Harmonizing History: When Words Fail, Music Speaks

Note: This is Part II of a series where I am creating a soundtrack to accompany my reading of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago. For additional background about the project, please read Part I. You can access an Apple Music playlist of the selected music here (music will be added as installments are released). 

Never before have I experienced such an overwhelming passion for liberty as I do at this moment. And not just my freedoms. I deeply desire to ensure I never infringe upon anyone else's. Reading The Gulag Archipelago will do that to you. It reminds you just how precious and fragile freedom is, a treasure we assume will forever grace our lives. 

Let us not look back with regret and say, "We didn't love freedom enough."

The Waves

The waves of repression in the Soviet Union mirror the relentless assault of waves upon the shore. Just as the waters seem calm, another colossal swell swallows the land. In the same way, the waves of repression in the Soviet Union persisted. They crashed on anyone considered a threat to the regime, regardless of their background. In Part 1, I covered Solzhenitsyn's account of his arrest and the stories of many other would-be gulag prisoners. He continues The Gulag Archipelago by describing the "waves" of prisoners that were victims of the communist regime. 

This torrent of persecution engulfed those affiliated with non-Bolshevik political parties, students, intellectuals, clergy, repatriated Russians, former officials of the Tsarist state, engineers from the technical intelligentsia, strong peasants, and anyone who dared to speak out against the regime. The seemingly endless list begs the question: who was left?

But arrest was merely the beginning. For most, it marked the dawn of a dark, agonizing journey.

The Interrogation

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn titled the third chapter, The Interrogation, but "Torture" would have more accurately captured the horrors. In a system where the vast majority of the arrested were innocent, the interrogation was an instrument of twisted manipulation. Its purpose? To extract false confessions, manufacture guilt, and generate the next wave of victims through forced accusations.

The organs had plenty of sadistic tools — one prisoner counted 52 torture methods. They ranged from your run-of-the-mill "enhanced interrogation tactics" like sleep deprivation, starvation, humiliation, intimidation, and isolation, to more grotesque acts like beatings with rubber truncheons to leave few visible marks, needles under the fingernails, and crushing the organs "which once made you a man."

The chapter was difficult to read. Its impact stemmed not only from the vividness of Solzhenitsyn's words but from the knowledge that these horrors were real and the realization that they could happen again. It compels us to confront the question: How does one endure such brutal conditions? 

Solzhenitsyn provides an answer:

From the moment you go to prison you must put your cozy past firmly behind you. At the very threshold, you must say to yourself: “My life is over, a little early to be sure, but there’s nothing to be done about it. I shall never return to freedom. I am condemned to die — now or a little later. But later on, in truth, it will be even harder, and so the sooner the better. I no longer have any property whatsoever. For me those I love have died, and for them I have died. From today on, my body is useless and alien to me. Only my spirit and my conscience remain precious and important to me.” 

Confronted by such a prisoner, the interrogation will tremble.

Only the man who has renounced everything can win that victory.

"We have lost the measure of freedom."

As the chapter draws to a close, Solzhenitsyn leaves us with a haunting reminder that society is not some abstract concept but a collective of individuals. With each wave of repression, as individuals have their liberties stripped away, society itself suffers an immeasurable loss. It's a chilling warning as if Solzhenitsyn pleads with us: "Cherish your freedom; never allow this to happen again!"

The Music

This second selection of the soundtrack felt especially important. How could I capture the confusion, despair, sadness, anger, fear, and misery of innocent victims dispossessed of home and dignity? One composer immediately emerged: Dimitri Shostakovich.

Shostakovich, a remarkable composer, was profoundly influenced by the political climate of his time — how could he not be? Understanding the historical and cultural context in which his works were created becomes crucial in unraveling their true meaning. One music professor aptly stated:

To truly understand many of Shostakovich’s works, it’s important to at least have some context on the political and cultural histories they were written in. You need to know at least a little about the New Economic Policy to understand the Second, the Great Purges to understand the Fourth and Fifth, World War Two to understand the Seventh. While yes, historical context is good to know when it comes to many works of art, it’s essential to at least be aware of when it comes to almost every major Shostakovich work.

The challenge lay in selecting a piece that would not merely fit but would impeccably capture the essence of Solzhenitsyn's narrative. I wanted to make the perfect selection. The breadth of Shostakovich's repertoire presented many viable choices — I had work to do.

Dimitri Shostakovich

Dimitri Shostakovich is far too complex to unravel in this brief essay, but it's worth providing a bit of background on the man before moving to his music. 

Born in 1906, Shostakovich witnessed the shifting tides of Soviet history. His career took flight during Lenin's New Economic Policy era when the economy and artistic experimentation flourished. His favorable view of Lenin, however, contrasted greatly with his disdain for Stalin.

At 29, Shostakovich was considered an exemplary communist artist. He basked in the glory of his operatic masterpiece, "Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District." The critics acclaimed it, and audiences applauded it; it was a smashing success. But soon, it all came crashing down. 

On January 26, 1936, Stalin and an entourage of party leaders went to the opera to see what the fanfare was about. Stalin was mortified by what he witnessed. Though it is debated what exactly he found so offensive, most believe it was the opera's sex scene in the first act, wherein the main character allows herself to be seduced. The dictator abruptly left the theater before the final scene. Shostakovich knew his life was about to change. (1). 

Two days later, the official state newspaper Pravda published a scathing review, denouncing the opera as "Muddle Instead of Music" and threatened that it might "end very badly" for the composer. That was it for Lady Macbeth. All shows were canceled, and Shostakovich was relegated to an outcast, a pariah. But it didn't stop at ostracization —Shostakovich feared for his life:

In constant fear of a nighttime raid on his home, Shostakovich reportedly kept a suitcase full of clothes near his door and slept on his staircase in case of an emergency evacuation. Afraid of Stalin’s wrath, his desk drawers were increasingly filled with discarded masterpieces. With an almost obsessive anxiety, he would sync the clocks in his house once every hour. His brother-in-law, mother-in-law, friends, patrons, and partners were targeted by secret police, facing either interrogation or execution. (2).

In response, Shostakovich canceled his 4th Symphony, which was set to premiere, and began work on his 5th, titled "A Soviet Artist's Response to Just Criticism." That piece, and his next several, complied with the expectations of the time —triumphant hymns on the rightness of the Communist Utopia. For the time being, he had regained the favor of the regime. Still, a master of disguise, he cleverly embedded his compositions with subtle defiance, concealing criticism in seemingly patriotic works. 

It wasn't until Stalin died in 1953 that Shostakovich regained some artistic freedom and could unearth compositions hidden away because they were too "Western" or indulged in formalism, inaccessible advent-guard experiments.

There’s much more to be said about Dimitri Shostakovich. I could explore whether he was a dissident, harboring a deep hatred towards his own country and government, or a compliant puppet who willingly supported the regime — but the truth is more nuanced. Shostakovich is hard to characterize because he's a man, an artist, a husband, and a father — not a character.

String Quartet №8 in C minor, Op. 110

As you can now imagine, I did not lack options. Shostakovich's catalog is filled with pieces of historical significance. I could have chosen his 4th or 5th symphonies, coinciding with the great purges, or his seventh, representing wartime patriotism. I could have picked one of his banned works or one he kept locked away. But this project is about more than historical associations — it's about emotion. 

Instead, I listened to Shostakovich's works until one of his string quartets stopped me dead in my tracks — the String Quartet №8 in C minor, Op. 110. Although not conventionally beautiful, this work possesses immense power and immediacy. Its five movements played without pause, evoke emotions from sadness to sheer terror. Within its structure, Shostakovich ingeniously embeds a four-note theme based on an abbreviation of his own name, DSCH, perhaps symbolizing his struggles with oppression. Whereas in part one, I selected a single movement, I can't separate this quartet from its pieces.

Shostakovich wrote this work in 1960 while visiting Dresden, Germany, to score a film about the city's firebombings of WWII. Stalin had been dead for eight years, but Shostakovich's life was still in turmoil. He had recently applied for membership into the Communist Party, a requirement for a post he sought —  a move he'd previously managed to avoid. Perhaps a crisis of consciousness, combined with the bleak surroundings of post-war Dresden, put Shostakovich in deep despair. 

Officially, Shostakovich dedicated the work to the "Victims of Fascism and WWII" and dismissed it as an "ideological piece of no use to anyone." But there was a much more personal connection to the piece. In a private letter to a friend, he wrote, "It's unlikely anyone would write a work in my memory. So I decided to write one myself. On the cover could simply be written 'Dedicated to the memory of the composer of this quartet.'" 

Movement 1: 

The quartet commences with a largo movement, characterized by a very slow tempo and Shostakovich’s musical signature. The four-note motif establishes a gloomy and somber tone that serves as the foundation for the rest of the composition. The extended and sustained notes reminded me of Solzhenitsyn’s report of the two to four-month-long interrogations, during which time must have slowed to a crawl as a sense of hopelessness grew.

Movement 2: 

What follows the first movement is one of the most haunting and gripping pieces of music I've ever heard. Just as tears are welling in the eyes from the first movement, an explosion of dissonance awakens the listener with a shocking sense of movement, confusion, and chaos, leading to a frenzied climax.

I imagine this movement as a portrayal of a prisoner’s experience during questioning, struggling to regain their mental facilities despite an exhausted and malnourished mind to avoid implicating their loved ones or facing their own demise. Movement two concludes just as suddenly as it began.

Movement 3:

The third movement is a waltz, traditionally considered light-hearted dance music. However, this particular waltz is quite different. It carries a sense of cynicism and sarcasm, which is characteristic of Shostakovich’s music. In the middle of the piece, the music is played with mutes, or “Con Sordino,” resulting in a haunting and eerie sound. I couldn't help but think about the sounds that emerged from the gulag establishments — cries, screams of terror, and weeping.

Movement 4: 

Movement 4 begins with a succession of notes that are believed to depict the sound of KGB agents knocking on Shostakovich’s door. These notes reappear throughout, conjuring a sense of desperate paranoia. In a world where there exists an overwhelming force that can interrupt or terminate your life at any moment, the sound of rapping at the door is nightmarish.

It is noteworthy that Shostakovich references a song about a political prisoner on his way to his execution, as well as his opera “Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District," the very piece that earned Stalin’s fury. These references offer insight into the real meaning of the composition.

Movement 5: 

The final movement recalls the first, providing a bookend on the masterpiece. As one critic remarked, “After all the struggles on our journey, we have simply arrived back where we started. It was all for nothing in the end.” It was all for nothing. 

Reading The Gulag Archipelago is no easy feat, and at times, listening to Shostakovich’s music is equally taxing. But these difficult endeavors are rewarding. One such reward is a better understanding — of people, of art, of culture, and of history.

It’s been said that history doesn’t repeat itself, but it often rhymes. With that in mind, it’s worth meditating on the how — how could such atrocities happen? Of this, Solzhenitsyn said: 

Ideology — that is what gives evildoing its long-sought justification and gives the evildoer the necessary steadfastness and determination….

Thanks to ideology, the twentieth century was fated to experience evildoing on a scale calculated in the millions. This cannot be denied, nor passed over, not suppressed. How, then, do we dare insist that evildoers to not exist? And who was it that destroyed these millions? Without evildoers there would have been no Archipelago.”

Armed with the lessons of Solzhenitsyn and Shostakovich, I’ll continue my journey to read The Gulag Archipelago and curate a soundtrack that conveys the emotions evoked by Solzhenitsyn’s book.