beautiful plaster molding,
and fireplaces with ornately carved marble mantels. Then- two
private rooms were chockablock with antique furnishings and artwork
rescued from rubbish dumps and demolition squads over the years.
Some of the grander pieces had been scavenged by their parents
after the revolution. Magnificent icons, salvaged from churches
closed during Khrushchev's era—many traded for no more than a
bottle of vodka—hung on the walls alongside nineteenth-century
paintings. Porcelains from former imperial factories graced the
Karelian birch and mahogany consoles and tables.
The only evidence of their faith was a small
gilt menorah, which rested, almost hidden among family photographs
and bibelots, on an ormolu-encrusted neoclassical sideboard.
It was into these splendid if time-worn rooms
that their friends and neighbors came to get their first glimpse of
the newborn, bringing gifts and glad tidings. Naturally enough,
they were all in agreement with the doting parents: Mikhail Levin
was destined for great things.
Just how great a destiny at that moment
neither Sonia nor Dmitri—nor any of their visitors—had a clue.
Four years passed before they had their first
inkling. At that tender age Misha gave them proof positive that he
had a truly miraculous gift: he was a musical prodigy.
During those first four years, life for them
had gone on much as usual, though it was infinitely more abundant
since the birth of their son. Those years for Misha were radically
unlike what most Russian youngsters experienced. He was never
placed in one of the multitude of state-ran day-care facilities,
but was coddled in the much grander and more cultivated atmosphere
of home. If both Dmitri and Sonia were working or performing at the
same time, one of the other musicians or painters who lived in the
house would watch over the boy.
In that fourth year, on the day in question,
Dmitri was at home, reading a musical score while watching over his
son. Sonia was shopping, waiting in the inevitable and often
horrendously long fines for the meager selection of groceries at
various shops. At first Dmitri thought he had heard music on the
radio; but he knew that the radio wasn't turned on. Then he
rationalized that the music was coming from a neighboring
apartment, even though he knew that theirs was the only piano in
the building that he could hear with this degree of intimate
proximity.
Finally, he put down his score and looked
over his half-glasses across the room. There, perched on the stool
at the grand piano, his chubby little legs dangling over its edge,
sat Misha, playing a Bach piece, its rendering technically correct,
though slow and strained, because of the size of the child's
hands.
Dmitri was so astonished that for long
moments he couldn't speak. When he eventually found his tongue, he
could only whisper: "Misha?"
The boy didn't hear him and continued
playing, strenuously making the effort to reach the correct
keys.
"Misha?" Dmitri uttered again.
When the child still didn't hear him, Dmitri
rose to his feet and strode over to the piano. He gently placed a
hand on Misha's shoulder and cleared his throat. "Misha," he
repeated.
Misha looked up at his father, his large,
dark eyes shining. "Yes, Papa?" He was grinning happily, perhaps a
little mischievously.
"Misha," Dmitri said, "when did you learn to
do this? How—?"
"I don't know, Papa," the child answered.
"I've just been watching and listening."
Tears sprang into Dmitri's eyes, and his body
trembled all over as the realization of what he was witnessing
dawned on him. It was frightening in all its implications, this
scene he had just beheld. The profound responsibility he had felt
with Misha's birth was now compounded a hundredfold, for the child
had a God-given talent that was so rare and so precious, that
Dmitri knew that he and Sonia must sacrifice all else to it.
When Sonia came home, her string bag bulging
with purchases, she dropped the bag onto the floor,
and fireplaces with ornately carved marble mantels. Then- two
private rooms were chockablock with antique furnishings and artwork
rescued from rubbish dumps and demolition squads over the years.
Some of the grander pieces had been scavenged by their parents
after the revolution. Magnificent icons, salvaged from churches
closed during Khrushchev's era—many traded for no more than a
bottle of vodka—hung on the walls alongside nineteenth-century
paintings. Porcelains from former imperial factories graced the
Karelian birch and mahogany consoles and tables.
The only evidence of their faith was a small
gilt menorah, which rested, almost hidden among family photographs
and bibelots, on an ormolu-encrusted neoclassical sideboard.
It was into these splendid if time-worn rooms
that their friends and neighbors came to get their first glimpse of
the newborn, bringing gifts and glad tidings. Naturally enough,
they were all in agreement with the doting parents: Mikhail Levin
was destined for great things.
Just how great a destiny at that moment
neither Sonia nor Dmitri—nor any of their visitors—had a clue.
Four years passed before they had their first
inkling. At that tender age Misha gave them proof positive that he
had a truly miraculous gift: he was a musical prodigy.
During those first four years, life for them
had gone on much as usual, though it was infinitely more abundant
since the birth of their son. Those years for Misha were radically
unlike what most Russian youngsters experienced. He was never
placed in one of the multitude of state-ran day-care facilities,
but was coddled in the much grander and more cultivated atmosphere
of home. If both Dmitri and Sonia were working or performing at the
same time, one of the other musicians or painters who lived in the
house would watch over the boy.
In that fourth year, on the day in question,
Dmitri was at home, reading a musical score while watching over his
son. Sonia was shopping, waiting in the inevitable and often
horrendously long fines for the meager selection of groceries at
various shops. At first Dmitri thought he had heard music on the
radio; but he knew that the radio wasn't turned on. Then he
rationalized that the music was coming from a neighboring
apartment, even though he knew that theirs was the only piano in
the building that he could hear with this degree of intimate
proximity.
Finally, he put down his score and looked
over his half-glasses across the room. There, perched on the stool
at the grand piano, his chubby little legs dangling over its edge,
sat Misha, playing a Bach piece, its rendering technically correct,
though slow and strained, because of the size of the child's
hands.
Dmitri was so astonished that for long
moments he couldn't speak. When he eventually found his tongue, he
could only whisper: "Misha?"
The boy didn't hear him and continued
playing, strenuously making the effort to reach the correct
keys.
"Misha?" Dmitri uttered again.
When the child still didn't hear him, Dmitri
rose to his feet and strode over to the piano. He gently placed a
hand on Misha's shoulder and cleared his throat. "Misha," he
repeated.
Misha looked up at his father, his large,
dark eyes shining. "Yes, Papa?" He was grinning happily, perhaps a
little mischievously.
"Misha," Dmitri said, "when did you learn to
do this? How—?"
"I don't know, Papa," the child answered.
"I've just been watching and listening."
Tears sprang into Dmitri's eyes, and his body
trembled all over as the realization of what he was witnessing
dawned on him. It was frightening in all its implications, this
scene he had just beheld. The profound responsibility he had felt
with Misha's birth was now compounded a hundredfold, for the child
had a God-given talent that was so rare and so precious, that
Dmitri knew that he and Sonia must sacrifice all else to it.
When Sonia came home, her string bag bulging
with purchases, she dropped the bag onto the floor,
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