Finding the low-slung, whitewashed brick building in Pokrovsk felt like a revelation. It looked nondescript, but it was here in 1914 that Mykola Leontovych, a Ukrainian ethnomusicologist, composed and practiced a new song with the men’s choral group he directed.
In Ukrainian, it is titled “Shchedryk.” You and I know it as “Carol of the Bells.”
Why We Wrote This
A story focused on
Over a century ago at a historical moment similar to today’s, a Ukrainian choirmaster composed a piece of music that became an iconic Christmas carol. Using an old photograph, our writer sought out its birthplace in the besieged city of Pokrovsk.
“Shchedryk” was originally a celebration of the coming of spring, rather than a Christmas carol. By 1919, the song had surged out of Pokrovsk to take the world by storm – including at Carnegie Hall, where it earned rapturous applause.
It wasn’t until American choir director Peter Wilhousky wrote new English lyrics – and a new title – in the 1930s that the song became linked to Christmas in the West.
Based largely on the international success of “Shchedryk,” Leontovych would find himself dubbed “the Ukrainian Bach.” That did not sit well with Soviet leader Josef Stalin, who could not tolerate any nationalist cultural expression. Leontovych was assassinated by Soviet security in 1921.
Now, another Russian leader has made the eradication of Ukrainian culture and identity a prime objective.
But like Leontovych in his time, Ukrainians today are asserting their culture.
The low-slung, whitewashed brick building was almost totally obscured from public view, hidden behind a locked metal gate and an old elm tree whose branches dropped autumn leaves on its corrugated tile roof.
Nothing about the building seemed remarkable, other than perhaps the small round windows tucked up near the eaves at either end. But to me, finding it felt like a revelation.
It was in this building in 1914 that Mykola Leontovych, a Ukrainian choirmaster and ethnomusicologist, composed and practiced a new song with the railway workers’ choral group he directed. First performed a cappella by the men of the workers’ choir, the song by 1919 had surged out of the industrial town of Pokrovsk in eastern Ukraine to take the world by storm – including at Carnegie Hall, where it earned rapturous applause.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused on
Over a century ago at a historical moment similar to today’s, a Ukrainian choirmaster composed a piece of music that became an iconic Christmas carol. Using an old photograph, our writer sought out its birthplace in the besieged city of Pokrovsk.
In Ukrainian, it is titled “Shchedryk.” You and I know it as “Carol of the Bells.”
“Shchedryk” was originally a celebration of the end of winter and the coming of spring, rather than a Christmas carol. It wasn’t until American choir director Peter Wilhousky wrote new English lyrics – and a new title – for Leontovych’s work in the 1930s, evoking the clanging of church bells and the pronouncements of awe-inspired angels, that it became linked to Christmas in the West.
The frenzied and fast-paced song has little in common with calm and peaceful carols like “Silent Night” and “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” Perhaps that’s because Leontovych composed his signature melody as war and revolution threatened in Europe.
As I stood just outside the modest building in an abandoned industrial zone of Pokrovsk – the booms from Russian artillery fire punctuating the silence – I closed my eyes and listened instead for the echoes of the railway choral group singing their director’s new composition. I imagined those men exhausted by a day’s labor, yet energized by the pace, exclamatory flourishes, and message of the score.
The thought that a carol we now hear repeatedly over the holiday season – on grocery store music loops, at high school winter concerts, on car radios – emerged from a modest workers’ choir meeting at this very spot filled me with awe.
As the distant sounds of Russia’s war on Ukraine continued, I also thought of how Mykola Leontovych’s story is very much the story of Ukraine today.
Based largely on the international success of “Shchedryk,” Leontovych would find himself dubbed “the Ukrainian Bach.” That did not sit well with the new leader of the nascent Soviet Union, Josef Stalin, who could not tolerate any nationalist cultural expression. The Ukrainian Bach would be assassinated by a Soviet security spy in 1921.
Today another Russian leader, intolerant of the reality of a Ukraine independent from Mother Russia, has made the eradication of Ukrainian identity a prime objective of Russia’s nearly three-year-old war on the country.
But like Leontovych in his time, Ukrainians today are reasserting their culture to find hope and strength.
Hennadii Minchenko/Ukrinform/Cover Images/Reuters/File
Finding the song’s birthplace
As we planned a day trip to besieged, war-ravaged Pokrovsk, the Monitor’s Ukrainian fixer and translator, Oleksandr Naselenko, asked if the city’s connection to “Carol of the Bells” was of any interest. Sasha, as Oleksandr is known, reminded me that we had seen a statue honoring Leontovych during a reporting trip to Pokrovsk in May.
I was intrigued, but said we’d need more than a statue to hang the story on. Combing the web, Sasha found a fuzzy black-and-white photo of a railroad yard building where Leontovych composed his music and directed the choir.
The next day, armed with only the old photo, Google Maps, and good old journalistic perseverance, we set off. I played “Shchedryk” from my phone to set the mood.
With the war’s front line only about 10 miles away, Pokrovsk is under constant threat of Russian occupation. The city’s military administration had set a 3 p.m. curfew, so we knew we had little time.
We passed through several army checkpoints and headed for the industrial zone along the rail line serving the area’s once-vibrant coal and steel industries. The streets were mostly abandoned, the area’s Soviet-era residential blocks quiet and dark. The few people we did encounter shook their heads in response to our inquiry.
Sasha suggested we might have to give up, as the curfew was already past. But I felt we had to be close, and asked for just a few more turns down side streets toward the sprawling rail yard.
It was then that we came upon a woman who thought she might recognize the building in the photo as one down a nearby gravel street. We followed her directions, and when an otherwise unremarkable storage building with those two distinct round windows came into view, we knew we had found what we were looking for.
Mission accomplished
“Howard, we really do have to go,” Sasha said, as dusk set in and the booms of war continued. He was right to curtail my reverie, we could leave knowing we had reached our goal.
I suggested that maybe someday we could return in peaceful times to find the building had become a museum honoring Mykola Leontovych and his gift to Ukraine and to us.
And as we walked back to the car, still I heard those railway workers singing their choirmaster’s new song.
