Six weeks later, Anna had accompanied her father to a poetry reading; after some brief resistance, Leonid had agreed to go along as well. They had taken the subway to the Pushkinskaya station and climbed up into the light of a bright June evening. Viktor Ipalyevich bit his lower lip and nervously chewed his beard, which he’d trimmed the previous day.
Viktor Tsazukhin was a veteran of Soviet literature; his early poems had evoked the Red Army’s battle for Berlin. He was known as a forerunner of the artistic generation produced by the Revolution, and his analytic, future-oriented style had served as a model for many later poets. In recent years, his publications had become rarer and their print runs smaller. The state publishing house no longer printed his volumes, which now appeared through the auspices of a small house dedicated to “special Soviet literature.” Since Viktor Ipalyevich lived a secluded life with his family, he had no idea whether or not he still had a following as a poet and, if he did, no idea how his descriptions of the present found their way into his readers’ hands.
When Viktor, Anna, and Leonid reached the area in front of the Conservatory building, the poet was overwhelmed. Countless young people were causing such a tumult that ushers and police were having great difficulty in keeping the entrance open to ticket holders only. Groups of female students, hoping they might still be able to secure tickets, gathered around latecomers. Automobiles were thickly parked up and down Gorky Street; drivers just arriving were waved on.
Someone recognized Tsazukhin, and within seconds, the crowd began to close in on him and Anna and Leonid in such numbers that the three were unable to take another step forward. People greeted the poet; those standing nearby asked him to take them with him into the auditorium. Helpless with happiness, Viktor groped for his daughter’s hand, while Leonid directed his efforts toward opening a passage for them. But they needed help from some of the policemen, who steered them away from the colonnaded doorway to a smaller entrance nearby, where a door opened for a moment to admit them. The poet, his two companions, and a nimble student—a girl in a plastic raincoat—slipped inside; the door closed at once, separating them from the throng of people trying to press in behind them. Doctor Glem, the chairman of the artistic board, was waiting for Viktor Ipalyevich and his family on the stairs. The chairman exchanged hasty greetings with the poet and his family, in which, without many words, the student was included. While an assistant showed Tsazukhin’s companions to the box assigned to them, Doctor Glem escorted Viktor Ipalyevich backstage.
Leonid helped Anna out of her jacket. Enjoying her elevated vantage point, she let her eyes wander over the auditorium. Usually, the large hall was used for concerts, with room for seven or perhaps eight hundred people; tonight, there were surely a thousand, and more were still shoving their way inside. In the parquet section, she recognized Plissetskaya, the ballerina from the Bolshoi Ballet, and not far from her, the comedian Rodion; Brezhnev’s personal interpreter took a seat in the middle. Older gentlemen were standing in the aisles and ascertaining who had come besides themselves; above all, however, Anna saw sons and daughters. The moment touched her, and when she sat down next to her husband, her face was burning. There below her sat Moscow, not some small collection of admirers still loyal to a forgotten poet, but the citizenry, come to hear her father. When the lights dimmed and the applause began, Anna realized that her father had made his entrance onto the stage. Doctor Glem offered Viktor Ipalyevich the seat reserved for the guest of honor and stepped to the lectern. The audience, however, would not allow the chairman of the artistic board to speak; the clapping grew so unanimous that Tsazukhin had to get to his feet again and make another bow. Even now, his peaked cap remained on his head. Minutes passed before Doctor Glem could deliver his speech of greeting. It consisted of a patriotic profession of faith in the new Soviet lyric poetry, properly declared and congenially applauded. Glem thanked the audience, introduced Viktor Ipalyevich, and left the stage. Anna’s father slowly walked forward. The folder he placed on the lectern remained closed. He pushed back his cap, which left a red stripe across his forehead. Wide-eyed,