unlikable.
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
Only a few years ago, I ran into Leppik, the mycologist who had guarded some of our collections at the Estonian experimental station. We were both at the Botanical Gardens for a seminar on microtoxins. One of the presenters spoke of a case in the Middle East. Others talked about the possibility that unfriendly governments were using microtoxins to develop agents of biological warfare.
The talk that most interested me â and the one where I saw Leppik â was about the
Fusarium
poisoning that hit Byelorussia at the end of the war with Hitlerite Germany. A crop of millet had been left unharvested through the wet winter. By the time it could be collected in spring, it had molded, but there was little else left to eat. Perhaps a million people, perhaps not quite so many, died from the contaminated grain. Some died from direct poisoning, others from secondary infection. But most died fromasphyxiation caused by the swelling of their throats.
Fusarium
does not, it is believed, enter the milk of nursing mothers, so small babies were spared. But it does survive the brewing process, and a number of people were sickened or killed from drinking beer.
Leppik invited me for a coffee after the seminar. We avoided the past, though the mycologist did tell me about his efforts to make the great directorâs theories known to American scientists. We made no plans to meet again.
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
Everyone I overheard spoke of the concert. The score would be brought to Leningrad by plane, it was said. Because only sixteen of more than one hundred were left in our orchestra, the military was granting leave to professional musicians, even from the front. Practicing trumpeters blistered their lips with cold mouthpieces. Eliasberg would conduct but was deeply worriedabout the stamina of the surviving and arriving musicians. One flutist and a trombone player were so emaciated that they could not sit on their chairs without cushions. The symphony was quite strenuous, it was said â Shostakovichâs finest work. âHeâs always been a true Leningrader,â some said.
Of course many layers of human pettiness returned with food and warmer weather. As appetites shrank and the sun warmed bodies, I heard whispers that the symphony was not really so fine, that many in Moscow were not so impressed, that inferior musicians were seeking opportunities that should never have been open to them.
The date was set for the ninth of August. Those stationed at the headquarters of the Forty-second Soviet Army were ordered to prevent shelling that night no matter the cost. They would take out German artillery, it was said. Music would spare the city. It would save not only our souls but our bodies and buildings.
It was Klavdiya who offered me a seat. âMy husband cannot attend, and I require an escort.â
I nodded. I was not a music lover and could not be comfortable with a woman who knew what I had done, what I was. But neither could I resist vanity and history. The Philharmonic Hall was the place to be. The concert sold out rapidly.
Klavdiya sat to my left. A gas mask sat on the lap of the man to my right. A woman behind held one to her face. People wore their former finery, most often in rags. Men and some women carried guns.
The bombardment subsided. Eliasberg lifted his baton, his oversize tux hanging off his arms comically, tragically. Instruments were placed on the stageâs many empty seats, both a tribute to the dead and a suggestion of fuller sound. I stared at an orphaned piccolo as the first movement began its savage march.
At the end of the second movement, I felt Klavdiyaâs long fingers climb onto my arm. I let them remain, but only that.
The strings bounced, almost jaunty, then gave way to Ksenia Matusâs sad oboe. A bassoon entered, and then the oboe disappeared under the returning strings, which tore open a pizzicato
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
Only a few years ago, I ran into Leppik, the mycologist who had guarded some of our collections at the Estonian experimental station. We were both at the Botanical Gardens for a seminar on microtoxins. One of the presenters spoke of a case in the Middle East. Others talked about the possibility that unfriendly governments were using microtoxins to develop agents of biological warfare.
The talk that most interested me â and the one where I saw Leppik â was about the
Fusarium
poisoning that hit Byelorussia at the end of the war with Hitlerite Germany. A crop of millet had been left unharvested through the wet winter. By the time it could be collected in spring, it had molded, but there was little else left to eat. Perhaps a million people, perhaps not quite so many, died from the contaminated grain. Some died from direct poisoning, others from secondary infection. But most died fromasphyxiation caused by the swelling of their throats.
Fusarium
does not, it is believed, enter the milk of nursing mothers, so small babies were spared. But it does survive the brewing process, and a number of people were sickened or killed from drinking beer.
Leppik invited me for a coffee after the seminar. We avoided the past, though the mycologist did tell me about his efforts to make the great directorâs theories known to American scientists. We made no plans to meet again.
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
Everyone I overheard spoke of the concert. The score would be brought to Leningrad by plane, it was said. Because only sixteen of more than one hundred were left in our orchestra, the military was granting leave to professional musicians, even from the front. Practicing trumpeters blistered their lips with cold mouthpieces. Eliasberg would conduct but was deeply worriedabout the stamina of the surviving and arriving musicians. One flutist and a trombone player were so emaciated that they could not sit on their chairs without cushions. The symphony was quite strenuous, it was said â Shostakovichâs finest work. âHeâs always been a true Leningrader,â some said.
Of course many layers of human pettiness returned with food and warmer weather. As appetites shrank and the sun warmed bodies, I heard whispers that the symphony was not really so fine, that many in Moscow were not so impressed, that inferior musicians were seeking opportunities that should never have been open to them.
The date was set for the ninth of August. Those stationed at the headquarters of the Forty-second Soviet Army were ordered to prevent shelling that night no matter the cost. They would take out German artillery, it was said. Music would spare the city. It would save not only our souls but our bodies and buildings.
It was Klavdiya who offered me a seat. âMy husband cannot attend, and I require an escort.â
I nodded. I was not a music lover and could not be comfortable with a woman who knew what I had done, what I was. But neither could I resist vanity and history. The Philharmonic Hall was the place to be. The concert sold out rapidly.
Klavdiya sat to my left. A gas mask sat on the lap of the man to my right. A woman behind held one to her face. People wore their former finery, most often in rags. Men and some women carried guns.
The bombardment subsided. Eliasberg lifted his baton, his oversize tux hanging off his arms comically, tragically. Instruments were placed on the stageâs many empty seats, both a tribute to the dead and a suggestion of fuller sound. I stared at an orphaned piccolo as the first movement began its savage march.
At the end of the second movement, I felt Klavdiyaâs long fingers climb onto my arm. I let them remain, but only that.
The strings bounced, almost jaunty, then gave way to Ksenia Matusâs sad oboe. A bassoon entered, and then the oboe disappeared under the returning strings, which tore open a pizzicato
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