Yelena Skryabina, the young mother who initially half-welcomed the news of invasion, emigrated with her sons to America after the war, becoming Professor of Russian at the University of Iowa. Her husband, left behind in Leningrad, assumed that she had died during evacuation and married her widowed best friend.
Anna Ostroumova-Lebedeva continued to paint and to enjoy official favour, publishing three volumes of heavily censored diaries before her death in 1957.
Mariya Mashkova was sacked by the Public Library during the ‘anti-cosmopolitanism’ campaign, but rehired three years later and worked there until retirement.
Olga Fridenberg lost her directorship of the University’s classics department during the ‘anti-cosmopolitanism’ campaign, and with it her appetite for life, but lived just long enough to see Stalin dead and her cousin Boris Pasternak awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.
Anna Zelenova saw her beloved Pavlovsk Palace fully restored, dying in 1980 while delivering a lecture at a Party meeting.
Aleksandr Boldyrev divorced and remarried shortly after the war. Though he became estranged from his daughter he never lost his attachment to the Hermitage, from which he retired having published over a hundred studies of ancient Persian literature. He died in 1993.
Olga Grechina became an assistant professor at the Herzen Pedagogical Institute, her specialism Pushkin’s use of folklore. She married and had two daughters, and died in 2000 at the age of seventy-eight.
Vera Inber joined the Party and returned with her husband to Moscow. Despite her Trotsky connection she was untouched by the post-war purges and remained a loyal member of the literary establishment until her death in 1972.
Olga Berggolts buckled under the strain, taking to drink and feeling paradoxical nostalgia for the intensity and sense of purpose of siege-time life. A chance meeting at the theatre with her former NKVD interrogator (‘Do you recognise me, Olga Fyodorovna? Can I be of service?’) helped free her exiled doctor father, who returned to Leningrad in 1948 but died less than a year later.9 Though her own death in 1975 got little official notice, news of it spread by word of mouth, and her funeral in Volkovo cemetery turned into a spontaneous public event, attended by thousands of ordinary Leningraders.
Vasili Chekrizov continued to work in shipbuilding and lived to the age of ninety-seven, cursing ‘Bloody Boris [Yeltsin]’ for Communism’s collapse in a postscript to his wartime diary.
Leningrad — Petersburg — is still a melancholy city. Twenty years after the end of Communism, its reintegration into the West still feels partial and provisional, a bright new patina of illuminated signs and PVC windows failing to disguise the dripping gutters and vagrant sycamore seedlings of the dank courtyards behind. Like other former capitals, it also has a Marie Celeste quality, its once-bustling palaces and government buildings now sleepy academic institutes or quiet museums. The melancholy, though, is of the pleasant autumn-leaf, peeling-stucco kind; nostalgic rather than tragic, its attendant ghosts the vivid characters of fiction — white-shouldered Princess Hélène, Raskolnikov with his axe — rather than the shadowy multitudes of the siege. In contrast with brash Moscow, the new rich do not dominate. Bookshops outnumber Versace boutiques; elderly women, shabby of cardigan and splendid of face, fill the stalls of the Philharmonia, and the students flocking out of their lectures on to the Moika flirt with each other, not with the snaky men in fine Italian knits sipping eight-dollar espressos at the bar of the Yevropa. Changing but unchanged is what Akhmatova called the operatic weather: restless skies give their colour to the moving river; snow falls endlessly, in thick disorienting whirls; sea winds bruise the eyes and sweep the streets fiercely clean.
The last word goes to Lidiya Ginzburg, most analytical and perhaps also most accepting of all the blockade memoirists. After even the greatest tragedies, she obliquely reminds us, life flows on. New replaces old; absences are filled; the past is overlaid and forgotten. It is June, the time of the White Nights, and her anonymous Siege Man has been working into the small hours. Emerging from his shuttered office onto the Nevsky, he feels ‘the usual astonishment’ at finding the sun still shining, light bouncing off the wet pavements. ‘It is this inexhaustibility’, he thinks, ‘that real Leningraders love so much. The feeling of untouched reserves of life, waiting to be released each day.’
How Many?*
