Soviet Pain in the Mainfranken Theatre

Mischa Maisky plays Dmitrij Šostakovič

The cello sounds of Maisky linger: Together with the Philharmonic Orchestra Würzburg, Mischa Maisky played the 1st Cello Concerto in E flat major by Dmitrij Šostakovič, dedicated to one of Maisky's teachers Mstislav Rostropovič. But the connection between Maisky and Šostakovič is even more multifaceted. Both were musicians in and victims of the Soviet regime. A layer of injustice and anger connects the two. And both find a way of dealing with the weight in music.

Dmitrij Šostakovič was a master at escaping Soviet censorship. Thus his work can be interpreted diametrically: for Soviet functionaries as system-compliant, corresponding to the patriotic-aesthetic state doctrine, for the other side as ironic-system-critical and anything but socialist in spirit. His work can be interpreted as a hidden-artistic expression of anger despite captivity, despite censorship, despite fear of punishment and torture. He works with a depth of pain that I cannot make accessible with words. I can write about how sad I am, torn apart, "between two worlds", deeply trapped in injustices from which no escape seems possible. And yet, I cannot do what Šostakovič does. And Mischa Maisky is certainly aware of this too, and so he played Šostakovič's 1st Cello Concerto, which transports this painful anger in all its density.

Cello Concerto No. 1 E flat major op. 107

The concerto begins. With full force, the aggressive-intrusive cello strikes you. It plays the DSCH theme (D–E flat–C–B), which is interpreted as an autobiographical reference (short for Dmitri Schostakovitch). However, the cello is not accompanied by an orchestra that would do justice to the force: Small march interjections or chromatically-rising flute sequences underscore the angry, penetrating motif and leave you feeling confused. You don't quite understand. In the second movement, orchestra and cello are together sorrowful-dissonant and full of melancholy. Towards the end of the movement, the initially-sorrowful melody returns; the cello plays this in unmistakably painful overtones; the orchestra withdraws, only individual instruments play notes, but somehow inappropriately, as if they had lost their way. The third movement synthesises the aggression of the first movement and the sorrowful-dissonant melancholy of the second. Only the cello plays. The cello is completely alone. Completely alone in its sorrow and anger. It poses penetrating questions without finding answers. It tears apart. Memory catches up with you. The first and second movements linger, sting, leave you in incomprehension with the things that must have happened to feel this way and at the same time understanding with the anger and despair that finds an outlet here. The finale takes on the anger of the cello, expands it, intensifies it and makes even more penetrating reference to the 'experiences' from movements I and II. The piece ends without any hint of resolution. You are left with the angry confrontation with the things that have happened, with the depth of a scarcely accessible pain and with fascination at Šostakovič's ability to articulate this. You must find your own way of dealing with the pain. Šostakovič's answer to this was vodka, cigarettes and the art of circumventing oppressive censorship and finding space for his anger.

Šostakovič transports a pain that is addictive, which I want to feel in its full intensity, even if and especially because it hurts so deeply; it strikes to the depths of my being and stirs up everything that is, which is what I never knew that is. Your pain testifies to a despair, a life whose suffering I may never fully understand in my privilege. Because you were trapped between who you were, what you thought, who you had to be and who wanted to be different, to an extent that I cannot empathise with. And yet this captivity exists everywhere in this world, those who fight for difference, against the must, for a togetherness that does not define itself through the exclusion of those who are different. You, in all your fear and courage at once, how you sat at home with packed suitcases waiting for arrest. You were so brave. We hear and play your music with utmost grace, because you paint through the tones that work through you in us, a picture that makes no halt before the diffuseness and density of feeling.

Mischa Maisky and the anger

In the concert hall. The third movement. The man sitting next to me picks up notebook and pen. He observes. Maisky raises the bow. The solo begins. D. E flat. C. B. Maisky's facial muscles tense.

His eyebrows draw together, his eyelids too. He closes his eyes during a brief pause, opens them as he positions the bow against the cello strings again. And he plays. And I see Shostakovich's controlled, deliberate anger, which becomes perceptible through Maisky, his expression, his virtuoso playing in perfect clarity. Maisky appears almost aggressive in the rapid back and forth of the bow. Could that be due to memories of the Soviet labour camp? It is admirable how one can express anger in such a manner, which does not resort to impulsivity. And yet Shostakovich and Maisky are proof that precisely this is possible. Aggression which, however, does not aim at aggression, but merely at its expression. The man drawing beside me must have perceived that too: he captured that aggression in Maisky's expression. It is precisely this 'aggressive' tension in Maisky that lends what is being played such tangibility and multidimensionality that by the end of the cello concerto, a tear actually ran down my cheek.