The right to sorrow is a privilege.

DMITRI SHOSTAKOVICH

Kostya Jashi was now a junior lieutenant in the Soviet Navy. After staring in despair at the locked door of Ida’s apartment for the last time, he had requested an urgent transfer out of the city. His application was approved, and in April he was transferred to Crimea, to a training ship in Sevastopol.

On 22 June 1941, three Wehrmacht army groups crossed the Soviet border: Army Group North, heading for the Baltic states and Leningrad; Army Group Centre, heading for Smolensk and Moscow; and Army Group South, heading for Kiev. One of the biggest invasions in military history had begun. From the Baltic Sea to the Carpathians, the Generalissimus’ huge empire was being attacked from all points of the compass by more than three million German soldiers. Hitler ‘thawed’ after the order was given, ‘all tiredness gone’, noted Goebbels, in a diary entry following the invasion of the Soviet Union. The attack rendered all prior military agreements, laws, and rules invalid.

The earth began to turn faster.

Despite the warnings, the Generalissimus continued to cling to his belief that the mobilisation of German troops at the borders was an exaggeration by the secret services. He retreated to his dacha in Kuntsevo, and addressed the people only eleven days later in a calamitous radio broadcast in which he declared the ‘Great Patriotic War’.

Kostya could not have foreseen when he was transferred that the German invasion would come as a complete surprise to the western parts of the Russian fleet stationed in Sevastopol, and that he would be catapulted into the epicentre of the war much faster than he would have liked. The sailors’ training manoeuvres were replaced alarmingly quickly by actual warfare, and Kostya Jashi was caught up in the three-day raid on Constanta.

In early July, Army Group North began to advance on the Baltic States, and the Soviet Baltic Fleet was forced to fall back to Kronstadt. Army Group Centre took Smolensk on 16 July. Minsk fell into German hands in the first few weeks of the invasion. Novgorod succumbed on 16 August, and on 8 September the Germans reached Lake Ladoga, encircling Leningrad.

One week after war broke out, the Red Lieutenant Simon Jashi was sent to the front in Minsk.

The Wehrmacht’s success was colossal. The Red Army’s general staff — hesitant, caught between fear of the Kremlin, still crippled by indecision, and the necessity of taking swift action — remained passive. The paralysis in the Kremlin affected the whole country. It resulted in the loss of countless lives during the first months of the war. In July 1941, Goebbels wrote triumphantly in his diary: ‘There can no longer be any doubt that sooner or later the Kremlin will fall.’

Having obtained excellent marks in his shipbuilding diploma, Giorgi Alania was posted to the Amur shipyard on the Sea of Japan. Alania hesitated; he didn’t want to go to the other side of the world, to be separated from his best friend. He hoped he wouldn’t have to stay there more than one or two years. In hindsight, the Sea of Japan proved to be his salvation, as the posting to Amur meant he escaped the war; because he worked in heavy industry, he was spared the front.

When the Germans invaded the Baltic States and Ukraine, no one thought the Bolsheviks would come back. The Germans were celebrated as liberators. When Wehrmacht soldiers entered Ukrainian villages with tanks and trucks, farmers stood in the streets holding out bread and salt as a sign of hospitality.

The Soviet NKVD, by contrast, had done a thorough job in a very short time. Prisoners had been executed in the jails; inmates in psychiatric hospitals had been killed. Later, villages and towns would be burned — nothing was to fall into German hands.

Reports in the Soviet press about Nazi crimes, about Jews being rounded up and taken off to some place from which no one had ever returned, were dismissed as lies and Soviet propaganda. Consequently, many Jews decided not to flee. For years, they had been fed lies and invented realities, but this one, out of the mouth of the oppressor, was more blatant than any lie so far: that in the Caucasus and Ukraine ethnic minorities were being recruited by the Wehrmacht to serve as ‘volunteers’.

In the panic that prevailed in the first months of the war, many Party functionaries, directors, and commissars fled their posts. People believed they had been abandoned, and took liberties they would never otherwise have dared to claim: they refused to work, looted, even threatened their superiors. The Bolsheviks’ unassailable status was called into question.

In August of that year, the Generalissimus issued order number 270, according to which any soldier who allowed himself to be taken as a prisoner of war was to be considered a traitor. Red Army soldiers had only two options: to let themselves be shot by the Germans, or be shot later by their own people.

*

The day Kostya Jashi took up his rifle to shoot at people for the first time, his little sister graduated from her all-girls’ school and ran into the arms of Andro, who still spent his time compulsively carving wooden angels and had shaved off all his curls.

That same night, my great-great-grandfather died peacefully in his bed after going through the secret recipes in his black notebook, thinking himself back in the chocolate factory, which had ceased to exist three years earlier, and was now a government canteen serving mashed potatoes and cheap meatballs. He died believing himself back in the sweetness of his past life, surrounded by the most tempting aromas in the world, full of plans for the future of his hometown, the putative Nice of the Caucasus, in the company of his four daughters, each one lovely and full of the brightest hopes, undimmed by the cheerlessness of socialism. He had taken his leave of the present gradually, over time, until it grew thin and transparent and finally tore. Old, feeble, frail, with weak kidneys, no social standing, and no longer surrounded by the dark fragrance of grandeur, heavy sorrow had formed a crust around the chocolate-maker — impenetrable, impossible to soften. His decline was hard for his family to bear. And although Lida and Kitty did their best to keep from the old man the terrible news of what was happening in the world, they could not rid him of his sorrow. Again and again he asked after Christine, who hadn’t dared to return to the house of her birth since her disfigurement. He never spoke of what had happened, nor of Ramas: as if Christine had never married, as if no one had done to Christine the things that had been done to her. To him, she remained the young girl for whom the gates of life were open, with everything before her; and Lida and the others had to play along, had to declare the past the present and learn to hide their own sorrow, their own worries, from him.

Beeswax candles, which Lida kept hidden in her room, were lit. Lida sat at her dying father’s bedside and prayed for hours on end. At daybreak, Andro was dispatched to the post office to send a telegram to Tbilisi.

Later, as they sat by the window looking down on the sleeping street, Andro asked Kitty if she wanted to be his wife and go with him to Vienna.

To our very own, private Vienna, he added.

*

Dressed all in black, supported by Stasia, her face hidden by a veil she had cleverly woven into her hair, Christine took a seat at the window of the compartment and leaned her head against the glass. The station was crowded; people were running around like industrious ants. The little boy selling newspapers was shouting at the top of his voice: ‘War! We’re at war! Fascists attack Soviet Union! Generalissimus declares Great Patriotic War!’

Christine tried not to listen to his words. But Stasia, who was putting her suitcase on the rack, turned sharply and stuck her head out through the narrow gap in the window, waved the boy over, tossed a few kopeks into his hand, and took the paper. Absorbed by the news, she gasped as if she were having an asthma attack and sank weakly into her seat.

‘Kostya!’ was all she said, as if she had seen him standing in front of her. She gripped her veiled sister’s wrist. ‘Simon has taken my only son and he won’t stop him going to war. He’ll even be proud of him. Oh my God, Kostya, my only Kostya!’

‘We don’t know anything yet. We’ll contact Simon and Kostya first thing tomorrow morning. Try to calm yourself.’

Christine looked out of the window and watched the green, hilly countryside roll by. At daybreak, the sisters reached the town where they were born, which had become anything but the Nice of the Caucasus. By now, news of the war had reached here, too; people were wandering the streets, older men were standing on street corners with their pipes, recalling the horrors of the last war, and the women, who had set out little tables in front of their houses, were gathered around big wireless sets with pots of coffee, drinking and shaking their heads. Only the children still carried on as normal, playing ball and hide-and-seek, running races, and making a deafening racket.

Lida was sitting silently beside her father’s coffin, a sexless creature in a black cotton dress and black headscarf. Kitty and Andro were hovering at the bottom of the stairs. When they spotted Christine with her masked face they both started crying in unison, and pretended they were crying for their grandfather, who in his last few years had taken hardly any interest in their lives, or indeed in anybody’s, including his own.

The mirrors were taken down and all available icons positioned around the coffin. Lida had even summoned a priest to the house, in civilian clothes, of course. Meri arrived from Kutaisi, with a discontented expression that seemed to be stuck on her face, as if she held her sisters personally responsible for her unhappiness. Chairs were set up around the coffin; the women sat, while the men stood in the corridor, elbowing one another, to receive the mourners. The lights remained on for three days and nights; all the doors were opened; food from the funeral feast was given to the poor, the deceased’s belongings given away.

Kitty and Andro were constantly being sent off somewhere, to fetch bread or wine; no one had time to notice Kitty’s sparkling eyes, the restlessness in Andro’s knees, or how they seemed always to be casually touching.

‘Yes, all right. We’ll get married, then,’ Kitty had said to Andro, the day her brother aimed his gun at another man for the first time, the day her grandfather died. And as they kept vigil beside the body they whispered constantly about their future, because their love, unlike Kostya’s, couldn’t do without words.

Christine, in her veil, kept calling the two of them over to her and patting them like little children.

‘Don’t be afraid, it’ll all be all right again,’ she kept saying. Yet it was she who was afraid. Afraid of the infinite loneliness that imprisoned her; of the darkness she had not yet found her way out of; of the moment when Stasia would return to her old life and would have to leave her behind, alone with her ghosts. Afraid of the war, but above all of not knowing how she was to go on living, with half a face and a heart that belonged to a suicide.

*

On 5 July, the chocolate-maker was buried between his Russian and Georgian wives, and the mourners sat down around the big wooden table to drink coffee and discuss the future of the Jashi family.

‘I have to go and get Kostya back,’ said Stasia suddenly, lighting a cigarette.

‘Calm down, Anastasia. God will look after him, he’s a brave boy,’ whispered Lida.

‘Shut up!’ cried Christine, helping herself to the schnapps that someone had left on the kitchen table.

And before Lida could cross herself and ask God to forgive her sister’s insolence, Kitty said, ‘We’re getting married.’

She looked proudly at Andro, who sat silently with his head bowed, staring at the floor.

‘Excuse me?’ laughed Christine.

‘We want to get married and then go away,’ Kitty repeated.

Lida finally crossed herself, and Meri snorted contemptuously, as if this announcement were a personal affront.

‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ asked Stasia eventually, still quite composed.

‘I know I should have spoken to you, but when you were here there was never any time …’ Andro began slowly.

‘Holy Mary …’ whispered Lida.

‘My mother’s dead, isn’t she?’ asked Andro suddenly. He received no reply, only evasive looks. Lida crossed herself again.

‘There’s a war on. You don’t get married in wartime,’ said Stasia.

‘Or that’s exactly when you do,’ answered Andro.

‘I don’t know what to say to you both. It’s your life. Either way, this is the worst possible moment for such childish nonsense,’ said Stasia, and left the room.

She didn’t come back until the following evening. Lida was all for sending out a search party, but Christine stopped her. She guessed that Stasia had borrowed a Kabardin and ridden out to the cave city. Probably astride.

*

As the Wehrmacht was crossing the Don, Lida left for a convent in Racha, where she was to stay for the rest of the war. The apartment was locked up, and Christine, Stasia, Kitty, and Andro took the train back to the capital together.

After arriving in Tbilisi they all went to live at Christine’s villa, which felt shabby and empty behind its ostentatious façade, as everything rare and valuable had disappeared over the last few years or been sold on the black market. Telegrams were sent to Leningrad; no answer came. In Tbilisi there was panic; rumours were circulating that the fascists were planning a secret operation in the Caucasus. People said Hitler had declared the Caucasus, and Caspian oil in particular, his top priority.

Daily life in the city became quieter, more cautious, more hesitant, more gloomy — but at least it went on. Food production companies and factories were working flat out. The kolkhozes had to double their production. September brought the first news of the Leningrad blockade. Shortly afterwards, Stasia received a letter from her husband (oh yes, Brilka, marriages can last much longer than love) in which he informed her that Kostya was well, had fought heroically in the raid on Constanta, and was now serving in the Baltic Fleet: the defence of Leningrad was at stake. She wasn’t to worry; they had corresponded, and Kostya had everything he needed. Simon himself was currently in Moscow, leading a division of the 2nd Rifle Corps and awaiting redeployment.

*

As Stasia paced about her room, appalled, puffing on her cigarettes, cursing, and trying to fight back tears of outrage, Andro walked with Kitty in the Botanical Garden. With her, he sought out secret, empty paths, and climbed up the steep crags. When it grew dark, they sat down right beside the waterfall, and when Kitty asked him if it weren’t time to go — the garden would be closing soon — he replied that they could stay there overnight. He had taken care of everything, and had told everyone at home something about a public meeting, so no one would expect them back. He spread out a blanket, took some bread and cheese from his bag, then a bottle of wine, and looked at her, eyes twinkling.

I’m sure they listened to the little waterfall I used to love jumping under as a child, and I’m sure they marvelled at the size of the pale September moon. I’m sure they were intoxicated by their return to the big city, but intoxicated above all by each other and their physical attraction, which they now permitted themselves to acknowledge openly and experience for the first time. And I’m sure Kitty’s back must have hurt on the rocky ground beside the waterfall, but I’m sure she didn’t care because she was kissing her Andro as she had never kissed him before, and allowing herself to be undressed, touched, tasted, and smelled, allowing her body to be explored, forgetting her embarrassment, forgetting the war. Forgetting the army of wooden angels that was supposed to protect them both from something that was advancing upon them. And I’m sure that afterwards, exhausted and overwhelmed, they will have jumped under the waterfall. That’s what I would have done, Brilka, if that had been where I spent my first night of love.

*

Three days later, Stasia gathered the members of the Jashi family in the spacious reception room, which hadn’t been used since Ramas’ death and was impossible to heat in winter because it was too big. Puffing on her cigarette, she spoke: ‘I can’t stand it any longer. I can’t let my life be destroyed all over again by a bloody war. I have to find him. Kostya. I’m going to speak to Simon, make him pull some strings; maybe then he can get him a transfer. What’s a Georgian doing in the Baltic, anyway? They should send him back to us; it’s still calm here, and the Black Sea Fleet isn’t a war fleet. Kostya has to get away from there. I’ll tie him up and bring him back myself if I have to. I am not going to sacrifice my son as well. I’ve had enough. And you —’ she looked at Andro and Kitty, sitting subdued in the corner ‘— you are not getting married. This is the wrong time to marry. Andro, see that you make something of your life: these are hard times. And you, Kitty, what’s to become of you? All this dancing and singing and prancing about? Do you suppose anyone can live from that? Be sure to listen to Christine. You’re old enough. I have no desire to treat you like little children just because that’s how you behave.’

Then she gave each of them a tentative kiss on the cheek, took the old suitcase she had brought back from Petrograd, and drove to the station. All Christine’s pleas, all her threats, all her attempts to stop Stasia making the dangerous trip across Russia failed utterly. She didn’t want to hear a word about the futility of her plan.

She travelled for days on end — by train, in freight cars, by bus, even in a donkey cart, so she told me — and finally reached Moscow at the end of September. It had been raining heavily and the city was drowning in mud. The mud washed Stasia into the city, and into the war. Just like the last time, almost seventeen years earlier, when she had taken the Military Road in the hope of finding her newly wedded husband, and had found herself in the midst of a civil war. Only this time it wasn’t a civil war, but a world war. This time she was looking not for her husband, but for her son. This time she intended to find him without having to wait two years; this time, even if the whole world came to an end, the outcome of her journey would be a good one.

Stasia couldn’t know — the Sovinformburo had not divulged the information — that by this time there were already more than one million dead to be mourned on Soviet soil.