Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk District
1936
Leningrad, Russia
Ivan hummed an old folk song as he tilted his head at the poster in front of him. It was to promote the year's biggest opera: Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk District. Ivan traced the Cyrillic on the poster with his finger. He knew he looked childish, but he had a feeling he was connected to something to do with the opera.
Alarm bells rang in his head as he took his hand off of the poster. Comrade Stalin requested for him. Sighing, Ivan simply closed his eyes and was instantly at Stalin's door, standing by one of the chairs in the room outside of his office. He mentally braced himself and went through the door, trying to ignore the overwhelming feeling of power and hatred that coursed through the room.
"You asked for me, sir?" Ivan asked, standing stiffly at attention.
Stalin nodded his head, writing something in a notebook. "Да, I wish to discuss with you the opera that is gaining great popularity in my nation," he answered.
His nation? Ivan nearly rolled his eyes. "What of this opera, sir?"
"I want tickets to the next show. If it is as good as everyone says it is, I want to make sure it is suitable for the republic before it gets too out of hand,"
Ivan narrowed his eyes as Stalin went back to whatever he was doing. He made it sound like he actually cared. No, Ivan knew what he was really up to. Stalin was afraid of creativity. It could change people's thoughts and start something...revolutionary. He needed to control everything to make sure the people didn't get too many ideas. After all, how could you be a powerful leader when your citizens have minds of their own?
"You may leave now," Stalin pulled him out of his dark thoughts with a handful of irritation, to which Ivan rolled his eyes and walked out of the room, instantly feeling relieved when he closed the door behind him. The guards that had just arrived jumped and eyed him in surprise, each of them wondering how he got there without them knowing.
Ivan smirked and headed towards the Bolshoi theatre. Secrets still existed in Paradise, no matter how hard the party tried to uncover them.
The Bolshoi theatre was packed.
Ivan sat in the balcony with Stalin, his wife, and other high ranking party members, scanning the area below. The last time he saw a theatre this full was when Swan Lake was released after Tchaikovsky's death.
Ivan's gaze stopped at a familiar looking man sitting beside the actor Vsevolod Meyerhold. He tilted his head to get a better view of him, a feeling of importance and pride swelling in his chest. This must be what he had felt while staring at that poster. Yes, this is what he felt twenty four years ago when that little boy ran into him on the street.
The man turned and nervously looked up at the balcony, his thin, pale face accentuated by his round, black glasses. There was no mistaking it. It was him.
Dmitri Shostakovich was twenty nine years old. His father died before his sixteenth birthday, his mother nearly committed suicide by the time he was ready to move out, and he was married to a woman who loved him, but had no understanding of music and the power it held.
Ivan knew all of this just by looking at him. His cold, barely beating heart truly hurt for the musician.
"You look as though you have just seen a ghost, comrade," one of the high party members chuckled at him.
Ivan snapped out of his daze but ignored the man. He looked down at the program he held and blinked. His young musician's name was plastered all over it. Of course this was his opera. Ivan felt stupid for not realizing it sooner. He glanced back at Stalin, who was already tapping his fingers against his arm rest impatiently. Ivan turned back to where Dmitri was sitting and silently prayed for the performance to go well.
Unfortunately, his prayers weren't heard.
The opera was beautiful, yes. Ivan loved everything about it. But it didn't seem to please Stalin.
Comrade Stalin seemed to hate it so much that when he did like something about it he ended up hating the fact that he liked it. He got up in the middle of the third act, a scowl on his face. He motioned for everyone to follow. They all hesitated, but after realizing the consequences of staying behind, they quickly got up and turned their backs on the stage.
"You may want to follow, comrade Braginsky," a fellow party member murmured.
With a sense of longing, Ivan took one last glance at the stage, and then at Dmitri, whose expression was nauseating. His face was pale, his eyes were wide with terror, and he looked as though he were already standing in front of the firing squad, just waiting for them to say the words and take their shots.
Ivan had to look away when the fragile looking composer made brief eye contact with him. He stood and quickly followed the party out of the theatre, feeling sick and disappointed. He tasted a hint of fear and panic in his mouth. He shook his head, driving Dmitri away from his thoughts and simply focusing on the car ahead of him.
In the distance he heard the police arrest Katerina and Sergei, and he could certainly relate to Sergei's pleads to be set free.
I have this headcanon that countries, if they really wanted to, could know one of their citizen's whole life story just by concentrating a little on them.
Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk District was a huge hit from 1934-1936. It had about 200 performances and was performed around the world. It was Shostakovich's last opera.
In this chapter, Shostakovich is 29. He was actually sitting in the booth across from Stalin during the performance, watching as the party members snickered amongst each other during the sexual scenes and hiding his face. We can only imagine what he might have felt when he saw Stalin get up and leave.
Hope you enjoyed!