The New Artistic Director

Novosibirsk, 1960.

Without even taking the time to knock, poet and writer Yury Magalif burst through the door of the rehearsal room where his wife, Irina Michailovna, a concertmaster of the Novosibirsk Philharmonic, was working with Iskra on her repertoire. He couldn’t hide his excitement or the urgency of the moment. “Have you heard? They released the name of the new artistic director for The Krasny Fakel. His name is Konstantin Chernyadev. What do you know about him?”

In post-War Novosibirsk’s cultural skyline, theaters were significant landmarks and the theatre named Krasny Fakel – (Red Torch) – was one of the major ones. The theatres performed in repertory tradition, having several plays on schedule at any given month. With a large number of plays, operas, ballets, and concerts, covered by publications and reviewed in newspapers and magazines, there was always something to see, to discuss, and, of course, to debate. All in all, theatres were very popular in Novosibirsk.

That was definitely true in Iskra’s family. Many of their friends worked in theatres and on the radio, so gatherings at their home were full of the latest gossip about theatre life, all intertwined with laughter, music, and singing.

The Krasny Fakel was at the center of such discussions not only because many of their friends worked there, but because The Krasny Fakel grew to become one of the leading theaters in late 1950s’ Russia, on par with the famous theaters of Moscow and St. Petersburg.

Everybody wanted The Krasny Fakel to prosper, and when news that the principal director of the theatre, Vera Redlikh, was prepared to resign from her position there were a lot of concerns, rumors, and guesses about who would be the next leader. Total secrecy surrounded the appointment naturally caused even more speculations among the city’s intelligentsia.

This is why Yury Magalif rushed to interrupt Iskra and Irina Michailovna’s class so abruptly, with such urgent news – the name of that mysterious person.

Novosibirsk did not know much about Konstantin Chernyadev, only that his last theatre was in some city not far from Moscow, that he was about 40 years old, handsome, and born in Odessa. But people were eager to know more.

When Chernyadev came to Novosibirsk, both his personality and plans for the theater were still cloaked in mystery. It was his style not to share future repertoire or his artistic visions with the critics and reporters, not even personal stories with colleagues. The only way to get to know him was to attend his productions.

His choice for the Krasny Fakel’s first production was surprising, to say the least. It was an unfinished play “Yakov Bogomolov” by Maxim Gorky, a play that had never been performed in theatres before. One that was not even published during Gorky’s lifetime and that said a lot, considering that Maxim Gorky was the third most published author in Russia after Tolstoy and Pushkin.

There was a reason why “Yakov Bogomolov” had never seen the stage for 50 years since its inception. The personal and social conflicts in that play were so complicated, in Chekhov’s sense, and some parts were so close to profanity that the lack of balance in the play’s production could easily lead to a farce instead of a drama or, at the least, in misrepresentation of the main character – a pragmatic, but at the same time, utopian figure.

The success of Chernyadev’s production of “Yakov Bogomolov” was tremendous, and not just locally. That long-forgotten play became a regular production for many theatres and was later filmed by Abram Room as “A Man Before His Time” movie. Seemingly overnight “Yakov Bogomolov” cemented both the reputation of the theater and Chernyadev as its principal artistic director.

Konstantin Chernyadev grew up in Odessa. He directed his very first play, in the spring of 1941, also in Odessa – “Intrigue and Love” by the German dramatist Friedrich Schiller. The play has it all – love and betrayal, moral and religious pressure, jealousy and death. We now understand that it was not a random choice – over the years he came to these themes again and again.

Perhaps, he would have continued his career in Odessa, but a few months later, while on tour in the Western part of Russia, his theater came under attack by the Luftwaffe, and barely escaped the advance of German Army.

That was the time when he received his first official document with the name Konstantin Chernyadev on it. He was born in Odessa as Keskel, in the family of Saul Khalfin and Hannah Bocal. He chose the name Konstantin Chenyadev as an artistic pseudonym for his first production, a few months before the War.

He shared with us that when the possibility of being captured by Germans became very real, the Army’s Political Department, who sponsored their tour, made a very bold move. It was Odessa’s theatre and many of its cast members were ethnic jews. The Political Department was well aware of what fate would await those people if they fell into the hands of the Nazis. Overnight, the new identifications were issued for them, with the names that should not trigger the Nazi’s suspicions if they were captured, and their real documents were destroyed.

It was a miracle that the theater was able to reach Frunze, Kirghistan, where Chernyadev produced an uncounted number of plays. For his works during the War, he was awarded a medal: “For Valiant Labor in the Great Patriotic War 1941-1945”.

We wonder if it was possible for Lisa, who was also in Frunze as an evacuee, to see any of the plays he directed? They would become in-laws years later, but it’s entirely possible that they had been connected through Chernyadev’s artistic interpretations decades earlier.

Although the theatres where Chernyadev worked after the War were not large, his productions were deep and impressive, which brought attention to his works in the theatrical world. One of his critics described his style as a “poetic reality”, another – as a “microscopic life and relationship analysis”. That was not common for post-war patriotic plays.

Uncommon was not only his choice of plays or its interpretations. In many ways, Chernyadev was not a typical artistic director. Among his many eccentricities, the one that irritated critics and journalists the most, was that he rarely gave interviews or discussed his works with them.

Another one that annoyed the audience, was that he never came to the podium after the play was finished, even on premiere days. It’s not that he was shy. “It’s not about me,” he would always say. “It’s all about the feelings, the ideas, about the artistic vision and the actor’s craft.”

The article in the newspaper “Porto-Franko”, dedicated to the 100 year anniversary of Konstantin Chernyadev’s birth, was titled “The artistic director who never raised his voice” (27/1420, Aug 10, 2018).

Although calm and quiet, his voice was convincing and his arguments were powerful. In the eyes of some actors, and even some critics, lack of a drill sergeant’s style was equated to a lack of leadership, and being courteous and honorable, genteel and polished, was viewed by them as a weakness – until they reach the point when “poking a sleeping bear” became the best idiom to describe the situation they would soon find themselves in.

In the late 1950s, when Chernyadev became head of The Krasny Fakel, Novosibirsk grew into the most important industrial, scientific and technological center in Siberia. The addition of the Siberian Branch of the Academy of Science – Academgorodok – a cluster of front-line research facilities together with Novosibirsk University, made its significance even larger.

To emphasize the value of cultural life in Novosibirsk, and to make that Siberian city more attractive to the young generation of scientists and engineers, the Party leaders and the City Administration decided to organize a concert tour of Novosibirsk’s best actors, singers, and musicians to the European part of the country. It was supposed to be a grandiose gala, “Siberian Lights”, with the final series of concerts in the most prestigious place in the country – The Palace of the Soviets, in the Kremlin.

Iskra was selected for that show in the category of love songs and popular music.

Chernyadev, of course, was also involved in the production of the show. His role was to add a dramatic effect to the singer’s performance. One of the singers he worked with, was Iskra.

Iskra remembered being strangely nervous for her first rehearsal with Chernyadev – the mysterious theatrical master, whose name was mentioned in almost every conversation about the theatre. She only remembered him asking how old she was, to which she replied 28, cutting, as usual, a couple of years from her real age. “I already have a 10-year-old daughter”, she proudly added. “Wow, you look like you’re 18”, said Chernyadev, and that was true – Iskra looked young and gorgeous.

It was love at first sight. Iskra was captivated by Chernyadev’s personality, manners, and style, and the attraction was mutual.

Iskra’s concertmaster, Irina Michailovna agreed with Chernyadev’s suggestions about the songs, but with reservations that she almost couldn’t hide. It was not a professional dispute but a personal one.

Irina Michailovna had a special relationship with Iskra, beyond being her teacher and concertmaster for years. It all began with Iskra’s singing lessons but soon was transformed into something other. Because of the age difference between Iskra and the Magalifs, it might be even described as a kind of adoption that would last throughout their whole lives.

Iskra’s father, Alexander Yermolaev, was devoured by the GULAG during the mid-1930s, which deeply resonated with Yury Magalif’s fate. Like Iskra’s father, he was convicted as an “enemy of the state” and had spent years in a labor camp for the possession of not-edited and not-published speeches made at the First State Conference of the Soviet Writers. Unlike Iskra’s father, he survived.

When Yury was allowed to live and work in Novosibirsk, he met Irina Michailovna, a pianist from St. Petersburg’s old-fashioned cultural elite. That was another similarity with Iskra’s family. Iskra’s aunt, Lyudmila, was also a pianist from St. Petersburg, who, together with her grand piano, came to Altay to teach her young niece music at the request of Iskra’s father – “Nobody understands what real music is around here!” he furiously wrote to his sister soon after Iskra’s birth.

The Magalif’s house was a world of sophisticated literature, history, and art – a world that was lost for Iskra with the arrest of her father. Iskra was only eighteen when she came to Novosibirsk, and the Magalifs, not having children of their own were eager to fill the gaps in her education with all those cultural spirits of St. Petersburg, finding in Iskra a kindred spirit, musical talent, and great potential.

Their home was dominated by Yury’s loud jokes and funny stories, and by Irina’s regal-like manners. The most popular of Yury’s children’s book was about the stuffed monkey, Jaconya, who had a prototype in their family – the toy that Irina Michailovna got from her mother for her first birthday, which she kept as a talisman all her life .

It was Iskra’s second home and that was probably the reason for Irina Michailovna being skeptical about Chernyadev. For a decade she had been Iskra’s mentor and the unquestionable authority in guiding her musical style. And now, all of a sudden, she had to defend her views!

During the very first of Iskra’s rehearsals with Chernyadev, Irina Michailovna felt those bolts of lightning between them, and she really didn’t like it. Later, when she finally understood that Iskra’s loyalty to her never wavered, those tensions dissipated but, at the moment, she could not help herself.

Whether it was Chernyadev’s help, Irina Michailovna’s lessons, Iskra’s natural talent, or the fire of the new-found love, Iskra got excellent reviews for her performance on the tour and her contract was prolonged for another year.

She received several invitations to join Moscow’s top bands and orchestras. Iskra loved to repeat stories about how she was just one step away from becoming a Moscow singer. Many years later we found her passes to The Palace of the Soviets from that tours – she valued her success there and kept them for the rest of her life.

In the end, Iskra refused all the offers and returned to Novosibirsk to build her new life.

Meanwhile, in Novosibirsk, on the wings of the same love, Chernyadev finally found the strength to secure permission to produce “Mother Courage and Her Children” by Bertolt Brecht that he had been fighting to add to the theatre repertoire for years.

Again, he was the first to stage that play in Russia. Brecht’s plays, poems, and songs were restricted in Soviet Russia since the 1930s and were only allowed in the late 1950s, under the pressure from the European Communists, who valued the genius of Brecht and whose opinions on the post-War political atmosphere could not be ignored.

The production of “Mother Courage” was eye-opening, voicing the shocking convictions of war at a time when most war-related plays and novels in Russia were centered around the heroic side of the conflict.

Despite being busy with “Mother Courage”, as a clear gift for Iskra on her return from the Moscow tour, Chernyadev selected a play about the life of Aesop by a Brazilian dramatist Guilherme Figueiredo. That play – “The Fox and the Grapes” – had just been officially translated into Russian. Once again, as was his way, Chernyadev was the first to stage that play in Russia.

The plot of “The Fox and the Grapes” was about how the beautiful Clay allows the talent, spirituality, and inner beauty of Aesop to prevail over his frightening appearance and diminished social status. It was Iskra who was Clay, and Konstantin, of course, was Aesop. The play stayed in the Red Torch repertoire for decades and was always a success, year after year.

It was the spring of 1960 when Victor finally faced those unforeseen changes. He was shocked, he was knocked down, he was sick, he was derailed.

There was no indication, in his view, that Iskra was unhappy with him. After a short period of struggle following the birth of their daughter, Iskra completed her education, they traveled together, they had a new apartment in the prestigious “Artists” building in the center of the city, and their home was never boring.

It was always full of young musicians and actors, the next generation as compared to the Magaliff’s house. Music was played all the time. They all loved to sing and play different instruments – Victor and Iskra, Iskra’s mother Maria, who lived with them and sang “urban romance” songs accompanied by the guitar. Katya, Victor’s mother, sang folk songs, and all of their guests, when not busy eating Maria’s pies, usually joined the festivities.

Tanya said that when she was a little girl she felt that people never spoke to each other in their house – they sang.

Victor saw Iskra and himself as a well-balanced family. They had a non-conflict relationship, good friends, and they had Iskra’s mother, Maria, who took care of the in-house logistics. Their daughter, Tanya, did well with her studies, both regular and musical. Both Iskra and Victor were successful in their careers. Victor saw their life as secure and stable, almost perfect.

Was it too stable, too unwavering from Iskra’s perspective? Too balanced for her temper? Was there something missing, or, perhaps, too much of everything?

When Katya, Victor’s mother, learned about the situation, she, in her strict and no-nonsense style came directly to Konstantin Chernydev – to talk, to confront, to understand. Katya never told us what happened during that conversation. We came to know later from Iskra that after the visit Katya called Chernyadev “The Gadfly”, meaning the main character of the famous novel by Ethel Voynich. In that novel, the life of that person was surrounded by mystery, struggle, and tragedy, but was guided by justice, truth, and freedom.

Benjamin Ramm, BBC, wrote that “The Gadfly”, being “one of the most popular English-language novels of the 20th Century is almost unknown in the English-speaking world – a global phenomenon in translation, now neglected in its original form.” In Soviet Russia, in particular, “…it sold over 5 million copies in 107 editions”.  The novel “inspired seven musical adaptations, including an opera by Prokofiev, five theatre adaptations, including an “official” version by George Bernard Shaw, and five film adaptations, one of which featured a famous score by Shostakovich.” Have you ever read that novel? If not then we strongly suggest you check it out, as it’s a hidden gem of English literature.

Iskra, Victor, Kostya, Katya were all well-known in Novosibirsk cultural circles, and there were as many fake-friends of that triangle as there were the real ones.

According to the undisputed family tale, when Katya came back after her conversation with Chernyadev she told Iskra “I understand how you came to fall in love with that man. I’m not blaming you.” And she helped Iskra pack her bags. Tanya was thirteen at the time.

Simple? Maybe. Uncommon, in a general sense? For sure. But with so many atypical events in our relatives’ past – not so unusual, after all. Remember Katya’s own experience?

As the years went by, relationships between Victor and Iskra became anything but common. They forever remained the closest of relatives, like an older brother and younger sister, people living apart, but related and eternally connected to one other. In part, it was because of their daughter, of course, but at the same time, it was about them and them alone.

Later in their life, they effortlessly told stories about their life together, about the interactions with the people who became part of their life, joked about their own missteps, and always complained about long since resolved misunderstandings. They loved to tell anecdotes about their time together, and not only the funny ones. It definitely sounded more like stories told by siblings, not divorcees.

It seems all that intensity, hardship and circumstances of Victor and Iskra’s post-war life, cemented them together on a level that was somehow different and deeper than the usual husband and wife bond.

And what about Iskra and her new artistic director? We will never know whether there truly was a strike of lightning between them that Irina Michailovna felt at their first rehearsal, or whether it was simply the strike of Cupid’s arrow, but the next half-century proved that they were hit hard.

He called her “Ogonyusha” – “Little Fire”, mocking her name Iskra, which means “Spark”. She simply called him Kostya.

If Iskra’s life with Victor was all songs and music, Iskra’s relationship with Chernyadev was all theatre – all their life!

Just as Iskra, Kostya had a son from his first marriage, Vladimir, a couple of years older than Tanya. Iskra and Kostya dreamed that with both their teenage children they could build one complete and happy family…

But that will be another story.