ალექსი მაჭავარიანის ბიოგრაფია

This morning my wife and I drove up to this god-blessed village of Tskneti. I went out on the balcony and for some reason an episode from my childhood came to my mind.

A lot of stories have been told by party agitators about Lenin in my young days. These stories were perceived as fairy tales and I came to think that Lenin was an undefeatable hero. Boys in Gori would say that he is the best wrestler in the world and can use his sword like nobody else. We also thought that he shot superbly to the target. In a nutshell, lies and truth were so intertwined that children’s imagination acquired a new hero. But soon these illusions gradually got diminished and ultimately vanished altogether.

This process started with an unusual story in Gori. An orphanage was opened in Gori one day and a lot of children got admitted to it from all over Georgia and other republics of the Soviet Union. Particularly many children were from Russia. Conditions at the shelter were very poor. Children were kept in hunger and miserable poverty.

Once a man, called Shoti, arrived in Gori. Rumors were spread that he was a high-ranking official, communist and fighter. So, this Shoti went to the orphanage to meet the children and asked them a strange question:

“Children, do you want to know who is almighty, God or Lenin?”

“We do, we do” followed the group answer in multiple voices.

“Then, let’s ask God to give us bread first and then Lenin. Let us then see who will satisfy your plea. I will start and you need to repeat.”

Thus, he started to prey to God. Children repeated the words like parrots. Silence fell after the long prayer. Situation was strange; children were waiting for something to happen. They were brought to the ecstasy. But the dreamed bread was not to be seen.

Second stage of the game play started. Shoti was now preying to Lenin. Children keenly repeated the words in this case as well, but they had not finished saying the words “…please give us bread” twice in a row when loafs of bread fell from the attic through the staircase.

Children dashed to the spot and filled their pockets, laps, mouths and any other place they imagined with handfuls of bread pieces.

Comrade Shoti was beaming with pride for this victory. However, the fact remains that not everybody can be deceived. Thus, Shoti’s reputation suffered.

* * * * * * *

It happened in January of 1945. Winter was exceptionally cold. WWII was not yet over, though our victory caused no doubts. After the announcement of the war it was our first trip to Russia with concerts. Namely, my colleagues and I were scheduled to go to Leningrad. In this context, we were like the first swallows of spring arriving to this heroic city. Andro Balanchivadze and Shalva Azmaiparashvili were together with me. Shalva should have conducted our compositions – Symphony Nr. 1 by Balanchivadze and my Piano Concerto. It seemed that our train tried to run through the endless fields of Russia faster than it was possible at all. Philharmonic Hall of Leningrad after the siege and blockade with its famous symphonic orchestra was getting back to normal life despite the most difficult blows experienced during the WWII – bombings, hunger, misery, poverty, cold, illness and who knows what else. None of the other cities experienced the same atrocities as Leningrad. Citizens of no other city had to ever demonstrate the same stamina and patience as Leningrad residents.

In short, we were heading to this amazing city through the vast fields of Russia. We stopped at one railway station. It was a deserted as a result of bombing, houses and trees brought to ashes, melted sheets of metal. Nothing could be seen. Temporary wooden sheds built for railway workers gave signs of life.

Train stopped for 15 minutes, so we dressed in warm clothes, drank a glass of vodka each and went out. After the journey in packed wagons with no fresh air it was unusually pleasant to breathe cold and healthy dry air. Surroundings were impressive with white snow all around. Ice covered ground gave pleasant cracking sound when we walked. This harmony of nature was diminished with smashed, ruined infrastructure marked with brutal war. Due to the great freeze it was impossible to stand motionless and we walked down the terminal towards the steam train locomotive.

On the left side of the rails, by the ruins of the former railway station two men were standing. They were looking at us and gestured to go to them. We immediately went towards them. When we got to them we asked what they wanted.

“Hush…Be silent” whispered they. We got somewhat confused.

“Can you hear this?” asked one of the men whispering again. We looked around and listened carefully. Though we heard nothing.

“Can’t you hear cracking?” asked the other one and pointed at the pile of something at the ruins of the house nearby.

“What cracking? Do they still shoot here?” I asked and followed their gaze with mine.

We got closer to the place and… I froze. I stood stiff and speechless… My brain panicked. I had never seem anything of this sort before. I had neither heard anything similar and could not even imagine this. By the ruins of the railway station skeletons of soldiers were hyped one over another. This mountain of bones was covered with snow as a white blanket. Now I could hear the cracking coming from underneath. It was an awful sight. Bones of humans were cracking and breaking of freeze as dry timber would do. When we came further close, we could see that some soldiers had been undressed, while others wore boots or underwear. Only some of them had coats on, but down below the hype. Judging the outfit, we could easily figure it out that these were corps of German soldiers. We should have not pitied them, because they kept killing our brothers, sisters and fathers, ruined and destroyed our villages and cities… Still, we were shocked with what remained of the atrocities. Usually, wars leave behind great death. War and peace are concepts that do not come together. Time of departure was signaled and we left the spot in silence and returned to our berths. Thoughts took us away. This awful, silent cracking did not let my mind rest in peace. Who knows how many innocent youth - musicians, composers, poets or writers were skeletoned in the pack. They might have had a great future ahead of them. They might not have been all fascists.

Was it not with the hot accidental bullet of this wicked life that killed Anton Webern, most talented composer of the XX century… Roles might have been changed and some unknown composer in Germany or Austria at this very day, hour and minute might have accidentally come across my skeleton among others by the ruins of a railway station. Would I be guilty of sacrificing my life for the protection of interests of my country?

* * * * * * *

Sergei Lifar (Sergei Lifarev) is an extremely interesting person, with entertaining manner of talk, polite, kind, generous, hospitable and celebrated choreograph. Previously he was a famous dancer, under the leadership of whom the French ballet troupe marveled at the Grand Opera of Paris. Arts critics in France regarded him as a reformer and innovator of the ballet art. He staged Phaedra, Igor and Rustaveli (with music composed by Honegger, Arsni and Cherepnin). They were performed at the stage of the Grand Opera for a great number of years. He always recalled his homeland with great love and affection. He spoke sweet about his work in Odessa and Kiev, from where he left for Paris in 1923 at the age of 17-18 to work at the world famous Russian ballet troupe. His successful path started since then and continued for 35-40 years. In 1962 he visited Georgia and attended ballet of Othello. He later expressed his appreciation in his book, which was published in 1966.

I was charmed with Sergei Lifar, not only as a choreographer and dancer, but also as a devoted literature lover, who was affectionate about Pushkin. He has a splendid museum collection of his art, life records about his writings, personality and challenges. He did not spare time, energy and money to buy relics related to him – letters, photos, items – anything that reminded him of Pushkin. Collection in his title ownership could be sold for a fortune. Proceeds from the sale could make Lifar very rich, but he wanted it all for Russia only. That was why he was often saying: “My mission in life inter alia is to collect the relics connected to Pushkin – his hand written manuscripts and items, which are scattered around in the rest of the world at homes of the émigré Russian intelligent elite to ultimately return them to the homeland of Pushkin in Russia.”

Along with Pushkin’s belongings, Lifar’s collection is also enriched with paintings, drawings and sculptures of Picasso, Salvador Dali, Chagall, Jean Cocteau, Joan Miro, Benoit, Leger and other famous artists. They include portraits of Sergei Lifar himself in different roles and life. His collection also includes unique photos in various performances, costumes done by world celebrities. All of it would be a great wealth of the Russian people.

As a Member of the Supreme Council, I was requested to convey his request to the Soviet authorities to allow him visit his homeland and present this treasure to the Pushkin Museum for free. In return he has a very modest request – he wants permission to stage ballet performances in Moscow and Leningrad – one in each.

Unfortunately, I failed to convey this message. It was beyond my competence, as the authorities rejected this important initiative. Sadly, this was not only due to coldness, but complete ignorance or anti-patriotism and disrespect to the culture of the homeland.

Indeed, due to the cold-blooded and brainless officials in our country this unique heritage of Pushkin was lost forever and Russian people were denied of it. Ilya Erenburg, with his great reputation and authority, with whom I spoke so much about Lifar and transfer of his collection to Russia, also failed…

Should it have been difficult to allow one of the outstanding choreographs of the world to stage a ballet performance at the Russian stage? Would Ministers of Culture Mikhailov or Furtseva bear responsibility for it? Or Head of Culture Department of the Central Committee Polikarpov?

 Lifar remains in the history of French culture, while the loss of Pushkin – in the biography of the Russian “patriotic politicians” as a shameful fact.

* * * * * * *

 “I am not Russian! I am Georgian!!!”

Delegation of the Supreme Council of the Soviet Union composed of seven people should fly to Mexico via Paris. It’s Paris again. What a joy!

It is never dull in Paris, especially for me. I have no idea if my brother Vakhtang will meet me there. It is already six and we are taking off. We got now closer to New York City and will be landing in Mexico in two hours time in our French carrier Caravella.

Humans are so strong! Somewhere far at the height of 10-11 kilometers, torn away from the earth people sleep peacefully, dream, talk, laugh, while the ocean has its mouth wide open to swallow the high flyers at any time.

Bless God, we are now on the ground. We can hear the music playing. It is a military orchestra performing the festive march. Justas Poletskis, head of the Parliamentary Delegation of the Soviet Union, who is at the same time Deputy Chairman of the Supreme Council is nervous a bit. Big group of people, who are approaching us, is headed by a middle size, well built, handsome Mexican. He greeted us all with pride and pathos in Spanish. He resembles Jean Gabin a lot. We find similarities with the French film actor in his appearance and behavior. After the introduction, we get it that he is the Vice-President of Mexico.

I was going to follow one of the Senators with their usual Mexican temperament and courageous movement to his car, when suddenly a small Madonna appeared in front of me. She was a genuine Mexican Madonna with curly brown hair, green eyes and white teeth like most beautiful beads of pearls, dear-like flexible and plastic body and movements, polite and flirting at the same time. She greeted me with humbly and pointed at the middle age dignified gentleman.

I was confused with my face probably flashing. I was thinking: “Who is she? Where did she appear from? Is it a woman or spirit? Angel or demon? Flesh or fresco?” She was telling me something in broken Russian and giggled at the same time. I understood that she was a daughter of this man. As I heard later he was a powerful Mexican Senator Aragon. I shook hands with this girl named Mariella and then with her father. I spoke in Russian with them. Fortunately they both spoke some Russian. I was invited to their car. We got in the Chevrolet. Senator sat in the front by the driver, while Mariella and me in the back. Cars headed slowly with an escort of police motorcycles. It was already evening and it was my first exposure to the Mexican dusk. The motorway was wide and lit up with street lamps. We were silent in the car, because thoughts carried me away. I also wondered how this young girl could bewilder me. My eyes secretly studied her. On the background of the night shadows it seemed that she was very ugly, as if her nose was very long, face – yellow and eyes – blackened. I even smiled, wondering what happened, what miraged me. It was an ordinary girl. A genuine toad! I straightened, took out a cigarette and lit it. And, oh my God! I saw Madonna. True Madonna! Very graceful, neat and beautiful! Nature can be so magic! If it wishes, it will make a person look beautiful or ugly! I laughed. Girl looked at me in surprise. I laughed even further at myself. To avoid the inconvenience I put my hand on hers… She laughed sweetly herself, as if guessing the reason of my laughter. Her father was sitting motionless.

Car drove into the huge gates with columns along several hundred of meters of an alley and stopped at a bright restaurant. It was our first official reception. Despite our long journey (14 hours of flight), which wearied us out, I felt great. Mariella was sitting by my side, her father – from the other side of hers. Mexican Madonna was looking at me with her fascinating eyes.

Later we got very friendly. She was a splendid sculptor and even carved my portrait in stone, which was stationed at our embassy in Mexico for over years. Later I was told that it was transferred to a park in the city, but can not say exactly where. It was what the embassy officials told me.

Cone-shaped sky-scraper could be seen from everywhere in the city. Its height was 220 meters. At the top it had a huge bell tower with an orchestra of large and small bells – in total 61. What does a complex of 61 bells do in chromatic sequence and several octaves? They can be set in motion with a special keyboard, which requires one performer. Despite the fact that bells are of low tone (similar to the church bells) they are huge in size and weight. They are automated and require tiny physical power.

At the official gala dinner served at one of the best club restaurant of Mexico we met Adolph Lopez Mateo, President of the country with his wife, Vice-President, Senators and other high ranking officials.

President also attended our meeting with Senators at the Parliament. Suddenly, after the speeches made by the President and one of the Senators, head of our delegation told me to make a speech. It seemed strange to me. When the delegation includes chairmen and their deputies of the Council of Ministers, Ambassador of the Soviet Union, Chairman of the City Council of Leningrad and others why would a musician speak on behalf of the delegation at this demanding and high profile political forum? I was startled and refused categorically. It was a political arena and an area of great diplomacy. It required skillful presentation of the political and economic interests of the sovereign. Prior to the departure Brezhnev explained to us in Moscow that apart from the cultural interaction, development and improvement of relations, we had to tough the ground with local authorities on the economic links, trade and mutually beneficial commercial deals.

There was no sense in refusing. President was apparently told that I would speak and an interpreter thus came up to me. By the way, he escorted Fidel Castro to the Soviet Union and inter alia to Tbilisi. My knees weakened and hands trembled.

Several seconds prior, when I was asked to make a speech I had several ideas and themes in mind. Now everything vanished and disappeared from my memory. Deadly silence reigned in the room… By some unearthly power I stood to my feet. After quite some pause, the entire audience was looking at me. I got myself together, saying to myself “You have been chosen by fate or occasion to speak on behalf of the Soviet Delegation at this most official and demanding reception. Your country and government needs to be presented and promoted”. Though, I was irritated as well, because I was introduced as a Russian composer. So, some happy thoughts sparked my mind, because I now had a rare opportunity to rehabilitate my ethnic origin. I got calm in a matter of seconds. Anxiety disappeared and felt recharged. I brainstormed a while and started to talk about our policies and achievements. Suddenly, I announced that some concepts were misinterpreted overseas, noting that there were 15 different nations grouped in the Soviet Union. I mentioned that everyone was regarded Russian, but “for instance, I am not Russian. I am Georgian, living in a different land, speaking a different language (my mother tongue), playing different music.” Everything ended with great applause and congratulations.

In the morning my portrait taken while playing the grand piano of Empress Carlotta made front pages of The Excelsior Newspaper (central printed media of Mexico). Almost full text of my speech was printed titled as follows: “I am not Russian. I am Georgian!”