Young Soviet pianist Natalia Aronovich is poised for international stardom when, in one shocking act, a Red Guard officer interrupts her performance and removes her from the stage. She later learns the KGB has arrested her father, Pravda journalist Mikhail Aronovich, for his undercover involvement with Soviet dissidents, refuseniks, and Israeli Intelligence.
Soviet officials force Natalia to leave Russia, but she is determined to return and free her father from certain death in the Gulag. She seeks help from Yonatan Yerushalmi, a Mossad agent, but he finds Nataliaâs request impulsive and refuses to assist her. Undaunted, Natalia recruits Soviet-Israeli doctor Tanya Shlain and, equipped with aliases, fake passports, and firearms, they embark on a perilous mission to smuggle Mikhail out of Russia.
Against the backdrop of an oppressive Soviet regime and escalating Mid-East tensions in the months leading to the 1973 Yom Kippur War, Dissonance takes the reader on an emotional and unforgettable journeyâfrom the soul of a pianist who must reinvent herself, to the conflicts that usher in an unforgiving war.
Young Soviet pianist Natalia Aronovich is poised for international stardom when, in one shocking act, a Red Guard officer interrupts her performance and removes her from the stage. She later learns the KGB has arrested her father, Pravda journalist Mikhail Aronovich, for his undercover involvement with Soviet dissidents, refuseniks, and Israeli Intelligence.
Soviet officials force Natalia to leave Russia, but she is determined to return and free her father from certain death in the Gulag. She seeks help from Yonatan Yerushalmi, a Mossad agent, but he finds Nataliaâs request impulsive and refuses to assist her. Undaunted, Natalia recruits Soviet-Israeli doctor Tanya Shlain and, equipped with aliases, fake passports, and firearms, they embark on a perilous mission to smuggle Mikhail out of Russia.
Against the backdrop of an oppressive Soviet regime and escalating Mid-East tensions in the months leading to the 1973 Yom Kippur War, Dissonance takes the reader on an emotional and unforgettable journeyâfrom the soul of a pianist who must reinvent herself, to the conflicts that usher in an unforgiving war.
THE Neva Riverâs hypnotic pattern of gray-green waves captivated Mikhail Lev Aronovich so much so, he had to stop on the bridge risking a late arrival at Shostakovich Hall. He imagined himself swimming underwater, sliding past his troubles, his fears, his doubtsâthe ease in his movements, liberating. Awakened from his trance by gusts of wind whipping through his graying hair, he lifted his eyes. His gaze swept along the horizon to the Winter Palace darkened against a backdrop of a bleeding violet sky.
He welcomed this time of year when the sun never set, when the city finally woke up from its long, darkened days. Taking in the last of his cigarette, Mikhail threw it to the pavement and crushed it under his shoe. He glanced at his watch. Itâs getting late, he thought. With one hand, Mikhail held onto his old leather briefcase; with the other, he curled his fingers around the neck of a wrapped bottle of cognac.
He strode from the bridge past The Bronze Horseman fashioned after Peter the Great, the horse trampling the serpent of treason; hastened his steps through Decembristâs Square, where a bloody battle had once taken place between rebellious officers and an autocratic Tsar. As he approached Saint Isaacâs Cathedral, Mikhail looked up at its golden dome, testimony to a bygone era when religion had a place in society. Itâs always the same. Whoever is in power crushes the will of the people. The thought dampened his mood as he turned the corner to Malaya Morskava Street, its pavement eclipsed by the jagged shadows of the buildings that flanked its length.
His footfalls took on the evenness of a metronome, a reminder of his daughter Nataliaâs piano practice years back when she was a child. Andante, the metronome had willed her delicate, determined fingers to adhere to the moderate tempo of a Bach Invention. Andante, slower, Mikhail stepped in tempo to his daughterâs piece. Like her mother, Natalia had practiced until every nuance was mastered. He would often stop whatever he was doing, listen to her play, and find her so absorbed that nothing stood between her and the music. As her practice continued, her pieces gained speed. Channeling Nataliaâs tempo, he quickened his pace to an Allegro Moderato.
Mikhail recalled that morningâs call with Natalia when she phoned him at work. Following the pleasantries, she said, âPapa, try not to be late this time. The competition begins at seven-thirty tonight.â
âNatashka,â he said, âdonât you worry. Iâll be there in plenty of time,â adding a calm to his voice which masked his anxiety.
âHow can I not worry?â Natalia asked. âRemember Moscow? You arrived just before intermission and even then, you seemed so...preoccupied.â Static hissed through the line, and Mikhail could hear what sounded like a phone booth door slam on the other end.
He wished he could tell her everything. She was an adult, after all. He cursed himself for never finding the courage to tell her the story of how his life had taken a dangerous turn long ago. And he certainly wasnât going to say anything to her over the phone.
âI wonât be late this time, Natashka, I promise. And afterwards, weâll celebrate,â he said.
As Mikhail spoke, he fidgeted with a pile of notes on his desk interspersed with a weekâs worth of Pravda newspapers, a typewriter, and the latest report from TASS. A colleague at the next desk raised a brow in Mikhailâs direction. Their boss had just entered the room speaking with a stranger dressed in a gray suit. His boss kept his focus on Mikhail, whose stomach suddenly recoiled as he recognized the stranger as a man who had followed him on the trains the night before.
Mikhailâs hand tightened around the receiver. âIâve got to go,â he said.
âProshchay...Papa.â The hesitation in Nataliaâs voice echoed Mikhailâs fears.
âProshchay, moy dragotsennyy.â Mikhail said goodbye to his precious one.
He checked his watch. It read 19:10. Nyet! Agitated he couldnât keep a simple promise to his only child, he quickened his pace.
Not far behind, footfalls blended with his cadence, and he felt his skin prickle. Despite his desire to run, Mikhail willed himself to slow down. The footfalls from behind slowedâto his exact pace. Not daring to look back, he stopped short and pretended to adjust his briefcase. No one passed him.
Mikhail resumed his walk. Within the block, he came to a cafĂ© popular among the cityâs intelligentsia and commuters. If he ducked into the cafĂ©, he might lose any stalkers. Before he entered, he stopped at the cafĂ© window thinking this might confuse his follower. Glancing at the reflection in the window for anyone suspicious, he saw a tall man with a thin frame and a creased, worn expression etched between his brows. The manâs cheeks were gaunt with shadows. A moment passed before he registered that the person looking at him was his own reflection, no one else. How heâd aged these last few months! Mikhail sighed and entered. His eyes swept the back for an exit. None! Patrons waited for tables or gathered around the bar, smoking, downing shots of vodka, freeing up a weekâs worth of built-up tensions through chatter.
At the bar, Mikhail kept an eye on the entryway while he ordered a drink. He placed his package and briefcase beside him and lit a cigarette. His stomach rumbledâhe hadnât eaten anything since morning, a meager breakfast of weak tea, black bread, and kippers. He started to feel nauseous, overcome by the smoke and his hunger. Two gray-suited men entered, one calm and measured, the other straining his neck forward, impatient. KGB. Mikhail lowered his head and looked away. He recognized the first man from earlierâthe same guy who spoke to his boss that morning at Pravda. He allowed his shaking fingers to pull the cigarette away from his lips, crushed what was left of it into an ashtray, then picked up his belongings. It was time to move. He followed a boisterous crowd on its way to a table, until he was close enough to blend in with another group on its way out.
Outside, he mingled with the crowd until they dispersed. A burning sensation rose in his chest. Keep it together! Natalia must be playing by now, he cautioned himself. Mikhailâs fist gripped the neck of the cognac bottle. Footsteps pounded behind him, quicker this time, not coordinated with his own. One more block until Nevsky Prospekt.
On the street, a black Volga slowed down ahead of him and stopped at the curb. A short man wearing a black leather bomber jacket jumped out. Before Mikhail could register what was happening, a muscular arm wrapped around his neck from behind, choking him and dragging him backwards as his heels scraped the pavement. Mikhail gasped. Piercing spasms shot through his neck and down his back. He saw flashes of Nataliaâs past performances. Why of all nights, were the Chekists after him tonight? Another attacker yanked Mikhailâs briefcase from under his arm and knocked his wire-rims from his face. He still had the cognac. In a desperate attempt, Mikhail tried to smash the cognac bottle over the leather-jacketed manâs head, but thick fingers pried his own from the bottleâs neck; he saw Leather Jacket sneering as he drew a knife from his pocket. Mikhail envisioned a brutal ending.
âNyet! Not that way!â came a shout. The knife disappeared. One of Mikhailâs assailants smashed the bottle of cognac onto the concrete and threw him down with it. They all swarmed over him, kicking his every centimeter from knees to crown. He recoiled. One of his eyes swelled shut, and the mixture of liquor, broken glass, and the metallic smell of blood overwhelmed him.
âMikhail Lev Aronovich. What a piece of work,â said an amused voice. âWeâre on to you. Youâve stolen the Brezhnev document. Where is it if not in your briefcase?â
Mikhail knew if he survived this abuse, his only recourse depended on his resilience and ability to protect a document that could threaten the lives of many people.
The voice mocked him. âGuess what. Your samizdat articles are trash. But the Brezhnev document!â The voice paused. âWhat a fucking hypocrite. Itâs beyond me how you were almost editor of Pravda.â
 Mikhail groaned inwardly. He would never risk putting the others in danger.
 âLet me tell you something, Zionist Yid. Where youâre about to go, you better use your tongue as freely as your pen or youâll be missing out on a lot more than your bratâs recitals.â
     Mikhailâs body convulsed with violent coughs. Heâd rather die before disclosing anything to these savages. Within seconds, his assailants dragged him into the waiting Volga. The life Mikhail had lived, enlightened in truth, darkened in fear, spun before his eyes from the images of those he loved to Leningradâits glory, its war-torn terror, its vibrant colors, and white-nights, until every dueling image vanished.
âDissonanceâ by Carol Cosman is set in 1973, a time of upheaval in Russia and Israel that catches journalist and dissident Mikhail Aronovich and his daughter concert pianist Natalia in its grasp.
The title, âDissonance,â congers the friction created by the clash between ideas and ideals of freedom and repression, and the musical notion that can at times harshly expresses that conflict.
The story is broad in scope, breadth and action, following Mikhail during his imprisonment and torture at the hands of the  Russian KGB, and the plans Natalia and her band of Israeli spies concoct to rescue him.
âDissonanceâ is a story about how love of family can overcome the most dire circumstances.
The storyâs strengths are showing how commitment, family and those ideals of freedom can overcome repression, brutality and evil.
Those are also the storyâs weaknesses.
Natalia is driven by the loss years before of her mother, also a concert pianist, which left Mikhail as her sole parent. Her desire to save her only parent and her love for him, is repeated again and again and again, the repetition of which serves little purpose.
There is little doubt about the outcome, thus the notion of danger and terror is missing. The story begins with Mikhailâs arrest and rolls on from there. The Israelis are smart, and the brutal Russians are not. Too much in the tale is black and white: Good is good, and bad is bad. But it is never that way, especially in fiction. There are always shades of gray.
One interesting trick of  the story is that nearly everyone is a double agent, and the infiltration  from one side to the other seems  as simple as passing water through paper. It is fun factoring in which side the players will take.
Still, the story is beautifully described and includes wonderful passages where the author illustrates how composers like Chopin  express in their compositions the notions of  love, anger, freedom, repression and escape.
But that notion is underdeveloped. There is dissonance because the author tells the reader so.
While the reader appreciates the struggles of characters living is a world turned upside down, the reader is never truly invited inside those lives.
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