For this inspiring Ukrainian opera, the show must go on 鈥� underground
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Howard LaFranchi Staff writer
| Kharkiv, Ukraine
The underground bomb shelter where the singers, dancers, and musicians of Kharkiv鈥檚 National Academic Opera and Ballet Theater perform isn鈥檛 much to look at.
Stark concrete pillars ring the cramped, low-ceilinged space; dull and dusty ventilation ducts hang in unavoidable view. There is no orchestra pit, and the woefully small stage rises just a couple of feet above a flat floor where 400 stackable chairs are arranged in rows.
The acoustics? Hardly befitting a storied opera company that rivals Europe鈥檚 finest.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onKharkiv, Ukraine, one of Europe鈥檚 great cultural centers, is pummeled almost nightly by Russian strikes. Yet its bomb-shelter national opera house serves as a cathedral, a beacon of stubborn faith and undimmed human spirit.
And yet, for the people of Kharkiv 鈥� one of Europe鈥檚 great cultural centers, now pummeled and traumatized almost nightly by Russian drones and missiles 鈥� this shoebox basement theater is a cathedral, a beacon of inspiration and stubborn faith in an undimmed human spirit.
鈥淭his is a holy place for Kharkiv residents, it鈥檚 a shrine 鈥� and what we do here is like a prayer,鈥� says Zhanna Chepela, the theater鈥檚 stage director, who this summer directed the operatic version of the seminal 18th-century Ukrainian poem 鈥淎eneid.鈥� The Ukrainian work is a parody of Virgil鈥檚 epic poem of loss and renewal.
鈥淔or us 鈥� the performers and the audience 鈥� being here allows us to shut the door on everything going on around us and to enter a space where we can breathe and renew our faith in love and hope,鈥� says Ms. Chepela on a recent afternoon as she oversees rehearsals for 鈥淎eneid."
鈥淥utside these walls, it鈥檚 fear and terror and loss,鈥� she adds. 鈥淏ut inside, it鈥檚 a process of mental healing for all of us.鈥�
The makeshift auditorium in the national theater鈥檚 storage and set-production space debuted in April, more than three years after invading Russian forces made a quick target of Kharkiv, a city of 1.2 million people just 20 miles from the border.
On Feb. 23, 2022, the National Theater鈥檚 ballet company had presented a glittering production of 鈥淕iselle鈥� in the 1,500-seat main theater of the modernist performing arts complex. The next day, Russia launched its invasion and was soon on Kharkiv鈥檚 doorstep, sending mortar rounds and waves of missiles into the city.
The Soviet-era cultural center, with its stone slabs and polished woods from around the U.S.S.R., appeared to be a favorite target of the Russian onslaught. Most of the building鈥檚 21,000 square feet of windows were shattered, facade slabs of Armenian stone fell, the massive roof was pierced. (One unexploded bomb, now deactivated, remains lodged in the roof 鈥� left there as a symbol of Russian terror and Kharkiv鈥檚 resistance.)
Kharkiv鈥檚 beloved opera and ballet theater had no choice but to close.
But Igor Tuluzov, the theater鈥檚 director-general, knew in his heart that Kharkiv needed its national theater.
鈥淔or Kharkiv, this theater is like a vital part of the body without which the body cannot live,鈥� says Mr. Tuluzov, who trained as a physicist and still scribbles complex equations on a white board in his office.
鈥淭hat was true even before the war,鈥� he says. 鈥淏ut with the invasion it became even more clear that we have an essential role to provide spiritual and emotional relief.鈥�
And so even though the theater lost more than half of its staff of 800 to internal displacement, emigration, or military enlistment, Mr. Tuluzov organized ways for the show to go on.
Small groups of musicians and singers performed in shelters and military hospitals. Perhaps most memorably, opera divas descended into underground subway stations where Kharkiv鈥檚 residents took shelter from bombing salvos 鈥� bringing many of the overnight refugees to tears with beloved arias.
Still, Mr. Tuluzov knew that the people of Kharkiv longed to be back inside the city鈥檚 national theater building.
Ukraine has four national theaters, but Kharkiv鈥檚, opened in 1925, was the first, as the city was then Ukraine鈥檚 capital, as well as a cultural and university center.聽Construction commenced on today鈥檚 mammoth Soviet modernist cultural complex in the 1960s, but its doors didn鈥檛 open until 1991 鈥� just months before the Soviet Union鈥檚 collapse.
With the Russian war dragging on, Mr. Tuluzov was certain that city authorities would never accept a reopening of the opulent but vulnerable main theater. But what about the vast basement spaces where some rehearsals were held and sets were designed, built, and stored?
The idea he began exploring in 2024 got the go-ahead, and, in April, the opera reopened with Verdi's 鈥淟a Traviata.鈥澛�
With the basement stage only one-quarter the size of the main theater鈥檚, performers scaled back their movements, at times awkwardly by their own accounts. The sound system sometimes faltered.
But the audience was thrilled to be back 鈥� and Kharkiv residents have been filling the bomb-shelter theater鈥檚 opera and ballet performances ever since.
鈥淗ere, we don鈥檛 feel depressed. We feel uplifted to be with our favorite artists in this city of the arts that we all love,鈥� says Ludmila Andriieva, who chose to move to Kharkiv five years ago in part because of its rich cultural offerings.
As she prepares to exit the basement theater after a recent performance of the ballet 鈥淒ragon Songs鈥� 鈥� a new work written by Ukrainian electronic music composer Maksim Kolomiiets 鈥� Ms. Andriieva acknowledges that the bomb shelter theater can鈥檛 compare with the grandeur of the empty main theater above.
鈥淏ut that doesn鈥檛 matter,鈥� she says. Patting her heart, she adds: 鈥淐oming here to this special place allows my soul to survive and feel inspired.鈥�
Others who have come out for 鈥淒ragon Songs鈥� say attending this and other basement productions is more than a means of surviving the war. It鈥檚 also a way of confronting and subverting it.
鈥淵es, there are attacks on Kharkiv almost every day, people are dying, people are losing their homes,鈥� says Danila Atanov, a Ukrainian traditional folk dancer. 鈥淵et despite all that we are able to work and create this cultural fabric鈥� that is like 鈥渁 comforting blanket for our city.鈥�
Just then, Mr. Atanov's wife and folk-dancing partner, Elizabet, walks up, and he tells her: 鈥淚 was just saying that this theater, even if it is underground, says we are a city of culture. But more than that, it says something true about Kharkiv; that we are not just a city of survivors, but we are thriving, a city with a soul and a spirit this war cannot kill.鈥�
Oleksandr Naselenko contributed to the reporting of this piece.
