Ukrainian and Russian Stories

Click pics to enlarge. Top, Brighton Beach.

Letter from Shenzhen (22-4): Ukrainian and Russian Stories

Ukraine and New York
All real New Yorkers, who pride themselves for their diversity, know more about Russia and the Ukraine than the average US citizen. While the upper class may only know the “Russian” Tearoom adjacent to Carnegie Hall, those who are into different cultures and cuisines know the Russian center is Little Odessa, in Brighton Beach, next to Coney island. For some info of this district, home to the largest Ukranian and Russian (mosty Jewish) diaspora in the West, read this.

When you walk around where I live in NYC, that is Flushing, you would not know that, long before it became Chinatown, it held a large Russian Ukranian Jewish population. Now, only a handful of senior citizens are left of that population. Next to my apartment building is a nursing home, where some of them live. On a sunny day, you will see them sitting on the bench outside, chatting in Russian. A few years ago, there used to be a deli around the block that sells Russian and Polish sausages (like Kielbasa), cured meats and various foods. So I have tasted Russian ham etc. The workers have Asian faces, being Central Asian descendants of ethnic Koreans (Stalin doubted their loyalty and removed them from Eastern Russia an re-settled them in Central Asia). I really miss that shop. The bread and deli counter were infinitely superior to that of the usual American supermarket.

Walking South from where I live, before reaching Jamaica, there is one of NYC’s many Hasidic neighborhoods. The Hasidic movement originated from the Ukraine. BTW, these are anti-vaxxers! Not just for covid, but for everything. Not so long ago, they were responsible for New York’s Measles breakout. For more about Ukranian Jews, there are any number of entries on line (here is one). Their Klezmer music is also sometimes encountered in otherwise classical albums.

Stigmatized Russian Musicians
All NYC classical fans who actually go to concerts (which is most of them, in a city like NYC, brimming with events) know even more. Given the large number of Ukrainian-Americans in NYC, every time Gergiev or Pletnev or Netrebko, allegedly Putin-supporters, appears, you can be sure there is a small protest force outside, especially Carnegie Hall. Today, as casualties of the war (maybe just excuses), Gergiev had been fired from Munich PO, Netrebko had withdrawn all her appearances. Is this just? Read this great post from a German musician (the site has other interesting snippets on Ukraine).

Ukraine in Classical Music
Kiev was made famous musically by Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition (as orchestrated by Ravel; others you can safely forget) which concludes with the Great Gate of Kiev (does not exist). The sixth episode depicts two Jews, one poor, one rich - the musical caricature is not exactly flattering. This piece is known to some non-classical listeners through Emerson, Lake and Palmer.

But of much greater relevance, not just a namesake, is Shostakovich’s harrowing Symphony No. 13, Babi Yar, which employed Yevstuchenko’s poem of the same name that is a remembrance of the mass execution of Jews by the Nazi’s outside Kiev. It’s ironic that there are debates about Neo-Nazi’s in the Ukraine now.

Now, as befits a blog that advocates classical music, information about great classical musicians from Ukraine. The list is long - very long. I will only mention past greats, not current musicians, some of whom are on the battle fields now.

Vladimir Horowitz I want to start with him, because his own history, much documented in biographies, reflect the history of Ukraine. BTW, his mono recording of Pictures is legendary. In the 1919 Ukrainian-Russian war, his family lost everything. His elder brother died from the war and his second eldest brother suffered from mental illness and later committed suicide. Young Horowitz had to perform to earn money for the family. In 1921, he met fellow Ukrainian Nathan Milstein, who stayed with the family for 3 years. Horowitz gradually became very famous and as agent for the government played for laborers, factory workers and soldiers. In 1924 Arthur Schnabel discovered him and urged him to emigrate to the US. In 1925, he did, with Milstein, with the unlikely help of Trotsky.

Fellow Ukranian expats include Gregor Piatigorsky, Shura Cherkassky etc. Many musicians with Ukrainian roots stayed in Russia, like David Oistrakh, Leonid Kogan, Emil Gilels, Sviatoslav Richter. Need I say more? In terms of ethnicity, only the last was not Jewish. Those mentioned above are so famous that every classical listener will recognize them. Two lesser known names from the Ukraine are Rotislav Dubinsky, founding member of the great Borodin Quartet, and his wife, under-rated Luba Edlina (the latter born in Kharkiv, now much in the news). They emigrated to Canada and formed, with Yuli Turovsky (also Jewish), my favorite trio, the Borodin Trio (all their Chandos recordings are worthwhile; the latter also directed the estimable I Musici de Montreal, on the same label).

Due to the times they lived in, the memoirs or biographies of some of these great musicians make for gripping reading, but most are oop. I have Nathan Milstein’s oop From Here to the West, and it will make you laugh and cry at the same time. Ditto Rotislav Dubinsky’s Stormy Applause: Making Music in a Worker's State (which I also have, also oop). In the shaded text below are some great pages that I found on the net. Stalin and Prokofiev famously died on the same day and the Borodin Quartet was called to duty, and so was David Oistrakh etc, I assure you reading it is worth your time.

On March 6, 1953, at 5 in the morning, the telephone rang. I picked up the receiver and heard the voice of Yaroslav Alexandrov.

''You know why I'm calling so early. . . .''

''Has the inevitable occurred?''

''Yes. Vice Minister Kholodilin himself called me; they need a quartet. I'll let you know when and where. Be ready. Tails and black tie.''

''I don't have a black one.''

''Get one! Make it yourself. I'll call back.''

Five minutes later, the phone rang again.

''Are you ready? Leave now. We'll meet in the Composers' House, and from there to the Hall of Columns.''

''Why the Composers' House?''

''Oh, you don't know yet. . . . Prokofiev also died. At the same time.''

''What a nightmare.''

''Kholodilin said to bring Tchaikovsky.''

''For whom?''

''Both.''

''That's no good,'' I said. ''Prokofiev didn't like Tchaikovsky.''

''Want to call the Vice Minister yourself?''

He hung up.

The streets were still dark as I passed through side alleys to the Composers' House, where Prokofiev's body lay in its coffin. In the lobby, several composers were standing, smoking. I shook everybody's hand. In the hall, a closed coffin stood alone in the center. A funeral wreath leaned against the piano.

Vice Minister Kholodilin appeared.

''Hurry up!'' he said. ''Where is the quartet? We've got to hurry. It will be difficult to get through the crowds.''

The rest of our quartet, violinist Yaroslav Alexandrov; cellist Valentin Berlinsky, and Rudolf Barshai, our violist, arrived together.

''It's already impossible to get through the center,'' Alexandrov explained. ''We had to go around.''

''Get your instruments ready,'' Kholodilin hurried him. ''What are you playing?''

''You suggested Tchaikovsky.''

''We also have Beethoven,'' I put in.

''Tchaikovsky is good,'' Kholodilin said. ''We'll begin right away.''

The wreath was laid on the coffin. Everyone in the hall, including the workmen, stood silently. Kholodilin gave us a nod, and we began the slow movement from Tchaikovsky's Second Quartet.

We had played about half of the movement when Kholodilin stopped us. ''Enough, fellows. Time to go.''

Moscow's streets were filled with people heading toward the center of the city. At Pushkin Square, we could get no farther. ''There's nothing we can do,'' Kholodilin said. ''I'll call the police.''

We waited a long time. Finally, about 20 policemen, all large men, appeared. The policemen formed a ring around us, firmly linking their arms, stepped back a little and with a running start pushed into the crowd. We moved forward a bit and came to a stop. The three largest policemen drove a wedge into the crowd. The rest rushed behind them, pulling us along.

Several times, we were squeezed by the crowd. We held our instruments tightly to our bodies and swam with the current.

All the side streets were full of people fighting their way into the main stream. There were still a few blocks to go.

The policemen worked twice as hard.

Suddenly, it became quiet. We were brought to the stage entrance of the Hall of Columns. I fell to the floor, exhausted. Kholodilin leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. He wiped his forehead, looked at us and asked, ''Still alive? Then let's go.''

We climbed up the long stairway to the hall. Next to me, holding his chest, walked the composer Mikhail Rauhverger.

''What a misfortune! To think that a week ago we were sitting together at the table.''

''At the table?'' I asked him, amazed. ''How come?''

''At his place. He was showing us his latest composition.''

''Oh, you mean Prokofiev. I thought . . .''

''No, no. Of course, I meant Prokofiev. I wanted to ask you; why did you choose to play Tchaikovsky?

Please understand me, I like Tchaikovsky very much, but Prokofiev. . . . You see, his taste was different.''

''I know,'' I said. ''But we were told what to play.''

''Even at the funeral?''

''At the funeral, before it, and after.''

He smiled. ''Oh, I see.''

The State Orchestra was already seated on the stage with their conductor Alexandr Gauk standing at the podium. More musicians crowded quietly backstage. Kholodilin stood up on a chair and looked around above everybody's heads.

''Where is the quartet?'' he demanded. ''Get on stage. Sit down and watch Gauk. You begin as soon as the State Orchestra finishes, and continue until the Bolshoi Orchestra takes their places. Then I'll tell you what to do next.''

We sat on the corner of the stage. I glanced at Gauk and gave him a slight nod, but he did not respond. A look of horror was fixed in his eyes.

In the center of the hall, surrounded by three rows of guards, Stalin's body lay in an open coffin. From behind a curtain, a group of high-ranking party leaders emerged and proceeded to the coffin. I recognized Vyacheslav Molotov, Lazar Kaganovich, Georgi Malenkov, along with Lavrenti Beria, the chief of police. David Oistrakh walked past us, violin in hand, and stood next to Gauk. Oistrakh raised his violin, Gauk his baton. The hall was filled with the sounds of Tchaikovsky's ''Serenade Melancolique.'' Oistrakh played with a deep expressive tone.

A river of humanity flowed into the hall. There was loud sobbing, cries and howling.

We saw a tall, gray-faced man walk up to Oistrakh.

''Suslov,'' Alexandrov whispered to me, referring to Mikhail Suslov, the leading Soviet ideologue.

Oistrakh, still playing, bent over and was told something. His playing sped up, becoming lighter and less expressive. Suslov returned to the honor guard.

We kept our eyes on Gauk. He conducted the last chord and held it a long time, signaling us with his frightened eyes. I raised my violin and nodded back. As the orchestra players quietly left the stage, we began to play Tchaikovsky's Second Quartet for the second time that morning. Then the stage filled with members of the Bolshoi Theater Orchestra. The new conductor was terrified as well. I turned to him and he immediately started the orchestra without giving us time to finish.

Since we had no further instructions, we sat at our places, listening to the music. When the orchestra stopped, a piano started up from the other corner of the stage.

The violinist Pavel Mirsky, holding his case, walked to the edge of the stage and looked sadly at the coffin. Two men in identical suits ran up to him, tore the case away, pinned his arms behind his back and dragged him away. After the piano, a choir sang, then Oistrakh, Lev Oborin and Svyatoslav Knushevitsky played the first movement of Tchaikovsky's trio.

AT 3 O'CLOCK, THE GOVERNMENT leaders reappeared. In the same order, they proceeded to the center of the hall and surrounded Stalin's coffin.

I put my violin into its case.

''Don't go too far,'' Alexandrov said. ''They could call us any minute.''

I walked into the foyer and saw Oistrakh sitting by the window. I bowed from a distance. He held out his hand.

''I heard this is your second funeral today.''

I nodded.

''How was it there? Many people?''

''About 15.''

''So few? Prokofiev picked the wrong day to die.''

We spoke quietly to the strains of solemn music from the hall. Musicians walked by and bowed to Oistrakh. Oistrakh nodded back to each.

For some time, we listened silently to the music. Then Oistrakh said, ''The main thing is not to lose your identity and to continue working.'' He looked me in the eyes and smiled. ''You have a quartet. That is such joy! You can forget everything else in the world. I'm playing a lot of chamber music these days. Tomorrow we were going to give the first performance of two trios, but because of the mourning, all concerts have been canceled.''

''For three days?'' I asked.

''Yes, three days.''

''And we have to stay here?''

''I'm afraid so.''

''It's a pity we don't have a chess set,'' I said. ''I was in such a panic this morning that I forgot everything.''

''I have a pocket set,'' Oistrakh whispered.

''Do you think?''

''We can cover it with music.''

He placed the small chess set in the score of a trio by the composer Arno Babadzhanian. I called my moves in a whisper, and he carefully moved the flat pieces. He played very well; the time was unlimited, and the mournful music pleasant.

LEV OBORIN BROUGHT us back to reality. He bent down to Oistrakh and said, ''Babadzhanian is beside himself. He says you have been studying the same place in his trio for two hours now.''

Then he looked at the music. ''Oh, that's what it is! Very ingenious. Bravo!''

''How are things in there?''

''About the same as before. It's impossible to get out. I'm hungry. Whatever there was in the buffet is all gone now.''

I remembered that I had eaten nothing since early morning.

''Do we play again?'' Oistrakh asked.

''Not today.''

''And the quartet?''

''I really can't say. If they don't bother you, that means you're not needed.''

''Well, then?'' I turned to Oistrakh. ''Shall we finish studying the rest of the trio?''

''Why not? Only let's turn pages from time to time.''

We played several more games. Gradually, it grew darker and more difficult to see the pieces.

''Shall we stop with this one?'' Oistrakh suggested. ''I think we've spent the day very fruitfully.''

PUBLIC ACCESS TO Stalin's body had ended for the night, but we remained in the Hall of Columns. People slept backstage and in the foyer, in chairs and on the floor, wrapped in overcoats or just in their tuxedos. Avoiding the sleeping bodies, I walked through the foyer and came to the front stairway. There, too, people slept, but there were a few free steps. I sat down and closed my eyes.

I immediately saw that morning's crowd, with myself in the middle of it, being swept in one direction, then another. People with distorted faces stretched their hands toward me, grabbed my violin, reached for my face and hair. Someone behind me grabbed my shoulder and started to shake me. The violin slid out of my hands and fell in the mud. Immediately, people stepped on it, there was an unbearable noise, I tried to bend down, but they held me and shook me. . . .

I opened my eyes. Alexandrov was shaking me by the shoulder.

''You know how to sleep! We have to go. They're starting again. We play before the orchestra comes.''

I straightened my back and got up. ''Did you sleep?''

''Not a wink. All night, Kholodilin and I were making a schedule. Let's go.''

Carrying our instruments, we came out on stage and sat down. We played, the orchestra took their places, we finished, and while the orchestra began playing, Kholodilin left us the day's schedule on Alexandrov's music stand. We were to remain on stage and fill all the gaps between the orchestras. They changed, but we stayed. Over and over again, we played Tchaikovsky's Second Quartet. Everything began to appear unreal, repeating itself as if in a strange dream. And again, people walked in, heads bare, looking at the coffin with the same expression of grief and humility.

Toward evening, I fell asleep with my violin in my hands. Alexandrov nudged me. I fell asleep once more and he nudged me again.

''Don't fall off the chair,'' he whispered. ''We have to play now.''

When it grew dark, the doors were closed, and we left the stage, scarcely able to move our stiff legs. We sat on the steps where I had slept the previous night. A young musician from the Radio Orchestra, Dimitri Shebalin, approached us and sat down. From his pockets he took out a bottle of wine and some paper cups, and said, ''Well, what are you going to do?''

''Drink,'' I said.

He broke into a wide smile. No one had smiled here for the last two days.

''Sounds good to me,'' he said, filling the cups.

''Why not? The king is dead, long live the king!''

''Quiet, quiet,'' Alexandrov said. ''The king is dead, but still. . . .''

THE THIRD AND final day came. We still had had nothing to eat. Contact with the outside world was maintained only by those who could make their way back after going out into the streets. They said that people kept coming and coming. An enormous jam developed from which there was no exit, and new people kept squeezing it tighter and tighter. At first, trucks were used to restrain the crowd. But the pressure grew even stronger, and the trucks themselves were eventually swept away by the flow of people.

Late in the evening, we put mutes on our instruments and began Tchaikovsky's ''Andante Cantabile.'' We played quietly, without vibrato, the way Russian folk songs are sung. The delicate sound of the quartet drowned in the incessant noise of the slowly moving crowd. We played through the middle and suddenly the quartet sounded louder.

I looked around the hall. The procession had stopped, only the soldiers remained by the coffin. The orchestra had disappeared; we were on stage by ourselves. Kholodilin walked up and said, ''Another five minutes and that will be all. You can go home.'' We played through to the end. The last sound faded away, and we walked off the stage.

- ROSTISLAV DUBINSKY

Postscript: The tragedy in Ukraine has seized the world’s imagination. Why War? With time, different narratives and views have manifested themselves, especially in this part of the world. There is no doubt that there is a big power struggle with big money behind. Behind the absolute tragedy, this is the dirtiest politics I have witnessed in years. I’ll be succinct - let’s just say while I condemn Russia’s act and any war, I am also not at all in sympathy with the US and EU and NATO for their long-time actions and private motifs. If America really promotes human rights and not selectively turns a blind eye due to oil money and geopolitics, let an American president sanction and sever relationship with Saudi Arabia’s disgusting Crown Prince (who is not increasing oil production) and do justice to Khashoggi (it’s been 3 years). As for war criminal trials, don’t forget American presidents and generals who manufactured excuses to invade another country. As a member of the Asian-American community, whose lives are being imperiled in the US right now, I think the US has to own up to its own dark present and past history rather than spreading information that it’s the world’s savior. Enough of this ghastly stuff.