’t want to show it to anyone,

and at that point, I was halfway through with my summer, so

I wasn’t sure what to do.

… Except restart. I found out that I didn’t do enough

planning for Sounds of War. I had maybe twenty events that I

outlined, nothing more. Mostly, I winged the book. In the

next thirty days, I rewrote the entire draft (almost entirely—I

kept a lot of Part I), and came up with a more extensive

outline. It was about fifty lines long on excel, five times more

detailed than my original. At that time, I also knew my

characters better, and after a little soul searching, I knew the

direction the book was supposed to go.

I finished at 4:30 am on the 30th of July, 2014 (most

of my writing did take place past midnight because my house

was the quietest then! Plus, I knew I wouldn’t be disturbed by

my sisters). Once I restarted the book, I was terrified that I

wouldn’t finish… but I did! This draft was 48,000 words

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long, which was a pretty decent length for the story I wanted

to tell. The story didn’t seem so fragmented, and the plot and

characters were far more developed than the original.

I passed it off to my betas and the rest was history.

“The Cabin of Awesome”

This was, by far, one of my best memories of

summer. Through the Camp NaNoWriMo program (which I

participated in conjunction to writing the book so I could

keep track of my word count!), I had the chance to meet five

very lovely teenage writers, all trying to finish/revise their

books the same time as I did. (We were assigned in “cabins”

in the program, hence the name.) We shared our writing with

each other, and I got the chance to read their awesome books

as well.

These girls, Tori, Danielle, Laura, Naomi, and

Tiffany, helped me tremendously with the project, and gave

me the encouragement and support I needed to continue,

especially since they were all working on projects of their own

while I was writing Sounds of War. Danielle helped me edit the

entire novel, and Tori also gave me extremely helpful

feedback throughout the project. I’m extremely grateful for

the friendship and support of these girls (even though I spoke

to them for the first time two months ago!).

Now, onto the story behind the story!

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Outlines

As I mentioned, I wrote two outlines by the time I

finished the novel. The first was lacking (I was pretty new to

this, I didn’t really know what needed to be done in an

outline!), and the second was an improved version.

For purposes of my commentary, I will introduce my

final outline first, followed by the original, and then the

differences between them. (Also, I didn’t follow either

outlines exactly; there are certain parts of the outline that

never made it into the book.)

Sounds of War Final Outline

PART I

Anna says hello to Isaak as they walk to the Conservatory; tells him that she found her father's compositions

Anna and Isaak plays a duet together while waiting for piano professor

Quiet dinner time with her mother; they throw a mini concert in the living room afterwards

Anna begins composing that night

The next day, Isaak helps Anna with composing while waiting for the professor to show.

Isaak helps Anna finish her first composition

Anna enters a composition class, officially, becoming one of Shostakovich's students

Germany Declares war on USSR

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For the next few days, they dug trenches. Isaak and Anna's parents secretly made plans to evacuate.

Anna explains to her brother why the works of art was taken away; Pyotr doesn't want to leave Leningrad

People started to evacuate. Isaak's father drafted into the People's Volunteers Militia, Ivan (Isaak's brother) evacuates

Isaak's mother lost word of Ivan, and the Lenevskis decide against evacuation. Gossip was that a few families were arrested for having planned an evacuation.

Isaak's birthday, she gives him a piece PART II

First time sirens go off. Anna gets separated from the group, meets Tanya, a six year old girl who also got separated from her mother.

Anna locates her mother and Isaak. They go see if the Conservatoire is still okay.

Anna and Isaak listens to 1st movement of symphony

The "dream"; Anna remembers her father's lullaby to calm herself down.

Isaak and Anna says goodbye to Shostakovich, he gives them both some advice on composition and wishes them luck.

Hunger starts to set in. Anna sees Tanya by the river

Air raid -- there were less people now, in the shelter, and Isaak and Anna discussed music.

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Anna's mother's factory closes down. She took down wall paper, boiled glue, and cooked leather for the children to eat. Anna was just glad she has something to chew on.

Isaak's mother didn't return from work one day; bodies start to appear on the side of roads

Zoya dies from starvation; they bury her in one of the mass graves. They get her ration card, though.

PART III

Anna's mother urges her to take Pyotr and evacuate; Sofia ends up giving all her rations to her daughter and son. She wanted them to live, and she didn't want to see them die. Anna remembers her father's words, to take care of the family.

Anna decides to bring all of them to evacuate anyways. They were caught in an air raid on the way; her mother and Pyotr die.

(Hospital scene, maybe?) Anna decides not to leave Leningrad; it was supposed to be for her mother, anyways.

Instead of going to bomb shelters, Isaak and Anna stayed and played music.

Anna trades her mother's last jewelry to trade for some canned meat for Pyotr, but he was moved out of the hospital.

PART IV

A report came, asking for musicians to perform in the radio orchestra. Isaak wanted the two of them to try to evacuate, while there is still time. Anna refuses. Isaak goes off and tries his best to leave.

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She meets her stand partner; the first rehearsal was rough.

Anna, alone now, plays for the first time her father's Sonata. She tries to find solace in it, but there was none. She signs up for the radio orchestra.

Anna rehearses by day, composes by night. She finally receives year-old letters. (Receives news from Pyotr) Isaak shows up at her door for his birthday, two weeks after he tried to leave. He apologizes.

Rehearsals go on; the orchestra starts to fill up with people, and becomes stronger. However, there were dissidents. People who didn't think it was worth the effort. Isaak speaks up to convince them that it was worth it.

Isaak turns 18 the day before the dress rehearsal. A little party by inviting some orchestra members over and sprinkling some sugar on bread -- which she traded with one of her mother's favorite china set.

Day of the concert: thunderous applause, banquet at the end, a telegram from Shostakovich. Anna shows Isaak the finished sonata.

The Original Outline

PROLOGUE. 1938: Anna’s father arrested by NKVD 1941: WINTER

Anna finds her father’s manuscript and shows it to Isaak

Anna describes home life

Anna attempts to compose, Isaak helps

Isaak invites Anna to go watch the premiere of a Piano Quintet

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Invited to spend evening with Shostakoviches

The two finish the piece together

Anna is accepted into a composition class 1941: SPRING/SUMMER

First “real” conversation with Isaak

Radio broadcast, talks of evacuation, Germany attacks USSR

Isaak’s outburst

Artwork taken away from the Hermitage 1941: AUTUMN

1st Bombing - Anna meets Tanya

Farewell to the Shostakoviches 1941/1942: WINTER

The city supply routes and rails are cut off, first reports of starvation

Mother starts to plan evacuation

On the way there, Anna sees Tanya, frozen to the ground, dead. On her way back home, she found that Tanya’s leg was missing.

Zoya dies

Mother loses hope, and Anna tries to get them all to evacuate through the Road of Life

Her mother and Pyotr falls into the eyes in the lorries (trucks to carry passengers across the lake)… she was left behind

Instead, she starts to go back to Leningrad, to find Isaak

1942: SPRING/SUMMER

Anna meets Karl Eliasburg

Rehearsal on Symphony 7 starts - Isaak and Anna both attend

Leningrad Premiere 1942/1943: WINTER

Blockade is broken

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JANUARY: Anna is evacuated EPILOGUE. 1956: Anna is 32. She finished her father’s

fourth symphony, and premieres it in Moscow. Her father was there in the audience, to congratulate her, when it was

finished.

Everyone Dies…?

One of the main differences between the final outline

and the original outline is that everyone dies. (Well, not

really…) Tanya and Pyotr both die in the original outline.

In fact, Isaak was supposed to die as well.

(Interestingly, when I passed Sounds of War off to a few of my

friends, they all told me that they’d kill me if anything

happened to him. Turns out, he was kind of a favorite.) He

was supposed to die in an air raid before he could evacuate

with Anna. It was a decision that I thought about for a long

time because I really liked Isaak as well.

I asked my friends if I should kill off one of the main

characters of the story (at that time, I hadn’t let anyone read

the novel yet, so Isaak was simply ‘one of the main

characters’). Danielle (one of my writer friends from the

Cabin of Awesome) offered me a very helpful piece of advice.

She asked “does it benefit the story in any way?”

That was, I guess, when I decided that Isaak lives, and

that Tanya and Pyotr both live as well. Danielle, without

realizing it at the time, saved all three characters.

Differences between the Outlines

There are several major differences between the two

outlines. Shostakovich played less of a role in the second

version, I think. Tanya and Pyotr live (as I had mentioned). In

the first outline, Isaak and Anna weren’t best friends in the

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beginning of the story—the first part of the first outline was

centered around the development of their friendship.

In an even earlier version of the outline (Even before

the first version was typed up, I jotted down several

possibilities on paper), there was supposed to be five

composition students. In the end, I decided that I wanted to

focus on just Isaak and Anna’s friendship alone.

Finally, the first outline includes an epilogue

describing her father’s return. It didn’t happen in the book;

after I wrote the original epilogue, I realized that it was cliché

to have her father return—not to mention incredibly unlikely.

While it was true that there were citizens who were

rehabilitated from the Great Purge (which was the time

period when Anna’s father was taken away), there weren’t

many cases where people returned from the labor camps that

they were sent to.

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Research

School research papers never prepared me for this. I

did my research before writing the outline, while I was writing

the outline, during the first draft, and I continued to fact

check no matter what part of the process I was in. I looked

up anything from how seven year olds act, to the conditions

in Leningrad in 1941, to Russian culture, to what Vodka

tastes like.

There is nothing more annoying than a poorly

researched story, and I didn’t want Sounds of War to turn out

like that. Although the story is fictional, I wanted the

historical background to be solid.

Resources

The following resources contributed significantly to

my research. There were more websites, of course (more

often than not, I had about 20 tabs open in my browser), but

research would’ve been impossible without these resources:

Women Under Siege:

http://darragoldstein.com/files/2012/12/Darra_Gol

dstein_Women.pdf

Orchestral Maneuvers:

http://www.theguardian.com/theobserver/2001/nov

/25/features.magazine27

Stalin’s Purges:

http://www.gendercide.org/case_stalin.html

Rules on Russian Address:

http://kimmel.tripod.com/writing/russiannames.htm

l

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Dmitri Shostakovich: A Life

http://www.classicfm.com/composers/shostakovich

/guides/dmitri-shostakovich-life/

The Siege of Leningrad: History in an Hour by

Rupert Colley

Shostakovich: A Life Remembered by Elizabeth

Wilson

Interesting Tidbits

While there were many serious things I researched on,

I would love to share a few of the more interesting tidbits

that I came across during research. These facts were either

never really explained in the book, or were irrelevant. I’ve

kept them in the back of my head, however!

Tanya’s story (though she didn’t play a major part in

the novel) is loosely based on Tanya Savicheva’s.

Savicheva lost all of her family during the Siege (and

documented it in her diary), and was evacuated to an

orphanage, where she died of tuberculosis.

After the siege, Karl Eliasberg married Nina

Bronnikova, the pianist of the Leningrad Radio

Orchestra. (This is also the reason why I had Anna

play violin instead of piano in the orchestra… the

pianist was already documented!)

In 1964 and 1992, the Radio Orchestra got together

for a reunion performance of the 7th Symphony.

Russian names usually consisted of three parts: a first

name, a patronymic (son of/daughter of ___), and a

surname. Surnames have different endings for males

and females (For example, the last name Petrov

would be for a boy, and Petrova for a girl). Even first

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names can have many variations (diminutives—for

family and friends). For example, Vladimir becomes

Volodya, and Ekatarina becomes Katya. For the

purposes of writing the book, I’ve simplified the

naming, and most characters were only referred to by

one name.

There is debate on whether or not Shostakovich’s 7th

Symphony is actually a direct response to the war.

Apparently the work on the 7th symphony started

before the German invasion and Shostakovich had

"other enemies of humanity" in mind when he wrote

it. The Leningrad Shostakovich dedicated the

symphony to was not the Leningrad under siege, but

the Leningrad that “that Stalin destroyed and Hitler

merely finished off,” according to his memoir,

Testimony.

However, there’s also debate on the authenticity of

Testimony.

I learned while writing Sounds of War that vodka tastes

like rubbing alcohol. Also, apparently, Russians use it

to treat minor colds and almost never drink without

saying a toast. (Source:

http://www.russianlife.com/books/nonfiction/davai

-the-russians-and-their-vodka/12-myths-about-

vodka/)

During the Leningrad premiere of the 7th Symphony,

the Red Army did their best to stop the city bombing

(80 minutes of silence) so that the performance was

not disrupted.

The number of civilian deaths during the Siege was

estimated to be from 670,000 to 1.5 million.

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Drafts and Edits

Here are just some of the samples of the drafts and

edits that took place before the final version of the book. I

couldn’t include the entire book, of course, but this is a

glimpse of the entire process!

First Draft of a passage in Chapter 1: After taking a few moments to look over the piece in

front of him, he placed his fingers on the keys and began to play. He played flawlessly; he might've missed a note or two, but that was all. He knew the piece as well as I did, perhaps even better. When he got to the end of the music, he didn't stop - he continued. A new variation, a new development. I watched, wide-eyed. It was exactly what the piece needed, exactly what I was looking for. The modulation, the slightly softer section following the playful theme…

He also managed to bring back my original themes, and drew the piece to a close with descending octave scales - his favorites. It was close to perfection - and it was like he had the music all in his head, continuing from where I stopped. When he hit the last keys, he looked to me for approval, a slight smirk on his face. I was speechless, but I smiled at him. "That was great," I choked out. It was more than great, actually. Almost perfect. It was hard to believe he’d simply be improvising.

A few other students started coming in the classroom then, and with them brought several more, until the professor herself entered, uncharacteristically on time. I spent most of the lesson focused on writing down and improving upon what Isaak played instead of paying attention to the lecture. That was, perhaps, a bad decision, but not one that I regretted. I wanted to have the music stay in my head, which wasn’t a hard thing to do, but I wanted to be sure I captured everything. Every note, every little detail.

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The Rewrite After taking a few moments to look over the piece in

front of him, he placed his fingers on the keys and began. He played flawlessly; he might've missed a note here and there, or stumbled upon a passage or two, but that was all. He knew the piece as well as I did, perhaps even better, in the one time that he’s heard it. When he got to the end of the music, he didn't stop—he continued. A new variation, a new development. I watched, wide-eyed. It was exactly what the piece needed, exactly what I was looking for. The modulation, the slightly softer section following the playful theme…

He also managed to bring back my original themes, and drew the piece to a close with descending octave scales—his favorite thing to play because he could do it so well. It was close to perfection—and it was like he had the music all in his head, continuing from where I stopped. When he hit the last keys, he looked to me for approval, a slightly cocky smirk on his face. I was speechless, but I smiled at him. "That was great," I choked out, but I figured he didn’t need me to say that, based on his expressions. It was more than great, actually. Almost perfect. It was hard to believe he was simply improvising. “How did you—”

“A lot of practice, and figuring things out of my own,” he explained. “But, it’d be impossible to do if it didn’t have a good start,” he said, his eyes glistening. He liked the piece, he liked making up the missing parts, I could tell. I thought that it would be the same way when I fill in my father’s missing blanks. I only hoped that I could execute it as well as he did.

Before I could reply, the professor entered. She was late, but still uncharacteristically early. Isaak and I went back to our seats. I spent most of the lesson focused on writing down and improving upon what Isaak played instead of paying attention to the lecture. Now that he played his version of it, I was overflowing with ideas. Not focusing on the lecture was, perhaps, a bad decision, but not one that I regretted. It was certainly more productive than falling asleep again, I’m sure, and I was planning on asking Isaak to simply catch things up for me again. I wanted to let the music stay

17

in my head, which wasn’t a hard thing to do, but I wanted to be sure I captured everything. Every note, every little detail.

The rewrite was slightly longer than the original draft, and I reworded and rearranged a few sentences. Here are the edits from two of my beta readers (from the Cabin of Awesome, of course!)

Danielle’s Notes

1

2

3

4

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Annotations:

1- “gaped at him” would work better for imagery,

imprecise words, and general neatness.

2- “It”? What is “it”?

3- Paragraph Break

4- You’ve already mentioned that it was “close to

perfection”.

5

6

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5- This is like, a double negative? A blank, by definition,

is missing, which would mean that there are no

blanks… ;P

6- Perhaps, “entered in her disheveled way”? “Tripped

into the classroom”?

Tori’s Notes

Annotations:

1- “from”

2- “he had”

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13 14

15

16

17

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3- Repetition. Sometimes it’s okay, but here it wants a

different way to describe it. Maybe “the more upbeat

one” or something.

4- “to”

5- “had stopped”

6- Cut.

7- Cut. You said the same thing earlier, albeit phrased

slightly differently.

8- Cut this tag. I think I explained earlier about why you

don’t have two dialogue tags for one interrupted piece

of speech?

9- Unnecessary comma.

10- Cut. I dunno, this just doesn’t feel right. He says he’s

practiced a lot, so surely he wouldn’t tear up just after

playing a piece of music.

11- Cut.

12- Period.

13- “had played”

14- “had played”

15- Cut. Not the tone of the novel.

16- Cut.

17- Replace with “and”

Final Version After taking a few moments to look over the piece, he

placed his fingers on the keys and began. He played

smoothly; he might have missed a note here and there or

stumbled upon a passage or two, but the mistakes were

hardly noticeable. He knew the piece as well as I did,

perhaps even better, after the single time he had heard it.

When the written bars ended, he didn't stop. Instead, he

continued with a new variation and development. I gaped

at him. His additions were exactly the piece needed. The

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slightly softer section following the playful theme and the

modulations were exactly what I was looking for.

He also managed to bring back my original themes and to

draw the piece to a close with descending octave scales—

his favorite thing to play because he could do it so well. It

was close to perfection, like the music had already existed

in his head. When he hit the last keys, he turned to me, a

cocky smirk upon his face.

I was speechless for a moment. “That was great,” I finally

choked out, not that he needed my approval. It was hard

to believe he was improvising. “How did you—”

“A lot of practice, and figuring things out of my own,” he

explained. “But it’d be impossible if it didn’t have a good

start,” he said, his eyes glistening. I hoped that I could fill

in the blanks in my father’s music it as well as he filled in

the blanks in mine.

Before I could reply, Malyeshev strode in. She was late, of

course, but that didn’t bother her or urge her to move

faster. Setting down her things calmly, she sighed at the

sight of Isaak and me, as if disappointed that she would

actually have to teach.

We hurried back to our seats as she started the lecture. For

most of the lesson, I focused on transcribing and

improving upon what Isaak had played. Now that I had

heard his version, I was overflowing with ideas. Perhaps

not paying attention to the lecture was a bad decision, but

I wanted to keep the music in my head. It was certainly

more productive than falling asleep again. Besides, I had to

be sure that I had captured everything. Every note, every

little detail.

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Deleted Scenes

I wrote about 80,000 words during the summer, and

only a little more than half of that made it into the final

version. They were cut out mainly due to plot changes in the

novel between the first and second draft. Please note that

these are incredibly rough; they were unedited because they

never made it into the final novel.

Friendship (Alternate Scene)

This is an alternate scene, from the first outline. Anna

and Isaak were new friends once she signed up for the

composition class.

I know spring is coming because the ice is no longer thick

enough for Pyotr and I to ice skate on. A child fell in the

other day, and was saved because there happened to be

somebody nearby. Mother told me to keep a closer eye on

my siblings, because she was at work often, and was not

around to take care of them. I told her that I would, just so

she wouldn't worry, though I spend most of my time at work

in the little shop, or at the Conservatoire. Thankfully, Pyotr

and Zoya are at school most of the day. Pyotr had taken up

an interest in science, to my mother's surprise - she'd always

thought he'd end up being a composer like Papa - though,

I'd assume, because he's gone, his music upbringing is just a

little harder.

I went to discuss music with Isaak's group of

composition students after watching the performance with

him. They were just as motivated, involved, and

knowledgeable as Isaak was. At first, I had no idea how to

contribute to the conversation, but I soon found a way to

contribute my own thoughts and ideas after listening a while.

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We were even sent some scores from more prominent

composers to look at and listen to. To others, this might be

considered studying, which is a tedious task. But to us, it's all

fun and games. There were six of us; Isaak, of course; Elena,

a cellist, and also the only other girl; Aleksander, the oldest

of the group, at nineteen, aspired to be a conductor; Sergei,

an aspiring musicologist; Ivan, a young boy of fourteen who

recently started at the Conservatoire; and finally, myself.

Despite the differences in our personalities, lives, and goals,

we got along swimmingly because of our connection in

music. Our conversations were intense, but never unfriendly.

Oftentimes, hours would pass by before we realize what the

time was, and I was almost late to work several times before

I learned that it was important that I kept track of time by

occasionally looking up at the clock on the wall. For those of

us that composed, we showed one another our

compositions. The first one I presented was, of course, the

Scherzo that Isaak and I worked on together, and then

eventually, I worked up the courage to play a Sonatina. The

others, if they composed, shared as well, and I found each to

be more impressive than the last. They all offered me

feedback and criticisms, of course, which I took with grace

and a grain of salt.

Shostakovich ended up accepting me into his class. It

wasn't a surprise, but I hadn't expected my acceptance to be

as simple as performing a few of my pieces for him. He

knew my father, of course, and me as well, from the visits

that my family paid to his. However, to say that he knew me

more than 'the daughter of a close friend' would be a lie.

And, while I have taken some introductory courses in

composition, his classes was well, compared to those,

infinitely harder. Participating in the chats with Isaak and the

rest of the group helped me, no doubt, and although I felt

that my composition was not quite up to par with the rest of

the class, I was getting there. I no longer feel "stuck" when

24

I'm halfway through the piece, and I almost always knew

how to experiment and modify the problem areas. Isaak still

helped me with a few of my works, though sometimes, it's

the other way around, and I'm helping him instead.

One afternoon, Isaak and I were, once again, waiting for

the piano professor to show up to class. We had already

waited for two hours, and we were the last two students to

remain in the class. Naturally, the two of us were seated at

the piano, either taking turns playing various pieces and

critiquing each other, or coming up with a duet, something

simple, with four hands. We improvised a while on a few

melodies from Prokofiev and Rimsky-Korsakov, and then he

played a Chopin ballade. When it was my turn, I decided to

play for him the Appassionata. It was one of my favorites,

the last piece I’d worked on when my father was still with us,

the last piece I played for him before he left. The piece gave

me a bittersweet feeling, really. As I finished the second

movement, and was playing the chords to the attaca of the

third, Isaak spoke up, interrupting me in my thoughts and

music. It was uncharacteristic; he’d never interrupted me

before, nor I him, because it was considered, among the two

of us at least, to be quite rude. I wasn’t angry at the

interruption, but taken aback.

“What is it like, being a composer’s daughter?” he asked,

curiosity lighting up his dark blue eyes. My hands fell from

the keyboard to my lap, abandoning the chord I was just

playing, a (insert chord here). My foot let go of the pedal,

thereby cutting off the sound entirely. I shrugged at his

question, unsure of how exactly to answer. There were

different kinds of composers, certainly, and my father,

although he was a good friend of Mr. Shostakovich’s, was

very different from him. I thought about my response for a

few moments, and took my time forming the words that I’d

like to say.

25

“My father was very supportive,” I told him, “but stuck in

his own thoughts often. Between teaching and composing,

he’s pretty busy,” I chuckled at the memory of him, hurrying

from place to place, giving my mother a hurried kiss on the

cheek before he left for work each day, and sometimes

composing until late at night, or skipping meals in order to

grade students’ music. “Still, he was always there to take care

of the family,” I concluded. “Why?” I asked. It was my turn

to be curious; we’d always been perfectly content with just

playing the piano before, why talk, now? Asides from the

music discussions that we had with the rest of the group,

Isaak never struck me as the type to inquire about personal

information, or the type to go out of the way to make

friends. He’d always been friendly, of course - but never one

to pry, and never one to start conversations. I was perfectly

fine with that, for I wasn’t took keen on conversation myself,

on most days.

“I could tell you were thinking about him,” he said, as his

eyes averted to the keyboard in front of us, his fingers

pressing lightly on a few of the keys soundlessly. “Especially

in the second movement.”

I had been, indeed. He was truly listening to my playing.

The edge of my mouth curved up in a small smile as I asked

him my next question. “And you? What was it like, in your

childhood?” Until this point, I hadn’t really considered the

fact that I had no idea who his parents were, or what they

did for a living. My father was well-known, and the way that

his music simply disappeared from the libraries wasn’t

exactly discreet as to cover his arrest years ago. It was taboo

to speak of the occurrence, but bits and parts of my history

were still known to Isaak, because of my father.

“They were skeptical of music, at first,” he replied,

returning my smile. “My father’s an engineer, and my mother

works in the factories. She played a little bit of piano, but,

nothing serious,” he said, “They never thought I’d become a

26

musician. But here I am,” he declared with a smile. It was

surprising to me that he had so little influence on his musical

career from his parents, but yet, was still able to compose

and perform as well as he did. I grew up listening to my

father play the piano. I’d sit at the foot of the bench, or on

his lap, and I’d listen. I watch as he scribbles down and cross

out notes on his scores, and I watch when his masterpieces

were performed. Eventually, I became old enough to sit at

the bench myself and create music. That was my childhood. I

learned that Isaak was simply fortunate enough to own a

piano and learned the only very basics from his mother. His

parents had thought it’d simply be a hobby - but as days and

months and years passed, they realized that, for him, it was

much, much more than that. He was sent to a music

academy, and then managed to get into the Conservatoire

just a year before I started.

We spent the next hour discussing various subjects, and

for the first time since I met him, I got to know Isaak more

than just through listening to his music. It went from

significant facts of his life to the minuscule, unimportant

ones: I learned that he had two brothers, and one passed

away several years ago, from pneumonia, while he was still

an infant. I learned that his favorite color was dark blue, and

his favorite season winter. His favorite piece was the

Prokofiev’s Second Sonata.

I shared facts about myself as well, as we fired question

after question at each other. I have never opened up to

anyone quite like the way I did to Isaak, and I was surprised

to find out that I even knew some of the answers to the

questions that he asked.

When we ran out of things to say, I played the last

movement of the Appassionata for him, my fingers moving

across the keyboard in a frenzy, though still somehow

staying accurate. The product of hours of practice. By the

time I was finished, the professor arrived.

27

She sighed at the two of us and our persistence in waiting for

her. She started class, then, and I tried my best to pay

attention to the lecture. I realized, then, that the boy sitting

in the desk next to me was really more than a person to share

music with and to play music with; he was a friend.

Evacuation (Alternate Scene)

This scene follows the first outline. Anna and her

family attempts to leave Leningrad, and when Pyotr and their

mother got on one of the trucks to cross the lake, the ice

broke, sending both of them to their deaths.

We left, early, next morning. I woke my mother up by

shaking her repeatedly, and coaxed her to get dressed and

put on her coat and shoes. “We’re leaving,” I told her,

“Together.” My eyes were stern, and I meant business.

Before, I wouldn’t have even dreamed of telling my mother

what to do. But I had to. She was slowly dying. Her spirit

was already dead. She was the epitome of what Isaak would

call a living corpse. Isaak. I’d almost forgotten. There weren’t any paper in the house, and so, guiltily, I

tore a page from one of my father’s books. It was one on the

music of Beethoven. I scribbled a hasty note on the front… Moscow - see if you can too. See you soon.

- A I attached it to the front door. Isaak will come and visit

soon, and I wanted him to know where I was. We hadn’t

talked about evacuation, but he had no family, and I felt a

pang of guilt as I hadn’t included him in my plans. I took

Pyotr by the hand, and I made sure my mother was walking

with me as we left. I said goodbye to the home and the life

I’d known for seventeen years… except I could hardly

recognize the life that I was living now.

28

We walked on the streets. It was eerily silent, and

haunting. Bodies lied everywhere, some big, some small.

Babies in mothers’ arms, frozen. There was a man, sitting

down, seemingly asleep, but we knew all too well he was

frozen in place. Dead. Death surrounded us, no matter

where we went. Leningrad was one mass grave, and it

seemed like a crime to be living amongst all the dead. It

didn’t matter where we went. There were bodies. Once, there had been dogs and cats and even rats. Now,

there were none. The trams stopped operating, and the train

tracks haven’t been used in ages. The Conservatoire and the

concert halls were silent, far from the cheerful chatter and

the crowds that surrounded it months ago. My brother,

mother, and I trudged on. Pyotr took in the scenes; he was

no longer bothered by it, and neither was I. However, we all

felt loneliness, and Pyotr gripped on to my hand all the

tighter. Only my mother seemed to be unaffected by the

surroundings. Her hands remained limp, and she walked

slowly. Grief had consumed her, from the inside out, I knew.

I wanted for her to hold on a little more. I needed her to hold

on for a little longer. Just until we reach Moscow, and she

can see that it’s not entirely hopeless. Beside me, Pyotr started humming. It was unintelligible at

first, just a soft murmur. But he soon got a little louder. It

was then that I realized it was Fur Elise. It seemed forever ago that he’d performed it for the

Shostakoviches. I joined in with the humming. Pyotr looked up and

smiled when he noticed. Music, my father always said, was a

way to ward off loneliness. Ward off fear. My mother sang

songs to me when I was little and afraid. She sang me to

sleep, and sang to me when I cried. Pyotr seemed to

remember my father’s words and the memories of my

mother’s singing. In my mother’s eyes, I saw a flicker of

response at our soft voices in the cold wind. She didn’t join

29

in, but I’d like to imagine that she’d heard us, and was,

perhaps, moved by it. We made it to the railroad station that will take us to

Shlisselburg, where we’ll be able to evacuate by the ice road

they’d built. The railroad ride was quiet. We slept, ate the

little bread that we brought with us by waiting in line in the

morning. We had just a little extra because of Zoya’s ration

card. Some people died on the train, before they could even

make it to the station. I made sure I woke my mother and

Pyotr up once every hour or so, to make sure they don’t

suffer the same fate. Fear ate at me as we traveled. ***

We arrived later that evening, and we followed the rest of

the crowd, escorted by soldiers, until we saw the lake. It was

iced over, white. Under any other circumstance, beautiful. I

watched as people boarded the trucks and left - towards

freedom. I looked around; there were simply too many

people for the trucks. Too many people. Not enough trucks.

I started to panic, just a little. We waited. I kept my mother

on her feet, and Pyotr too, no matter how tired he claimed to

be. I caught my eyelids drooping several times during the

wait, but I kept myself awake and moving. Nobody is

allowed to die, I told myself. As people left, we were closer and closer to getting on a

truck. Finally, we were at the front of the line. A driver came

to us… space for two more, he said. The truck was already

cramped enough, but every single one was like that. I bent

down to Pyotr. “Take care of Mama. I’ll see you soon.” He

nodded sleepily. Taking my mother’s hand, he followed the

driver to the truck, and they were on their way. I watched as the truck departed, hoping that the ice will

hold, hoping that no bombs will rain down on them. It was

the first time I was truly alone - I’d always had my family, or

Isaak, beside me. Now my brother and mother were on their

30

way to safety, which left me. The truck neared the horizon,

and I was going to let out a sigh of relief - nothing will

happen to them while I was watching - but just as the

thought passed my mind, the ice broke. The truck fell into a hole, into the lake. One in four lorries fall in. I should’ve known better. One

in four. My brother and mother weren’t lucky enough to be the

three. They had to be the one. I ran out to the ice, hoping,

praying, that I was mistaken. The looks on the faces of those

behind me were the same. I screamed, the same way my

mother did when Zoya died. I was completely alone. I did what I thought was the next best thing to do: I started

going back to the train station. I was going home, back to

Isaak.

The Dream

Originally, there was a whole scene describing Anna’s

dream, mentioned in Chapter 10. The dream was interrupted

by the wail of the air raid sirens and she headed to the shelter

with her family. Here is the original scene describing the

dream:

He was far away, almost too far away to see clearly, but

somehow, I knew it was my father standing at the end of the

road. He’d changed. He’d always been cleanly shaved, but

now, he’d grown out a beard. His stature was more

reduced… none of the strength remained in his arms, and

his shoulders, once broad, were now narrow and shrunken.

But, somehow, I knew it was my father. I saw the slight

upward curve of his lips; a smile. He had seen me, too. I

wished to see his eyes; it was obvious that he was alive, but

was his spirit still there? Or was it broken, like so many who

had been taken away, like him? I wanted to know. Without

hesitation, I started going forward to him. I missed him, and

I wanted to hug him again, take in the faint, but familiar

31

scent of coffee and ink and old paper that I remember so

well. And I wanted to hear his voice, deep and rumbling like

a bass, but reassuring. And his music. I wanted to hear his music. His music was

the beacon of light in all the darkness. We were alone, on the street, and as I started walking,

going forward to him, he didn’t move. He stood there,

smiling, arms outstretched, urging me to continue on

forward. It was starting to get dark, and it seemed as if there

were dark storm clouds hovering above our heads. The wail of the siren. The swell in pitch, much like a

violinist gliding a finger up the fingerboard of the instrument

carelessly. I looked back. I was supposed to go back… the

bomb shelter was back there. The air sirens sounded louder

now. Urgent. My father stayed, unmoving. Desperate, I started running

towards him. I needed to get him to safety. I wanted to feel

the familiarity and the comfort of his presence again, and to

have that, I need to save him first. No matter how fast I ran,

however, I didn’t seem any closer to my father than I was

originally. He stood there, helpless. I could see his eyes now. There was something different

about his dark blue eyes; it wasn’t defeat, but it lacked the

defiance and the strength that was there before. I stopped running. There was no use; I felt tears sting my

eyes. I stared at my father and the invisible barrier separating

the two of us. He smiled sadly. There was a blast, then, an explosion of red and orange and

yellow. Debris flew, and I threw myself at the ground, trying

to protect myself. But I knew my father was gone. In my

ears, the sirens continued to wail.

The Epilogue

I enjoyed writing it and imagining the life for the

characters after the performance, but since it didn’t

32

contribute too much to the plot, it didn’t make it to the final

book.

May, 1957

“Isaak Alexeyevich, you promised you would be home in

time to read Kolya a story,” I said disapprovingly. I’d been

sitting at the table and waiting for him for thirty minutes

now.

“Sorry,” he said, giving me a small, apologetic smile. “I

will keep better track of the clock next time,” he told me,

kissing me on the cheeks as he walked through the door.

“That’s the third time this week,” I told him, rolling my

eyes.

“I promise… just until I finish this symphony,” he said,

grinning.

I sighed in exasperation, but I smiled, regardless, knowing

that it meant he had figured out the solo for his second

movement.

“Papa!” Kolya, our four year old son, bounded out of his

room then, and latched onto Isaak’s leg, refusing to let go.

“Nikolai, you were supposed to be asleep,” I looked at my

son sternly.

“I was waiting for Papa to come home,” he said, pouting.

He looked like his father, his small, round head topped with

a mess of blond hair. He’d also inherited Isaak’s big blue

eyes.

Isaak laughed, and winked at him, ignoring me for the

moment. “Hey,” he greeted, reaching down and picking him

up, and then throwing him in the air. Kolya squealed with

delight. “But your mother is right,” he said, “You should be

in bed.”

Kolya looked disappointed. “Okay. Story?”

Isaak nodded. “Sure,” he said. He swung the little boy

across his shoulders, leading to another squeal, and carried

him back to his room.

33

Isaak and I left Leningrad in January, 1943 through the

Ice Road when it was rebuilt that winter. I clutched his hands

so tightly that he claimed that he couldn’t feel his fingers

after we made the journey. I was reunited with Pyotr at

Lokovo, and we stayed there until the war was over. From

there, we moved to Moscow, like we planned, and finished

our music education at the Moscow Conservatoire.

Shostakovich became one of the professors there, and when

we got there, gave us his congratulations for performing his

Seventh Symphony, as well as the highest praise for the

finished version of my father’s sonata. Isaak’s career as a

composer took off after the premiere of his second

symphony. He now taught at the Moscow Conservatoire as

well, though he never enjoyed teaching as much as he did

composing. I became a pianist, though I often helped Isaak

with his compositions. I often premiered his piano works

because he claimed that I was the only one he trusted to

understand his intentions and to play correctly.

I found out recently that my father had died in the

Gulags, but his reputation was restored after Stalin’s death,

and his scores were once more, available to the public. I kept

some of his shorter works to myself, but I did publish the

piano sonata, deciding that he would’ve wanted to share the

piece with the world. It had a very positive reception.

Every year, we went back to Leningrad to visit the graves

of those who were lost during the siege. Katya still lived

there, happily married with two kids. We kept in contact

after Isaak and I left Leningrad, and she remained one of my

closest friends even after the war. As for Pyotr, he went on

to study physics at Lomonosov State University, and was

now in a steady relationship with Tanya.

Isaak returned the room several minutes later. “Done?” I

asked. He nodded at me, reached out, and took my hand. I

got up from my seat at the table. He led me to the piano

bench, and the two of us sat down. We still spent a lot of

34

time playing and composing together. “What do you want to

play?” he asked.

I smiled. “Whatever you want. Just don’t wake Kolya

again.”

“What if I wanted to play Beethoven?” he asked.

“Then you should’ve gotten home earlier,” I retorted,

giving him a gentle shove on the shoulder. “Choose a

Chopin Nocturne.”

“Fine,” he said, and went to the shelf to get the music.

When he came back, I placed my right hand on the piano

and Isaak placed his left—we played, and our hearts beat

together as we did so, lost in the music and connected by

nothing but the sound of the notes.

Some people say that it was a miracle we made it out of

Leningrad alive. It was luck, they said, or maybe willpower.

For me, it was music. It gave me something more to hold on

to, another reason to continue.

35

Cover Art

The cover art was really fun to create, and it was

easier than I thought it’d be. Instead of opting for a cover art

maker on self-publishing platforms on Createspace, I decided

to tackle it on my own.

I used Adobe Photoshop CS4 to blend the top and

bottom images (both are stock images from deviantart.com),

and just added text. It was less painful than I thought it’d be,

and I was really happy with the end result.

I did play around with the cover a little bit though,

and the first version of it was actually made in MS Word. I

just layered images and text:

36

It’s a bit rough. This next one is also made in MS

Word:

The color scheme was more uniform (as opposed to

the contrast between the darker photograph of the girl and

the white snow), so I kept that.

I realized that MS Word didn’t allow me to blend, so I

opted for Photoshop. I was trying to avoid using that, but in

the end, it was the best program for what I needed to do! A

little bit of tweaking, blending, and adding a PS action onto

the cover later, I came up with the final version of the cover:

37

And then I realized the music notes were flipped,

since I flipped the image to get the keyboard on the side.

Oops.

Flipped Right Side

That really bothered me. I think if I kept it there, the

cover will probably end up a list of “ten biggest book cover

fails” or something.

38

So I fixed it:

I then added a back cover and spine (it’s a plain color

with a texture on top) to fit Createspace specifications:

39

Closing Notes

This was probably the biggest project that I’d ever

attempted, and I’m so glad it turned out the way it did. I

learned a lot, and made it through with a minimum of

mistakes and setbacks! (something I’m pretty happy with,

haha).

So… what now? I’m doing NaNoWriMo in

November again this year, and I’ll probably be doing a

realistic fiction (lighthearted, cheesy romance? I think yes!).

I’m definitely thinking of going through the traditional

publishing route in the near future once there are no project

deadlines.

If you happen to have made it so far in this ebook,

thank YOU so much for everything. Nothing would have

been possible without you!