A reporter hunts for 鈥楥arol of the Bells鈥� birthplace 鈥� in Ukraine
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Howard LaFranchi Staff writer
| POKROVSK, UKRAINE
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鈥� choral group he directed. First performed a cappella by the men of the workers鈥� choir, the song by 1919 had surged out of the industrial town of Pokrovsk in eastern Ukraine to take the world by storm 鈥� including at Carnegie Hall, where it earned rapturous applause.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onOver a century ago at a historical moment similar to today鈥檚, 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 鈥淪hchedryk.鈥� You and I know it as 鈥淐arol of the Bells.鈥�
鈥淪hchedryk鈥� was originally a celebration of the end of winter and the coming of spring, rather than a Christmas carol. It wasn鈥檛 until American choir director Peter Wilhousky wrote new English lyrics 鈥� and a new title 鈥� for Leontovych鈥檚 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 鈥淪ilent Night鈥� and 鈥淥 Little Town of Bethlehem.鈥� Perhaps that鈥檚 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 鈥� the booms from Russian artillery fire punctuating the silence 鈥� I closed my eyes and listened instead for the echoes of the railway choral group singing its director鈥檚 new composition. I imagined those men exhausted by a day鈥檚 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 鈥� on grocery store music loops, at high school winter concerts, on car radios 鈥� emerged from a modest workers鈥� choir meeting at this very spot filled me with awe.
As the distant sounds of Russia鈥檚 war on Ukraine continued, I also thought of how Mykola Leontovych鈥檚 story is very much the story of Ukraine today.
Based largely on the international success of 鈥淪hchedryk,鈥� Leontovych would find himself dubbed 鈥渢he Ukrainian Bach.鈥� That did not sit well with the new leader of the nascent Soviet Union, Josef聽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鈥檚 nearly 3-year-old war on the country.
But like Leontovych in his time, Ukrainians today are聽reasserting their culture to find聽hope听补苍诲听strength.
Finding the song鈥檚 birthplace
As we planned a day trip to besieged, war-ravaged Pokrovsk,聽the Monitor鈥檚 Ukrainian fixer and translator, Oleksandr Naselenko, asked if the city鈥檚 connection to 鈥淐arol of the Bells鈥� 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鈥檇 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 鈥淪hchedryk鈥� from my phone to set the mood.
With the war鈥檚 front line only about 10 miles away, Pokrovsk is under constant threat of Russian occupation. The city鈥檚 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鈥檚 once-vibrant coal and steel industries. The streets were mostly abandoned, the area鈥檚 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
鈥淗oward, we really do have to go,鈥� 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鈥檚 new song.
