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User: TIME: Late 1880s-early 1890s

TIME: Late 1880s-early 1890s PLACE: St. Petersburg, Tsarist Russia

CHARACTERS:

MOISHE GERSHOVITZ -- a tinkerer and mechanic. Also a Jew. Tolerated by the goyim and allowed a certain amount of status because he has useful skills.

ROSA BRUSKIN - daughter of a furrier, also a Jew -- her family tolerated and able to live a middle-class lifestyle because they're 'useful' to the goyim.

Whether a love match or an arranged match, Moishe and Rosa marry and have four children:

ISRAEL - a real scholar who ultimately becomes a revolutionary poet and propaganda official under Stalin

YAKOB GYORGI - an active, energetic child (what we might call 'ADHD') who at age 12, demonstrates an amazing aptitude for music and goes on to study at the Moscow Conservatory. A respected composer and pianist at first, around the mid-to-late 1920s, his music begins to be 'corrupted' by the influences of a degrading Western capitalist form of music stolen from exploited Africans...earning him ire from the Stalinist government

ARTUR -- younger brother of Israel and Gyorgi, winds up a bureaucrat in the Kremlin

FRANKHEZKA -- Eventually joins the Bolshoi Ballet, but never distinguishes herself.

OK -- you recognize this family and the fact that Moishe and Rosa Gershovitz never made it out of Russia -- but somehow came through World War 1 and the Bolshevist Revolution relatively unscathed.

Go.

Assistant: Point of Divergence: Moishe and Rosa Gershovitz never emigrate from Tsarist Russia.

Point of Divergence: Moishe and Rosa Gershovitz never emigrate from Tsarist Russia.

From the Workshop to the Kremlin: A Family in Revolutionary Russia (1888–1898)

Wikipedia-style entry

In the final decade of the 19th century, the Russian Empire stood on the precipice of transformation. The reign of Tsar Alexander III (1881–1894) was marked by reactionary policies following the assassination of his reformist father, Alexander II. Russification campaigns intensified. Pogroms flared sporadically across the Pale of Settlement. Anti-Jewish legislation proliferated. However, certain skilled and indispensable Jews—particularly artisans, professionals, and academics—were sometimes allowed to live and work beyond the Pale in select urban enclaves like St. Petersburg, albeit under constant scrutiny.

Moishe Gershovitz, born circa 1860 in Vitebsk guberniya, was one such exception.

A talented mechanic and self-taught engineer, Moishe was recruited in 1885 to St. Petersburg by a mid-ranking nobleman with ties to the railway board, who saw the utility of Moishe's skills in repairing imported German locomotives. He was granted a razreshenie na zhitel’stvo (special residence permit) and allowed to bring his wife Rosa Bruskin with him after their marriage in 1887.

Rosa, the daughter of a well-established furrier in Vilna, was literate, musical, and ambitious. Their union, while partially arranged, blossomed into a mutually affectionate relationship grounded in shared cultural values and pragmatic ambitions.

Between 1888 and 1896, Moishe and Rosa had four children:

• Israel (b. 1888): Intelligent, serious, and contemplative, Israel showed early fascination with books and political pamphlets—especially smuggled socialist tracts.
• Yakob Gyorgi (b. 1890): Restless, prone to distraction, and constantly tapping surfaces in rhythmic patterns. His musical gift first became apparent at age 5, when he could replicate melodies heard once on the family’s battered pianino.
• Artur (b. 1893): A quiet, observant child who mimicked adults more than other children. By 1898, he was already cataloguing family expenses and correcting his father’s notes on mechanical schematics.
• Frankhezka (b. 1896): Bright and nimble, with a penchant for movement. Rosa enrolled her in basic dance lessons at a community center funded by a Jewish philanthropic society.

The family lived in the Semyonovsky district—crowded, multicultural, and heavily surveilled. Moishe’s mechanical workshop, located in a shared courtyard space, gained renown among lower-ranking officers of the Imperial Army for his skill in repairing delicate imported parts. Moishe’s reputation as a loyal, quiet subject who never spoke politics shielded the family somewhat, though their Jewishness remained a liability in bureaucratic and social spaces.

Despite their relative security, the Gershovitz family operated in an atmosphere of increasing volatility. The famine of 1891–1892 revealed the incompetence of the Imperial bureaucracy, radicalizing a generation of intelligentsia—including one Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov (Lenin), then a young law student.

Israel, at 10, was already devouring banned pamphlets. He memorized long passages from Nakanune and Iskra, his mother whispering warnings about “eyes in the walls.” Rosa, for all her caution, encouraged education and was herself sympathetic to revolutionary idealism, if only in the abstract.

Meanwhile, Yakob Gyorgi’s prodigious musical talent caught the attention of a progressive music teacher, Ivan Arkadyevich Mikhailov, who began giving him free lessons in 1897. Though Jewish students faced quota restrictions at conservatories, Mikhailov believed Yakob had a rare mind—and vowed to help him find a patron.

The 1890s in St. Petersburg were a time of suppressed modernity. The city imported the future: electricity, electric trams, and the first hints of jazz and ragtime from American merchant sailors. Yakob’s exposure to street performers and foreign rhythms would plant deep, subversive seeds in his developing musical sensibility.

At the same time, pogroms in the southern Empire (notably Kishinev and Odessa) reminded the Gershovitz children that their safety was conditional and circumstantial. Rosa taught them the value of discretion. “Don’t be the first. Don’t be the loudest. But never be the last to understand what’s coming.”

By 1898, the Social Democratic Labor Party (RSDLP) was formally established. Israel, age 10, listened from the kitchen during secret meetings Moishe’s mechanic apprentice hosted after hours. Though Moishe never joined a party, he allowed the conversations. "Better to know the currents," he said, "than to be drowned by them."

The decade closed with the seeds of transformation buried deep in the heart of the family.

• Israel would soon begin writing incendiary verse by candlelight, smuggled in folded newspapers.
• Yakob Gyorgi, now dubbed "the little Rubinstein" by his teacher, would be offered a preparatory place at a junior academy linked to the Moscow Conservatory.
• Artur had begun forging school notes and falsifying documents—quietly proud of his own bureaucratic cleverness.
• Frankhezka, entranced by the stage, danced for neighbors in a makeshift tutu sewn from one of Rosa’s old silk scarves.

History moved. The Gershovitz family, unknowingly, had taken their first steps into the century that would test—and shape—them all.

Would you like a narrative episode from this decade next, or should we move into 1898–1908?

User: By all means, move forward.

By all means, move forward. I had not meant to change the dates of the children's birth though, but perhaps it doesn't matter. Here it is anyway, in case it changes the narrative:

ISRAEL: b. Dec. 1896

YAKOB GYORGI: b. Sept 1898

ARTUR: b. Mar. 1900

FRANKHEZHKA: b. Dec. 1906

Assistant: Excellent—thank you for the clarification.

Excellent—thank you for the clarification. We'll preserve those birth dates moving forward. That slight adjustment realigns the narrative arc, especially as it intersects with major historical events like the 1905 Revolution and the lead-up to the Great War. Let's now move ahead a decade:

A Jewish Family in Pre-Revolutionary Russia (1898–1908)

By 1898, the Gershovitz family had lived in St. Petersburg for over a decade. Moishe's mechanical shop—still modest, but now better equipped thanks to a handful of loyal army clients—occupied the same cramped rear courtyard off Liteyny Prospekt. His tools were imported German and French models, and his knowledge of gearing, pressure systems, and early electrics placed him in growing demand as Tsar Nicholas II flirted with industrial modernization.

His position, however, remained precarious. Jewish rights within the empire had only narrowed under Nicholas's reign. The May Laws remained in effect. Though the Gershovitzes lived outside the Pale, they held no illusions about their place in Russian society.

####

By age 10, Israel had already read large portions of the Tanakh in Hebrew, as well as Pushkin and Lermontov in Russian. He was a solitary, thoughtful boy—drawn less to other children than to his father's disused textbooks and the clandestine pamphlets that sometimes appeared in the workshop via apprentices and army men.

His earliest attempts at writing—melancholy couplets about injustice and ice—were scribbled in the margins of his mother's recipe books.

Rosa, while wary of revolutionary zeal, did little to suppress his impulses. She saw in him the kind of intellect that could command words and perhaps wield them like Moishe wielded his tools.

By age 8, Yakob could replicate piano pieces by ear after a single hearing. His fingers were fast, and his sense of rhythm unsettlingly complex for a child. Moishe scraped together money for a battered upright pianino and, eventually, a tutor: Lev Polyakov, an Armenian-Jewish pianist and frustrated conservatory dropout with leftist leanings.

Polyakov introduced Yakob to Bach, Beethoven, and—scandalously—Scott Joplin. The latter he called “Negro genius from the new world,” and Yakob became obsessed.

His music, even early on, was wild—syncopated, dramatic, improvisational. His parents feared he might become too conspicuous.

Only a toddler during this decade, Artur watched the world quietly and preferred counting and organizing to stories or toys. He would line up Rosa’s kitchen spices by weight and alphabet, then scold her for rearranging them.

Rosa whispered to neighbors that he would be a lawyer or a clerk. Moishe was less sure. “He has the eyes of a man who will never let truth stand in the way of necessity.”

The Russo-Japanese War of 1904–1905 was a humiliation for the empire. As the Russian fleet burned in the Tsushima Strait and prices rose in St. Petersburg, protests erupted.

In January 1905, Bloody Sunday sent a chill through the city. Moishe closed his shop for a week and hung a picture of the Tsar in the window—an act of defensive loyalty.

But at night, he let neighbors talk politics in hushed tones. Rosa kept the children away from the courtyard during these meetings, but Israel eavesdropped anyway. These overheard conversations became the first fuel for his ideological awakening.

Anti-Jewish riots surged again in 1905–1906, mostly outside St. Petersburg—but news traveled fast. Moishe joined a local self-defense circle, albeit passively. Rosa wrote letters to her relatives in Vilna, warning them to keep low.

Israel began copying anti-Tsarist slogans in a secret notebook. Yakob, meanwhile, learned to play revolutionary songs—then distort them into ragtime versions, to his mother’s horror and delight.

By 1907, Israel was attending a clandestine discussion circle run by a young Bolshevik medical student. He was only 11.

Despite the chaos, this was an era of cultural ferment. Rosa enrolled the boys in a Jewish community school, where they learned Torah alongside Russian literature. Frankhezka, still in infancy, listened to her brothers play and recite and was often rocked to sleep by Yakob’s half-finished compositions.

By 1908:

• Israel was beginning to write verses in a hybrid of Biblical Hebrew and Russian revolutionary idiom—angry, strange, and compelling.
• Yakob had been promised a letter of recommendation for the Moscow Conservatory's preparatory school.
• Artur was organizing a “library” out of discarded newspapers and string-bound notebooks.
• Franka had begun toddling to her brother Yakob's music and swaying in rhythm.

The first cracks in the Russian imperial edifice had appeared—and the Gershovitz family, despite their quiet lives, had begun to position themselves inside those fissures.

The century to come would demand that each of them choose between art and obedience, between revolution and survival.

And unbeknownst to them all, a strange new world was just a few years away—one shaped by guns, manifestos, and music that no empire could silence.

Would you like a short story or scene from this decade before we move into the 1908–1918 period? Or shall we keep advancing the timeline?

User: Yes, let's keep going!

Yes, let's keep going! I imagine in addition to being influenced by the 'Negro Genius,' young Yakob would have at least been aware of Igor Stravinsky and Sergei Prokofiev, who -- while not Jewish -- were also revolutionary artists navigating this period.

Assistant: Absolutely—by 1908, both Stravinsky and Prokofiev were on the cusp of redefining Russian music, and young Yakob Gyorgi …

Absolutely—by 1908, both Stravinsky and Prokofiev were on the cusp of redefining Russian music, and young Yakob Gyorgi Gershovitz, with his musical aptitude and voracious ear, would have encountered their influence soon enough. His fascination with syncopation and nontraditional tonalities would align uneasily—but compellingly—with the ferment of Russian modernism in music.

Let’s now move forward into the critical decade of 1908–1918, when adolescence, war, and revolution would cast the Gershovitz children—and all of Russia—into fire and flux.

An Alternate History of Jewish Lives and Russian Ruptures

As Russia lurched unevenly into the second decade of the 20th century, the Gershovitz family was straddling the line between marginal integration and cultural subversion. The suppression of the 1905 Revolution had restored a brittle peace, but new technologies, ideas, and ideologies were spilling across the Empire like spilled ink.

The city of St. Petersburg, soon to be renamed Petrograd, was itself changing—electrified, wired, and increasingly uneasy.

Now a teenager, Israel had become heavily involved with underground socialist literary circles. By 1913, he was writing poetry under the pseudonym Izya G.—a fusion of his given name and a nod to the Russian revolutionary nom de guerre tradition.

His early work reflected the dual influence of Jewish messianic yearning and Marxist determinism—long, incantatory verses invoking both Isaiah and Karl Marx. A typical line from his 1912 cycle Chto Yest’ Chelovek? ("What Is Man?") reads:

His affiliations brought risk. Moishe begged him not to be foolish. Rosa, who secretly copied his poems by hand, simply asked that he use different shoes for revolutionary meetings so the police wouldn’t trace muddy footprints home.

By 1910, at the age of 12, Yakob had been granted special permission (via Polyakov’s tireless advocacy and a bribe involving a military officer’s piano) to enter the Moscow Conservatory’s junior preparatory program—one of only three Jewish students admitted that year.

There, he encountered the seismic aesthetic shifts then shaking Russian music. A performance of Stravinsky’s early works, including Fireworks and sketches for The Firebird, left Yakob stunned. He called the music “a machine made of feathers and thunder.”

Even more potent was his exposure to Prokofiev, then a swaggering student at the Conservatory who scandalized professors with his sarcastic harmonies and violent energy. Prokofiev’s Toccata in D minor, performed in 1912, became an obsession for Yakob. He began to experiment with pieces that mashed up Orthodox chant, Yiddish lullabies, African-American ragtime, and avant-garde dissonance.

This “Gershovitz Mode” was exhilarating—and dangerous. More than one instructor warned him he was "cultivating chaos."

He didn't stop.

While his brothers wrote manifestos in verse or sound, Artur, still a boy, was already forming habits of control. He collected neighborhood rumors, tracked who visited whom, and began filing things into what he called his “Administrative Memory.”

By age 14, Artur was working part-time as a clerk for a Jewish-owned import firm. He showed an unnerving skill for form-filling, inventory management, and quietly “editing” reports to align with the expected narrative.

When asked later how he survived so well under Stalin, Artur would reply:

Franka, the youngest, grew into a slender, expressive child who imitated everything—birdsong, wind patterns, the gait of limping neighbors. Rosa encouraged her to dance, to be light, to never speak too freely. By 1916, at age 10, she was in a junior program at a private dance studio run by a former prima ballerina of the Imperial Ballet.

Franka adored the stage and feared it in equal measure. She was still trying to decide whether she wanted to be seen—or disappear into her motions completely.

The outbreak of the Great War in 1914 shattered even the fragile social order the Gershovitzes had relied on. Anti-Semitic scapegoating re-emerged in the press and street; pogroms flared again in the southwest. St. Petersburg was renamed Petrograd, and war rationing began to bite.

• Moishe was contracted to repair military transport machines and worked 14-hour days under military supervision.
• Rosa ran black-market bread lines in the Jewish district, using Artur's bookkeeping to maintain plausible deniability.

Israel, now 18, was recruited into a propaganda cell affiliated with the Bolsheviks. His pamphlets combined poetic cadence and revolutionary slogans, and by 1916, he was editing an underground publication called Krasnaya Iskra ("Red Spark").

Yakob Gyorgi, reluctantly drafted into a military musical unit in 1916, narrowly escaped front-line duty thanks to a conservatory contact. He composed short, brutal pieces mocking patriotic marches—earning him admiration from modernists and suspicion from censors.

In February 1917, the Tsar abdicated.

The Gershovitz home became a rotating salon of whispers. Israel was exultant, Rosa skeptical, Moishe cautious. The Provisional Government seemed promising, but by October, Israel had thrown his lot in with the Bolsheviks—publishing his most famous early work, “Red Psalm in a City Without God,” just days before the storming of the Winter Palace.

Yakob, back in Petrograd after his unit dissolved in the chaos, witnessed the revolution's soundtrack first-hand: workers' songs twisted into strange modern symphonies, church bells drowned by artillery, and the eerie silence after.

By 1918:

• Israel joined the People's Commissariat of Enlightenment (Narkompros) under Lunacharsky, writing ideological poems and overseeing street theater for workers.
• Yakob was named assistant musical director for a workers’ theater in Moscow—where he premiered "Fragments for a Revolutionary Piano", a cacophonous composition alternately hailed as genius and condemned as "bourgeois nihilism."
• Artur began work with the local Soviet's administrative department—filing requisition forms, identifying counter-revolutionary “errors,” and quietly building a reputation as a reliable, discreet fixer.
• Frankhezka, now 12, danced in a children’s performance honoring the Revolution's first anniversary—barefoot, in a red sash, to a Yakob-composed piano piece.

Moishe and Rosa, exhausted, sat in the front row. Moishe whispered, “They’ve all chosen their gods. Now we pray their gods are kind.”

Would you like a narrative story from this period—a slice of life from the Revolution through the eyes of one of the children? Or shall we press forward into 1918–1928, as the Soviet system consolidates and Stalin begins to rise?

User: Let's keep pushing forward with this fascinating timeline.

Let's keep pushing forward with this fascinating timeline. It also seems that young Yakob might have run into a fellow composition student named Vladimir Dukelsky at some point...

Assistant: Excellent insight.

Excellent insight. Vladimir Dukelsky (later known in the West as Vernon Duke) was born in 1903 and, like Yakob Gyorgi, came from a Russian-Jewish background and showed early compositional talent. He entered the Moscow Conservatory in 1915 and studied under Reinhold Glière. He and Yakob, with overlapping interests in both classical rigor and “corrupted” Western styles (particularly jazz and ragtime), would certainly have crossed paths—perhaps uneasily, perhaps competitively.

Now let us press forward another ten years into the Soviet 1920s—years of experimentation, repression, and ever-tightening control.

From Revolution to Regimentation: 1918–1928

By the early 1920s, Israel had become a rising star in Soviet propaganda circles. A poet of considerable talent and ideological clarity, he served as both an editor and writer for the People’s Commissariat of Enlightenment (Narkompros) and was instrumental in campaigns to bring revolutionary literature to the provinces.

His 1923 anthology Burning Alphabet featured lines that became slogans etched on factory walls:

Yet even as he ascended, Israel began to feel the shadow of Zhdanovshchina-style aesthetic orthodoxy. His friend and fellow poet Isaak Babel warned him in 1925: “Write fewer truths. The state prefers fiction it can control.”

Still, Israel was too useful—and still ideologically compliant enough—to face censure… yet.

After his 1918 revolutionary pieces, Yakob spent the early 1920s in Moscow’s increasingly politicized music scene. He was a student and later a protégé of Reinhold Glière, but with his dissonant compositions, African-American rhythmic motifs, and jazz inflections, he soon stood apart from the more conservative Soviet musical establishment.

It was during this period that he encountered Vladimir Dukelsky, a gifted student from a noble family who shared Yakob's fascination with syncopation, American spirituals, and tonal experimentation. The two had a brief, intense friendship—playing four-hand piano arrangements in cafés near Tverskaya, arguing over Stravinsky’s Symphony of Psalms, and dissecting the possibilities of “Soviet jazz.”

But their paths diverged sharply by 1924:

• Dukelsky, ever aware of his aristocratic pedigree and uneasy with Soviet conformity, emigrated via Constantinople to Paris, eventually reinventing himself as Vernon Duke in the United States.
• Yakob, stubborn and idealistic, chose to stay.

His 1925 work “Steel & Shadows: Suite for Dancer and Machine” premiered at the Meyerhold Theater and was hailed by avant-garde critics as “a proletarian jazz ritual.” But party officials grumbled about “Negro decadence,” “bourgeois individualism,” and “non-dialectical rhythm.”

In 1927, Yakob’s commission for the 10th Anniversary of the October Revolution—a piece called “Red Fugue”—was rejected by the cultural commissariat for being “insufficiently legible to the masses.”

This marked the beginning of his political unmasking.

Israel tried to shield him—appealing to mutual contacts in Narkompros—but warned:

By 1922, Artur had secured a permanent position within the Central Economic Planning Bureau (Gosplan). He was discreet, efficient, and completely apolitical in public—traits that made him indispensable in the early days of the New Economic Policy (NEP).

Privately, he helped both Israel and Yakob navigate the increasingly Kafkaesque approval systems for artistic and cultural work. He did not necessarily agree with their choices, but he understood how to manipulate the system.

Artur had no illusions. He often said to Rosa: “They believe the future can be calculated. I merely provide the illusion of the math.”

By 1928, as Stalin moved to crush the NEP and enforce collectivization, Artur quietly transferred into a new department under the Commissariat of Internal Affairs—predecessor to the NKVD. Officially, he was working on rural administrative reform. Unofficially, he began compiling profiles of "culturally problematic elements"—including, perhaps, his own brother.

Now in her early twenties, Franka had graduated into the Bolshoi’s second troupe, admired for her graceful but disciplined form. Her performances—stylized, austere, and increasingly ideological—were typical of the era’s “Soviet Ballet,” purged of romanticism, yet still imbued with the subtle poetry of movement.

She danced in Yakob’s 1923 production of "Iron Flowers", a politically symbolic ballet set in a metallurgical plant, portraying a woman whose body is both enslaved by and liberated through industrial labor.

Though her name appeared in several state publications, Franka knew she was never first-tier. She told Rosa, “They want me to move like an idea, not a girl.”

Her relationship with Yakob remained closest. She was often the first to dance to his music—sometimes alone, late at night, in empty studios that still echoed with old Czardas melodies.

By the late 1920s, Moishe was nearly deaf from decades of workshop noise and increasingly confused by the political mood. He closed his workshop in 1926 after it was nationalized, accepting a ceremonial post in a factory training young mechanics.

Rosa, ever practical, focused on helping Franka manage the day-to-day struggles of a performer’s life—ration cards, crowded apartments, suspicious neighbors. But she watched her sons with dread.

She told Israel once:

As Stalin prepared to launch the First Five-Year Plan, the atmosphere chilled. Avant-gardism was out. Socialist Realism would soon be mandatory. Jazz, syncopation, ambiguity—these were now suspect.

Israel began censoring his own poems. Yakob refused to change his style, instead beginning work on an oratorio for factory sirens and string quartet. Artur wrote him a letter—brief, unsigned, and untraceable:

Would you like a short story from this period—perhaps a tense reunion between Yakob and Dukelsky before the latter emigrates, or a confrontation between the brothers as Stalin's grip tightens? Or shall we keep advancing into the shadowy 1930s?

User: Indeed, let us keep advancing with this timeline!

Indeed, let us keep advancing with this timeline!

Assistant: Excellent—then forward we go into the 1930s, perhaps the most perilous and transformative decade for the Gershovitz fam…

Excellent—then forward we go into the 1930s, perhaps the most perilous and transformative decade for the Gershovitz family. The Soviet Union under Stalin would become a world unto itself: industrializing with brutal speed, enforcing ideological conformity, and extinguishing dissent through purges, denunciations, and disappearances.

For the Gershovitz children—each entangled in a different strand of Soviet life—this would be a decade of collision.

The Furnace and the Silence

With the launch of the First Five-Year Plan in 1928, Stalin’s government demanded more than industrial output—it demanded ideological purity in every sphere. Art, music, literature, and even dance had to align with Socialist Realism, a prescribed optimism that celebrated Party triumphs and suppressed ambiguity.

For the Gershovitz siblings—none of whom fit easily into the new mold—the decade opened with tension, worsened into fear, and ended in irrevocable rupture.

Now in his 30s, Israel was a prominent cultural functionary within Narkompros, with several published anthologies, a prestigious editorial role, and indirect influence over literary policy. On paper, he was everything a Soviet poet should be.

But Israel was also deeply troubled.

He watched friends—some who had cheered the Revolution with him—disappear into Lubyanka Prison or internal exile. He quietly removed earlier poems from circulation. His once-searing verse grew abstract, cautious, full of “we” instead of “I.”

In 1933, during the Holodomor, Israel requested permission to travel to Ukraine to observe a “workers’ poetry collective.” What he saw—famished peasants, cannibalized villages, corpses by the roadside—never made it into his official reports. But a private notebook survived:

This notebook was hidden behind a loose brick in the Gershovitz family apartment. It would not be found until long after his death.

The early 1930s were professionally disastrous for Yakob.

His 1929 ballet, The Tenth Hammer, was denounced by the Composers’ Union as “formalist, decadent, and contaminated by Negro-American rhythmic infection.” He was summoned to a public criticism session in 1930, where fellow composers—some forced, others opportunistic—called his music “anti-people” and “alien to Soviet ideals.”

His response—sarcastic, cryptic, and stubborn—only deepened suspicion.

For a time, he was reduced to ghostwriting patriotic choral arrangements for a Red Army ensemble and composing “correct” melodies for state radio.

By 1934, he was under surveillance.

That same year, Sergei Kirov was assassinated. The Great Purge began.

In 1936, a denunciation was filed against Yakob by a former collaborator: a vague but damning accusation of “aesthetic sabotage” and “corruption by capitalist jazz.” Artur was quietly notified. He managed to have the denunciation buried—for now—by leaning on contacts and providing a falsified dossier on Yakob’s supposed “re-education efforts.”

Yakob was ordered to publicly recant. He refused.

Instead, he withdrew almost entirely from public life. He composed in secret. Among these works: “Elegy for Stravinsky in Absentia”, a piano suite never performed in his lifetime.

By the mid-1930s, Artur was deeply entrenched in the NKVD administrative apparatus, likely under the internal affairs branch dealing with “cultural reliability.”

He walked a tightrope. As a Jew and brother to a known formalist, his position was always under potential scrutiny. But he survived through a mix of bureaucratic brilliance, loyalty to institutional power (not individuals), and selective cruelty.

Artur believed in systems, not ideologies. He understood that in Stalin’s USSR, survival required not just silence, but complicity.

Privately, he kept a protective watch on Yakob—intervening in small, unseen ways. But he made no such effort for colleagues or friends. His cold calculus extended even to family. When asked years later how he slept at night, he said:

Now a company member of the Bolshoi, Franka was well-known, well-regarded, and utterly forgettable—by design. She danced the roles she was given, spoke only when spoken to, and never questioned why choreographers she had once admired were suddenly gone.

Her dance was now strictly controlled. Movement had become metaphor-free, bound to political narrative. There was no room for interpretation. In 1937, she performed in “The Fertile Soil”, a ballet extolling collectivized agriculture—while just across the border, Ukraine starved.

Her performances were technically flawless but emotionally vacant. She no longer danced with the music, but against it, fighting its simplicity with restrained grace.

She and Yakob remained close. In 1938, she became the sole performer of a short solo work he composed in secret—“Etude for a Silenced Body.”

She danced it once, alone, in an empty studio. No one ever saw it but him.

Moishe died in 1932. Rosa lived on until 1939, her world narrowed to a communal apartment, ration lines, and whispered worry.

She kept a family archive in a shoebox: Israel’s earliest pamphlets, Yakob’s first concert flyer, Artur’s school notebooks, and Franka’s ballet slippers.

When she died, Franka hid the box behind a crumbling plaster wall. It would survive the war. Just barely.

As the Great Terror reached its climax in 1937–38:

• Israel, though internally anguished, survived by writing odes to industrial workers and maintaining his official role.
• Yakob lived in a liminal state—part ghost, part genius. He was blacklisted but not yet arrested.
• Artur was promoted. He signed off on lists. He drank more. He began sleeping with a revolver under his pillow.
• Franka danced less. She asked Yakob one night if they had made any difference.

He answered, “We left marks in the air. Nothing more.”

By the close of 1938, Stalin’s purges began to wane, the bloodletting easing under internal pressure. But the system remained intact. The arts had been neutered. Fear had taken root.

And beyond the Soviet border, a new menace was stirring—one that would plunge the entire continent into fire once more.

Would you like to continue into the 1938–1948 decade—the war years and postwar realignment—or pause here for a focused narrative scene from this dark and pivotal era?

User: Let us continue into the 1938-1948 decade.

Let us continue into the 1938-1948 decade.

Assistant: Excellent—now we pass into the decade of fire and ash: 1938 to 1948, encompassing the Second World War, the Holocaust, …

Excellent—now we pass into the decade of fire and ash: 1938 to 1948, encompassing the Second World War, the Holocaust, the Siege of Leningrad, and the immediate postwar Soviet consolidation. For the Gershovitz family, this decade would not only test their endurance, but redefine what survival itself meant.

Ashes, Survival, and the Music of Ruin

By late 1938, the worst of Stalin’s Great Terror had passed, though the scars—psychological and demographic—remained. Millions were dead or disappeared. Soviet society staggered on in a kind of stunned compliance.

And beyond its borders, Europe was sliding into catastrophe.

• Hitler had annexed Austria and the Sudetenland.
• Kristallnacht had revealed the full velocity of Nazi antisemitism.
• And in 1939, the unthinkable happened: the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact, a non-aggression agreement between Hitler’s Germany and Stalin’s USSR, sealed with secret protocols to divide Eastern Europe.

In the corridors of the Kremlin, Artur Gershovitz read the fine print. In the back alleys of Moscow, Yakob heard the irony—his music, once denounced as “Negro corruption,” now fell under suspicion as Jewish cosmopolitanism.

###

When Germany and the USSR jointly invaded Poland in September 1939, Israel was called upon to produce ideological verse celebrating the Soviet “liberation” of Eastern Ukrainians and Belarusians.

He complied. His public poems from 1940 were full of triumphant platitudes about unity, Slavic brotherhood, and historical justice. Privately, he was sickened. The Holocaust had not yet begun in full, but reports filtered in—pogroms in Lwów, disappearances in Brest.

His pen began to falter. He developed a tremor in his right hand.

Yakob had been unofficially banned from public performance since 1936, but he continued to compose, mostly for private performances or underground theater troupes. He flirted with using pseudonyms, but always returned to his name—Gyorgi—the Hungarian inflection a private nod to his “otherness.”

He began composing what would become his wartime masterpiece: Symphony No. 3, “For the Silence Beneath the Snow”, a massive, dissonant work for chamber orchestra, percussion ensemble, and tape-recorded machinery.

The piece was never performed during the war. Its score was hidden in a ceiling panel of the apartment he shared with Franka.

When Germany invaded the Soviet Union in June 1941, the Great Patriotic War began. Artur, now mid-level in the NKVD and deeply trusted, was given sensitive internal tasks:

• Monitoring morale in besieged cities.
• Tracking wartime collaborators.
• Overseeing population transfers from the western oblasts—including Jewish deportees.

He knew what was happening in German-occupied Poland. He read intercepted German reports from the Einsatzgruppen, knew the names of mass grave sites like Babi Yar and Ponary before they became public knowledge.

He told no one.

When Franka confronted him about rumors of mass shootings of Jews in Ukraine, Artur said only:

When the Germans reached Leningrad, Franka and Yakob were in Moscow, evacuated only days before the front line reached the outskirts. She joined a cultural brigade that toured factories and military hospitals, performing morale-boosting ballet adapted for tiny stages and ice-cold barracks.

In 1942, she slipped during a performance for Red Army troops recovering near Kalinin and broke two toes. She danced the next day anyway. The applause was muted, but one soldier wept.

She kept the tear-streaked flower he handed her, pressed in a book of Yakob’s piano miniatures.

###

Throughout the war, Israel served on the Union of Soviet Writers’ propaganda committee. He wrote odes to the Red Army’s defense of Stalingrad, commemorative verses for the Partisans, and deeply symbolic elegies for Soviet citizens lost in bombings and famines.

He never once mentioned Jews directly. The Party line was unity, not ethnicity.

But in 1944, after the Red Army liberated Majdanek, Israel requested permission to visit the site. He was denied. Instead, he wrote a poem titled “Dust With No Passport”, never published in his lifetime:

It was passed hand-to-hand among fellow writers in samizdat form. He nearly lost his position—but was saved by his long-standing political reliability. Barely.

During the darkest winter of 1942, Yakob finished his Symphony No. 3. The final movement was scored for:

• Solo violin
• Waterphone
• Chain dragged across concrete
• Distant recorded echo of a human breath

He called it “Lullaby for a Starved City.” He never expected it to be heard.

Yet in 1945, at a private gathering of underground composers in a bombed-out hall near Moscow University, the piece was played—partly, hesitantly, trembling with cold.

The audience sat in stunned silence.

A Red Army officer in the back whispered: “This is not music. It’s confession.”

Yakob replied, “That’s the idea.”

###

After the war, Israel helped organize the state-sponsored Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee’s literary arm. He saw it as a way to bear witness without disloyalty. But in 1948, with Stalin’s pivot toward postwar antisemitism, the Committee was disbanded.

Several of Israel’s colleagues were arrested. He narrowly escaped—again—due to his prior loyalty and assistance in publishing postwar victory literature.

His health deteriorated. He began drinking heavily, though only at night, alone.

In 1948, with the Zhdanov Doctrine in full effect, Yakob was denounced once more—this time formally—as a “rootless cosmopolitan” and “anti-Soviet formalist.” A public letter signed by lesser composers accused him of “trafficking in decadent Western atonality.”

He was expelled from the Composers’ Union and barred from performance.

Artur offered to intervene.

Yakob refused.

He stopped composing. But he continued to write music—on pages he burned after finishing. “So it will exist only in me,” he told Franka.

By 1948, Artur was a senior administrator in the Ministry of State Security, the NKVD's successor. He was now wealthy by Soviet standards—comfortable flat, private driver, ration exemptions.

He made no attempt to help his siblings publicly.

He hosted mandatory literary salons with vetted guests. One evening, a poem by Israel was quoted. He said nothing.

Later, alone, he reread it in full. Then burned it.

Her dancing was increasingly subdued. Her body, once lithe and explosive, moved with measured nostalgia.

She was kept on the Bolshoi roster out of respect and quiet compliance. She choreographed a children's piece in 1947 called “The Birch and the Banner.” It received state approval and a note from Zhdanov’s office: “Suitably patriotic. Keep her useful.”

She visited Yakob weekly. They never spoke of music.

By 1948:

• Israel remained a poet no longer read in public, but still alive.
• Yakob was silenced but intact.
• Artur thrived, untouched, the only brother who had never risked anything visible.
• Franka danced without applause.

And behind plaster walls and loose bricks, in hidden boxes and burned pages, their real work remained—unseen, but undefeated.

Would you like to continue into 1948–1958—the death of Stalin and the early Khrushchev Thaw? Or would you now like a short story from this harrowing wartime and postwar decade?

User: Yes, let's keep going.

Yes, let's keep going. 1948-1958--the death of Stalin and the early Krushchev Thaw

Assistant: Very good—we now move into the postwar Soviet Union, where repression begins to thaw...

Very good—we now move into the postwar Soviet Union, where repression begins to thaw... but only after one final, terrible freeze.

Between 1948 and 1953, Stalin embarked on a new wave of antisemitic purges, culminating in the infamous “Doctor’s Plot.” But after his death in 1953, the machinery he built began to stall. Under Nikita Khrushchev, the Soviet Union cracked open—slightly—permitting cautious speech, limited cultural experimentation, and even the rehabilitation of some of its own victims.

For the Gershovitz family, this decade marked the end of survival as an organizing principle. Now, they faced the harder question: how to live again.

After Silence, Memory

By 1948, antisemitism was again official Soviet policy in all but name. The Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee was dissolved. Yiddish theaters were shut. Jewish writers and artists were arrested, tortured, or disappeared.

All cultural institutions were under renewed surveillance. “Cosmopolitans” were targeted for having “excessive foreign influence”—especially those who read foreign books, used Western idioms, or refused to write Socialist Realist dogma.

In 1949, Israel was dismissed from his editorial post and quietly relocated to a translation office outside Moscow. He now translated Uzbek and Kazakh folktales into Russian for Soviet youth readers.

He wrote no original poetry between 1950 and 1953.

He burned his unpublished manuscript “Night Without Flags”, a cycle of poems reflecting on Jewish suffering during the war. “Not even a box of ash this time,” he said.

He suffered a minor stroke in late 1952, and never fully recovered his speech.

Following his 1948 expulsion from the Composers’ Union, Yakob was virtually a non-person. His name was removed from catalogues. His few surviving students were told not to mention him. His music, if found, was confiscated.

He was summoned twice by internal investigators, but never arrested—likely thanks to Artur’s quiet intercession. Still, Yakob knew his days were numbered.

He began writing short fugues and etudes in code—not literal cipher, but musical code: pieces whose phrases spelled names or dates, or whose harmonic structures referenced Psalms, or even Stravinsky’s dissonant “signatures.” These were not for performance. They were memory sculptures.

In 1953, when Stalin died, Yakob did not celebrate.

He wrote only one word in his journal: “pause.”

In the last years of Stalin’s rule, Artur remained professionally untouched, though the purges among his Jewish colleagues were visible and terrifying.

He played his role well: denouncing “rootless cosmopolitans,” submitting “ideological evaluations” of cultural figures, and participating in closed-door reviews of ethnic policy.

He lived comfortably, increasingly isolated from his siblings.

He did not attend Rosa’s funeral in 1950. He sent a wreath and an unsigned note: “She kept us all alive. Once.”

Franka was now relegated to minor teaching roles within the Bolshoi's youth division. Her choreography was no longer requested. Her name was still technically on the company roster, but no one called on her.

She became a quiet myth among younger dancers—“the one who danced barefoot during the war.”

At night, she would sometimes stretch in the empty studio, play recordings of Yakob’s old works (kept secretly), and move in silence. Her bones ached. Her body no longer obeyed. But her lines were still pure.

She never married.

On March 5, 1953, Joseph Stalin died.

His death sent a wave of confusion and cautious hope through the Soviet Union. Power struggles followed. Eventually, Nikita Khrushchev emerged as General Secretary and began a tentative process of destalinization.

The Doctors' Plot was declared a fabrication. Jewish cultural figures were quietly rehabilitated.

And into that cautious air, the surviving Gershovitz siblings began to breathe again—however shallowly.

In 1955, Israel was invited to republish his early revolutionary poems in a new “Patriotic Verse” anthology. He accepted—on the condition that one new poem could be included.

That poem, “Comrade Silence,” was a subtle but unmistakable critique of Stalinist terror. It read in part:

The censors allowed it, unsure whether it was metaphor or homage.

Israel, now partially paralyzed on one side, gave a halting reading at the Writers’ Union Hall in 1956. The room was silent. Then came applause—not thunderous, but real.

He wept on stage.

In 1954, a young musicologist named Irina Rozanova discovered a yellowed score of Symphony No. 3 in an unmarked envelope. She traced the handwriting to Yakob, now living alone in a communal flat, gaunt and bitter.

Irina petitioned the Moscow Conservatory for permission to stage a revival of his works. Surprisingly, it was granted in 1955—part of the cultural thaw.

On a rainy night in November, “Lullaby for a Starved City” was performed publicly for the first time. The audience was stunned.

The next day, Pravda called it “a disturbing, unpatriotic relic.” But within dissident circles, Yakob was hailed as a survivor and prophet.

He declined all interviews.

He told Irina: “I wrote it for no one. But thank you for listening.”

Artur remained in state service, though with less authority under Khrushchev. His methods were now quietly deprecated. He retired in 1957, accepting a Party medal and a pension.

In private, he grew withdrawn. He reread files on his siblings. Burned some. Hid others.

He never wrote memoirs.

When asked, years later, why he had helped no one, he replied:

In 1956, Franka choreographed a piece for students called “After the Rain,” set to a fragment of Yakob’s early music.

It was wordless, abstract, sorrowful—but carried a haunting dignity.

An inspector noted that “while ideologically ambiguous, it contains no clear violations.”

It was performed once, then shelved.

Franka didn’t mind. She had kept her promise: to make Yakob’s music move again.

She began writing down her memories in a diary labeled “Not For Now.”

By 1958, the thaw was incomplete, uneven, and still dangerous—but the worst was over.

• Israel was now considered a respected “elder revolutionary poet.”
• Yakob had a small following of musicians, though his work remained semi-official at best.
• Artur faded from view, his career buried in the dust of the system he had served.
• Franka lived modestly, quietly mentoring young dancers and collecting memories no one else dared record.

The family remained fractured, yet somehow still whole.

And in a hidden drawer in Franka’s apartment lay a crumbling program from “Iron Flowers”, a copy of “Comrade Silence,” and a hand-notated piano score titled simply: “For Them. For Us.”

Would you like to continue into 1958–1968, as the Khrushchev Thaw reaches its apex—and begins to falter—or pause here for a story drawn from this subtle but monumental decade?

User: By all means, keep going into 1958-1968.

By all means, keep going into 1958-1968. It's not what I expected but seems far more plausible.

Assistant: Excellent.

Excellent. The decade from 1958 to 1968 was one of contradiction and complexity—a genuine thaw, yes, but one whose warmth came in fits and starts, punctuated by censorship, paranoia, and the ever-lurking shadow of what had come before.

This was the high point of the Khrushchev Thaw, when Solzhenitsyn published One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, jazz and film enjoyed brief moments of openness, and a new generation of Soviet youth—unburdened by war, but not yet crushed by Brezhnevian stagnation—began asking different questions.

For the Gershovitz family, these were the years in which old silences finally broke—but not always in the ways they hoped.

Memory, Dissonance, and the Shape of Legacy

- 1959: The Soviet Union opens its doors to limited Western exhibitions and cultural exchanges.

• 1961: Khrushchev denounces Stalin more openly at the 22nd Party Congress.
• 1962: The Novocherkassk massacre reminds everyone the thaw has limits.
• 1964: Khrushchev is ousted; Brezhnev begins to consolidate power.
• 1968: The Prague Spring is crushed, and Soviet liberalism hits a wall.

In this fraught decade, artists and intellectuals tried to balance truth and survival—the lifelong theme of the Gershovitz children.

In 1961, as part of Khrushchev’s official “rehabilitation of early revolutionary figures,” Israel’s name reappeared in Soviet literary circles. A “selected works” anthology, Verses for the People, was published in 1963.

The volume, edited with political caution, included:

• His early pre-revolutionary agitprop verse (glorifying the proletariat)
• Carefully selected wartime elegies (focusing on “the Soviet people,” never Jews)
• Omitted entirely: his private Holocaust cycle “Night Without Flags” and anything overtly religious, ethnic, or disillusioned

Still, he was invited to speak at the Writers’ Union Conference of 1965, where, instead of reading his old verse, he surprised the hall by reading a new poem titled “There Is No Synonym for Absence.”

It was met with stunned silence, then hesitant applause.

He died quietly in 1966, blind in one eye, surrounded by notes he had never dared publish.

Franka said at his funeral:

By 1960, Yakob’s name had begun to circulate again—not in official programs, but in samizdat music journals, university recitals, and underground composer collectives. A small cult of musicians, many of them trained in Moscow or Leningrad Conservatories, saw in him a Soviet Charles Ives: buried genius, overlooked innovator, victim of ideological conformity.

The 1961 “Private Premiere” of his Symphony No. 3 at a Leningrad cultural club—technically unauthorized—drew nearly a hundred people, including several foreign musicologists. The performance was recorded on reel-to-reel tape and smuggled to the West via a Czech academic. It would eventually reach Paris, then New York.

Back in the USSR, Yakob was both amused and wary. When a graduate student asked why he hadn’t pursued rehabilitation like Prokofiev, Yakob replied:

In 1964, a small Soviet publishing house offered to reprint one of his early folk arrangements—under his name. He refused. He began instead composing a final cycle: “Studies for a Deaf Government.” It remained unfinished at his death in 1968—found beside his bed, written in pencil, the paper spotted with tea stains and blood.

Retired in 1957, Artur remained a Party member in good standing. In the Khrushchev years, his former role in the NKVD was a liability, not a merit. He sensed the change and withdrew entirely from public life.

Yet, he retained influence behind closed doors. His contacts in the Ministry of Culture occasionally reached out for quiet “clarifications” on historical matters. Artur always obliged—with redacted memories, expunged dates, and silence where it mattered most.

In 1962, a rising official asked him whether a certain Yakob Gershovitz was “related” to him. Artur responded:

In truth, Artur and Yakob had not spoken since 1953.

He died in 1965 of a stroke. At his funeral, Franka did not speak. Yakob did not attend.

His will contained no mention of his siblings. But tucked into a file labeled “Misc. Archives” was a sealed envelope addressed to “Whoever Still Remembers.”

Inside: a full copy of Israel’s banned manuscript Night Without Flags.

Franka outlived them all.

By the early 1960s, she had become an informal mentor to a generation of Soviet ballet dancers disillusioned with the stale heroic tableaux of Brezhnev-era stagecraft. She taught quietly, with precision, and rarely mentioned her own career.

But those who studied with her remembered something else: the way she moved through memory.

She choreographed three new pieces in this decade—all of them brief, lyrical, wordless:

• “Salt in Spring” (1960), dedicated to her brother Israel.
• “Ash and Ribbon” (1963), danced once by her finest student, then banned.
• “Lullaby for the Hollow Stage” (1968), performed in an empty auditorium, filmed by a Czech documentary team who were expelled days later.

By 1968, she had become a kind of living reliquary of Soviet cultural pain—a dancer who never defected, never denounced, and never published.

When asked in an interview if she regretted not leaving the USSR, she said:

In 1967, a French ethnomusicologist published a monograph titled “La musique oubliée: Yakob Gyorgi Gershovitz et la Russie déformée” ("Forgotten Music: Yakob Gershovitz and Distorted Russia"). It caused a stir in émigré circles and brought Yakob's name—briefly—into the Western avant-garde consciousness.

An LP of his reconstructed Symphony No. 3 was released in Paris in early 1968. It sold poorly. But among the dissident diaspora, it became legendary.

Back in Moscow, the LP was passed around like contraband. A copy made its way to Franka. She played it once, alone.

Then she shelved it behind a photo of the family taken in 1910—Rosa and Moishe standing beside four children who did not yet know what they would become.

The Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in August 1968 crushed the dreams of many. For young Soviet artists and writers who had come of age during the Thaw, it was a brutal awakening.

Some were arrested. Some defected. Some simply fell silent.

For Franka, it was another turn of the wheel.

She choreographed one final solo: “Study for One Step Forward, Two Back”. It was never performed.

She kept dancing in her apartment—until the arthritis made even that impossible.

Would you like to continue into 1968–1978, as the Brezhnev era descends into stagnation—and memory begins to matter more than politics? Or would you prefer a narrative story drawn from this quietly momentous decade?

User: May as well see what happens with Franka during 1968-1978

May as well see what happens with Franka during 1968-1978

Assistant: Very well—let us move now into 1968–1978, the years of Brezhnevian Stagnation, when the Soviet Union turned its back on…

Very well—let us move now into 1968–1978, the years of Brezhnevian Stagnation, when the Soviet Union turned its back on both reform and revolution. This was a period of slow suffocation, when official optimism masked decline, when art was neutered by endless praise, and when the state no longer needed to destroy its artists outright—only to ignore them into disappearance.

For Frankhezka Gershovitz, by now the last surviving child of Moishe and Rosa, the question was no longer how to resist, but how to preserve: memory, movement, and meaning in a country that wanted none of them.

A Life in the Margins of Movement

- In 1968, the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia crushed the Prague Spring, signaling the end of the Khrushchev Thaw.

• The 1970s ushered in a period of “stability,” marked by cultural conformity, aging leadership, and quiet decay.
• Dissent became more dangerous—but less romantic. Most dissidents were arrested quietly or placed in psychiatric hospitals.
• Jewish emigration became a cause célèbre abroad, and an embarrassment for the state. Exit visas were rare. Antisemitism grew more coded but remained potent.

In this atmosphere of glacial repression, Frankhezka—a nearly forgotten figure from the revolutionary and wartime ballet—faced her final decade of work.

After the invasion of Prague, Franka sensed the door was closing for good. Artists she knew were exiled, silenced, or vanished. Choreographers who had embraced abstraction during the Thaw were returned to the patriotic fold—or expelled from it entirely.

Franka stopped teaching officially in 1969.

That year, she choreographed one final piece—“Unmarked Movements”—for a private performance in a Leningrad studio. Only six dancers saw it, and it was never recorded.

It was a piece in ten gestures:

1. A woman walking in a circle, dragging one foot.
2. A slow unfurling of arms and then stillness.
3. A child reaching for a hand that isn’t there.
4. A slow crawl backward.
5. A moment of suspended breath.
6. A sudden collapse, immediately recovered.
7. A spinning in place, slowly accelerating.
8. A salute that melts into an embrace.
9. A step forward that ends in silence.
10. A bow—not to applause, but to memory.

When asked what it was about, she said: “It’s what’s left when no one claps anymore.”

In 1970, Franka was visited by Irina Rozanova, the musicologist who had rediscovered Yakob’s symphony. Irina, now working on a suppressed monograph about Jewish Soviet composers, asked if Franka had any of Yakob’s surviving scores.

Franka said yes—and led her to a closet where she had carefully hidden three tin boxes:

• Yakob’s String Quartets (1947–1950), unperformed
• Israel’s unpublished Holocaust cycle Night Without Flags, copied in Franka’s careful handwriting
• A full handwritten score to “Iron Flowers”, including Franka’s personal notations from its original staging

Irina was stunned. She asked if she could take the materials to Leningrad for safekeeping.

Franka refused.

They spent five days together, copying page after page by hand and typewriter. Irina wept over Israel’s verses. Franka did not. She had no tears left.

By the mid-70s, Franka was a quiet rumor in Moscow arts circles. Her name did not appear in programs or journals. Young dancers whispered of “the barefoot ballerina,” but most assumed she had died years ago.

In reality, she lived in a small one-room flat in the Arbat, surrounded by relics:

• Yakob’s silent metronome
• Moishe’s rusted wrench set
• Rosa’s hand-mended tablecloth
• A portrait of Israel, half-faded
• A newspaper clipping showing Artur at a Party banquet, captioned only: “Comrade Administrator.”

She lived on a meager pension, supplemented occasionally by Irina’s quiet generosity.

She still moved, but only in private. Each morning, she would stretch, step, pivot, bow—to no one. A prayer made of motion.

In 1975, Irina arranged for the first underground concert of Yakob Gershovitz’s chamber works in decades—held in a private apartment in Leningrad, attended by dissident artists, foreign correspondents, and one KGB agent who did not interfere.

A tape of the performance reached Paris, and from there, New York. An émigré magazine published a glowing review titled: “The Sound of Buried Fire: Yakob G. Rediscovered.”

Frankhezka heard a cassette copy a year later. She played it once, then placed it beside Yakob’s ashes.

In 1977, Franka began dictating her memoirs to Irina. She insisted the work be titled “Not for Publication.”

The chapters were organized not chronologically, but emotionally:

• “What the Fog Covered”
• “When We Forgot to Whisper”
• “The Hand I Held in 1942”
• “No One Danced After That”
• “What Artur Didn't Say”
• “Ashes Don’t Applaud”
• “Final Rehearsal”

She wrote until her body gave out.

Frankhezka Gershovitz died on April 14, 1978, aged 71.

The official obituary in the Sovietsky Teatr newsletter was two sentences long:

But a small group of former students, underground musicians, and Irina herself gathered in the back room of an old cultural hall near Tsvetnoy Bulvar.

There, a cassette of Yakob’s Lullaby for a Starved City was played.

No one danced.

But one young ballerina—unprompted—removed her shoes and walked the floor in silence. A single turn. A bow. Stillness.

Franka’s ashes were placed in an urn beside those of her brother Yakob, just as she had wished.

Would you like to follow the posthumous rediscovery of the Gershovitz legacy in 1978–1988, the era of dissident exile, émigré publication, and slow Western recognition? Or would you prefer to pause here for a story or vignette from this decade of stillness and shadows?

User: The Gershovitz rediscovery would be interesting, especially how it might have been commodified and exploited by the pos…

The Gershovitz rediscovery would be interesting, especially how it might have been commodified and exploited by the post-Soviet hyper-capitalists.

Assistant: Ah—yes.

Ah—yes. A fascinating turn. We now move into the era of rediscovery, where memory, long buried under censorship and silence, is unearthed—not always reverently. The 1980s and 1990s saw the slow rehabilitation of figures like Israel, Yakob, and even the spectral Franka—first by émigré intellectuals and dissident circles, then, after the collapse of the USSR, by a post-Soviet culture industry ravenous for narratives of suffering, genius, and marketable tragedy.

By the 2000s, what had once been forbidden was now fashionable—and the Gershovitz legacy, long a whisper in cultural memory, became something else entirely: a brand.

From Samizdat to Sotheby’s: Resurrection and Repackaging

The deaths of Yakob (1968) and Frankhezka (1978) were not officially noted in Soviet artistic circles, but their names lived on in a growing underground memory cult sustained by émigrés, musicologists, and dissident artists.

- 1980: Irina Rozanova, having emigrated to Paris, publishes “The Silent Score: The Music of Yakob Gyorgi Gershovitz”. The book receives minor acclaim in Europe and becomes essential reading in émigré music circles.

• 1981: A reel-to-reel copy of Symphony No. 3: For the Silence Beneath the Snow is smuggled into the U.S. and aired on WNYC, introduced as “an unplayed ghostwork of Soviet modernism.”
• 1984: A small Manhattan dance company choreographs a piece to “Etude for a Silenced Body,” reconstructed from Franka’s notebooks. The performance—barefoot, minimalist, stark—stuns critics and is picked up by PBS.
• 1985–1988: As Gorbachev’s perestroika opens the archives, Israel’s banned manuscripts begin to circulate again inside the USSR, passed among intelligentsia as moral relics of a more honest time.

By the late 1980s, the Gershovitz siblings were being spoken of—tentatively—as unjustly suppressed voices of Soviet cultural conscience.

But few had read them fully. Fewer had performed them. And none had yet bought them.

The fall of the Soviet Union in 1991 opened not just the archives but the markets. Western publishers, philanthropists, curators, and, eventually, luxury brands discovered an untapped trove of “lost Soviet geniuses.”

- Yale University Press acquires rights to Israel Gershovitz’s full poetry archives, including Night Without Flags. The collection is published in 1992 as “Ashes Without Alphabet”, complete with an introduction by Joseph Brodsky’s protégé. Reviews hail it as “equal parts Paul Celan and Osip Mandelstam.”

• Deutsche Grammophon records Symphony No. 3 with full orchestration, conducted by a young Finnish prodigy. The album, released in 1993, is titled “The Soviet Winter: Music from the Silenced Edge.”
• Yakob’s surviving manuscripts are sold in fragments to institutions: Juilliard, the British Library, and a private collector in Tokyo who claims his great-grandfather died in the Siege of Leningrad.

No one asks what Franka might have wanted.

A slick, minimalist exhibition—“Red Silence: The Gershovitz Siblings and the Art of Survival”—opens at the Whitney Museum in New York, then travels to Berlin, Paris, and eventually Moscow.

The Moscow installation is funded jointly by:

• A former KGB officer turned oligarch, now head of a nationalist art foundation.
• A global vodka conglomerate using Soviet nostalgia in its branding.
• A luxury balletwear brand offering a “Franka Line”—inspired by the “barefoot dancer of 1942.”

Inside the exhibition:

• Visitors hear Yakob’s “Lullaby for a Starved City” on loop, beneath glass-encased family photos.
• A backlit copy of Israel’s “Comrade Silence” poem scrolls in projected Cyrillic on the walls.
• In one corner, a Bolshoi soloist, clad in a gauzy white Franka-inspired tunic, dances fragmentary movements choreographed by an American postmodernist.

There is no mention of Artur. Not anywhere.

As Gershovitzmania crests, some voices begin to push back:

• A New Left Review essay in 1997 accuses the movement of “flattening trauma into brand identity.”
• Russian critics, particularly old-line Communists and nationalists, call the siblings “tools of Western cultural imperialism.”
• Dissident intellectuals argue that Yakob’s deliberate refusal of performance is being ignored. One writes: >

Still, by 1998, the Gershovitz archive—once a shoebox hidden behind crumbling plaster—has been digitized, translated, and licensed for adaptation.

- $1.4 million: Price paid by a hedge fund executive for Franka’s original “Ash and Ribbon” rehearsal slippers.

• 12: Number of countries where Israel Gershovitz’s Collected Poems are now required reading in comparative literature courses.
• 4: Film projects in development inspired by Yakob’s life, none of which secure family rights.
• 1: Ballet in production by a major European house titled “Shadow, Sister, Silence”, billed as “a feminist reinterpretation of Franka’s Soviet years,” choreographed by a Dutch celebrity choreographer who never visited Russia.

Among the commodification, some tried to honor the siblings more earnestly.

• A retired archivist in Vilnius published Franka’s memoirs in a limited, unlicensed Lithuanian edition. Only 300 copies exist.
• Irina Rozanova, now elderly and living in Tel Aviv, writes a letter to the Times Literary Supplement, imploring people to remember: >
• A young Russian-Jewish choreographer—herself a descendant of Holocaust survivors—begins working in secret on a full reconstruction of “Iron Flowers”, using Franka’s own notations, never-before-seen recordings, and interviews with the last surviving students.

She does not post about it online. She does not seek grants. She simply rehearses. Quietly.

Would you like to follow that young choreographer’s journey into the 2000s, or continue tracing how the Gershovitz legacy shifted in the post-Soviet Russian cultural landscape (1998–2008)?

User: We may as well keep the timeline going into 1998-2008

We may as well keep the timeline going into 1998-2008

Assistant: Very well.

Very well. We now enter the era of post-Soviet disillusionment, market-driven nationalism, and digital historical revisionism—a time when truth, legacy, and art were not just remembered or rediscovered, but strategically reinterpreted.

In Russia, the 1998 financial crash gave way to a decade of consolidation under Vladimir Putin, who rose from relative obscurity to become president in 2000 and the defining political force of post-Soviet life. It was a time when the past became a currency—usable, moldable, and profitable.

For the Gershovitz legacy, this decade was the moment when it passed from memory to institution—and from institution to instrument.

Brand, State, and the Battle for Meaning

The 1998 Russian financial crisis obliterated many cultural projects overnight. Galleries shuttered. Publishing dried up. The Whitney’s traveling Red Silence exhibition was canceled mid-tour in St. Petersburg.

But amid the collapse, something curious happened: sales of Yakob’s recordings increased in Europe and Japan, where his music came to represent not just dissident suffering, but a kind of Soviet spiritual clarity—angular, brutal, and unflinchingly honest.

A new generation of Russian artists and intellectuals, raised without real memory of the Soviet Union, began to reinterpret the Gershovitzes, particularly Yakob and Franka, as symbols of pure Russian artistry uncorrupted by ideology—ironically reversing their actual history.

With Putin’s rise to power, Russia began a deliberate campaign to selectively reclaim its Soviet past. State museums, television channels, and academic institutions were encouraged—often indirectly—to emphasize themes of:

• Cultural greatness
• Sacrifice
• Continuity between Tsarist, Soviet, and post-Soviet Russia

The Gershovitz siblings, with their air of tragic greatness and cultural depth, were repurposed into this narrative—especially in the hands of a new class of Kremlin-adjacent curators.

####

• Israel’s early revolutionary poems are reprinted alongside Orthodox folk verse—completely severed from his Jewish identity.
• Yakob’s compositions are described as “proto-patriotic modernism.”
• Franka is portrayed as “a daughter of Russian ballet whose quiet dignity served the people.”

- Yakob is reimagined as a misunderstood genius silenced not by the state, but by “Western jazz seduction and self-doubt.”

• Franka is depicted as a chaste muse for patriotic resilience.
• Artur is omitted entirely.
• Israel’s ethnicity is never mentioned; the Holocaust cycle Night Without Flags is excluded from the script.

The series is never completed—scrapped due to budget concerns and political infighting—but the scripts circulate, and the aesthetic recast the Gershovitz name in the public imagination.

Outside Russia, efforts to recover the original legacy continued:

• 2000: A full English-language edition of Night Without Flags is published by a small Holocaust studies press. It receives glowing reviews but low sales. A reviewer in The Nation writes: >
• 2003: A revival of Yakob’s “Studies for a Deaf Government” is staged at Lincoln Center, introduced by John Adams. The program includes a note: >
• 2005: A Berlin-based dance collective stages a full reconstruction of Iron Flowers, based on Franka’s original notations. The performance, raw and uncompromising, ends with a barefoot dancer collapsing onto coal-streaked linen. The Russian embassy protests.

Meanwhile, within Russia, Franka’s legacy is quietly sanitized:

• Her memoirs are reprinted (heavily edited) under the title "Grace Under Red Skies."
• A Kremlin-adjacent ballet institute launches the Franka Gershovitz Choreographic Award, focused on "works rooted in traditional Russian values and collective sacrifice."

The award’s inaugural winner choreographs a heroic ballet about the Chechen War. Franka’s name is on the certificate. Her spirit is nowhere to be found.

In 2006, the unnamed Russian-Jewish choreographer who had studied Franka’s notes in secret finally unveils her life's work: a raw, unadorned staging of Iron Flowers, not for the Bolshoi, but in a converted textile factory in Yekaterinburg.

• The stage is concrete.
• The dancers are barefoot.
• The music is played live on strings and percussion, all based on Yakob’s original themes.

It is unadvertised, funded by friends and foreign grants.

But word spreads. Audience members leave in tears. A video circulates online. One dancer whispers in the final moment: “This was once real.”

The next day, a cultural deputy from the Ministry calls it “formalist nostalgia.”

The young choreographer disappears from public view. But in the years to follow, Iron Flowers is passed dancer to dancer, taught not in studios, but in basements, empty auditoriums, and night rehearsals lit by smartphone glow.

Yakob Gyorgi Gershovitz, born September 1898, would have turned 110 in 2008.

The state proposes a “National Recognition Ceremony” and posthumous Order of Cultural Merit—to be awarded alongside a re-release of Symphony No. 3 with new orchestrations and a spoken prologue by a famous Russian actor.

The proposal is challenged by a small group of independent historians, dancers, and musicians—including Irina Rozanova’s granddaughter, now a musicologist herself.

They petition that Yakob’s legacy not be “co-opted by nationalist revisionism.”

The Ministry ignores them. The ceremony goes ahead.

But across town, in a darkened hall near Taganka, a group of dancers, composers, and quiet students hold a vigil:

• One dancer performs Study No. 7 from Unmarked Movements.
• A young boy reads Israel’s poem “There Is No Synonym for Absence.”
• A cellist plays the final, unfinished bars of “Elegy for Stravinsky in Absentia.”

No press. No slogans. Just memory.

In the foyer, a plaque reads:

Would you like to explore how the Gershovitz legacy continued or changed in the Putin era of 2008–2018, especially amid rising nationalism, the annexation of Crimea, and global cultural fragmentation? Or would you prefer a narrative short story drawn from this era of reinvention and betrayal?

User: I would like to explore how the Gershovitz legacy continued or changed in the Putin era of 2008–2018, especially amid r…

I would like to explore how the Gershovitz legacy continued or changed in the Putin era of 2008–2018, especially amid rising nationalism, the annexation of Crimea, and global cultural fragmentation

Assistant: Excellent.

Excellent. From 2008 to 2018, Russia under Vladimir Putin transitioned from a managed democracy to a fully entrenched neo-authoritarian regime rooted in selective memory, cultural nationalism, and an increasingly confrontational posture toward the West.

In this period, the Gershovitz legacy—once silenced by Stalin, later commodified by capitalists, then reclaimed by memory activists—was now caught between two competing forces:

1. The official state narrative, which sought to weaponize cultural figures as symbols of national greatness and moral resilience.
2. A fragmented, globalized resistance of artists, scholars, and independent curators struggling to maintain the complexity and ambiguity that had always defined the family.

Patriotism, Platform, and the Price of Memory

###

Following his re-election (and Medvedev’s brief placeholder presidency), Putin’s government doubled down on a unified historical narrative. Artists were not to question history—they were to illustrate its righteousness.

In 2009, the Ministry of Culture released a directive titled “Heroes of Continuity: Art and the Russian Soul.” It included an official list of rehabilitated Soviet-era artists deemed compatible with “patriotic heritage.” Among them:

• Yakob Gyorgi Gershovitz — “a victim of excesses, yet a composer of national spirit”
• Franka Gershovitz — “a pure expression of Russian ballet”
• Israel Gershovitz — “sometimes misunderstood, but ultimately loyal to the Revolution’s ideals.”

All three had their Jewish identity omitted. Artur, again, was nowhere mentioned.

A state-run documentary titled “In the Silence, Russia Sang” aired on Channel One, portraying the siblings as precursors to Putin-era resilience. The narration declared:

In 2010, several Western scholars attempting to access the Rozanova-Gershovitz papers at the State Archive in Moscow were turned away. The archive was “under reclassification.”

A leaked memo (published later by Meduza) revealed the reason:

Yakob’s Elegy for Stravinsky was deemed “formalist and anti-canonical.”

Israel’s Night Without Flags was declared “foreign-influenced.”

###

Younger Russians, more online and less beholden to state television, began rediscovering the Gershovitzes on their own terms.

• YouTube uploads of underground Iron Flowers performances, passed from USB drive to drive, now reached thousands.
• An anonymous TikTok-style app began circulating video montages of Yakob’s music paired with footage of 2011 anti-Putin protests.
• Israel’s censored poems appeared on Instagram accounts alongside banned verses by Pasternak and Mandelstam, tagged with #RedGhosts and #OurSovietMourning.

In 2013, a viral art project titled “Footsteps of Franka” placed chalk silhouettes of barefoot dancers throughout Moscow on the anniversary of her death.

Within days, they were scrubbed away by city workers.

Meanwhile, the West wasn’t unified either.

In American and European universities, the Gershovitzes became case studies in state suppression and cultural erasure.

But a growing faction—particularly among right-wing populist intellectuals—recast Yakob as a “patriotic modernist destroyed by cultural Marxism.” One 2014 article in a U.S. journal titled Tradition & Culture claimed:

It was a distortion—but it found traction.

In Russia, state cultural festivals began featuring “acceptable” portions of Yakob’s music—his early, more melodic pieces—while excluding his late experimental works.

With the annexation of Crimea in 2014, Russia entered a new phase: aggressive, wounded nationalism. All cultural materials were either with us or against us.

In the wake of the invasion:

• A major gala performance of Franka’s choreography was staged in Sevastopol, rebranded as “Swan of the Russian Soul.” The original choreography was softened, stylized, and saturated with Orthodox symbolism. The music was not Yakob’s.
• Israel’s name was invoked in a new school textbook as an example of “Soviet loyalty through art.” His Holocaust poetry remained banned.
• A VR exhibit of “Yakob in Wartime” debuted at the Museum of Russian Triumph in Sochi. Visitors wore headsets to experience “the terror and resolve of Soviet genius under siege.” The final image: a Russian flag rising behind a virtual symphony.

###

Despite (or because of) official appropriation, underground movements kept the original memory alive:

• In 2016, a clandestine performance of Study for One Step Forward, Two Back—Frankhezka’s final solo—was staged in a drained municipal pool in Nizhny Novgorod. The dancer was arrested for “unauthorized cultural disturbance.”
• A samizdat zine, Night Without Applause, circulated among Moscow university students, pairing Yakob’s darkest pieces with new protest poetry against Putin’s regime.
• The Rozanova family, now based in Berlin, released digitized scans of all known Gershovitz manuscripts—free, unlicensed, unfiltered. They included Franka’s diary entries, Israel’s private notes, and Yakob’s never-performed final string quartet: “For Those Who Died Standing.”

- In Russia: The Gershovitzes had become ambiguous symbols—useful for the regime when aestheticized, dangerous when remembered honestly.

• In the West: Their work was split between scholarly preservation and cultural repackaging—still vulnerable to ideological framing.
• Among dissidents: The name Gershovitz meant resistance with dignity, art as memory, and a refusal to perform for applause.

On the 50th anniversary of Yakob's death, two concerts are held:

• One in the Tchaikovsky Concert Hall, broadcast on national TV, features orchestrated versions of his early folk melodies with a lavish visual backdrop of the Kremlin.
• One in a ruined theater outside Kazan, lit by candles and cell phones, features a live performance of Lullaby for a Starved City, followed by a dancer tracing barefoot arcs in ash.

The state show ends in applause.

The underground vigil ends in silence.

Both claim to honor him.

Only one does.

Would you like to continue into 2018–2024, tracing the Gershovitz legacy in the era of global authoritarian resurgence, Ukraine’s war, and memory as political terrain? Or shall we pause for a narrative scene from this period of digital distortion and quiet defiance?

User: By all means, let's continue into 2018–2024, tracing the Gershovitz legacy in the era of global authoritarian resurgenc…

By all means, let's continue into 2018–2024, tracing the Gershovitz legacy in the era of global authoritarian resurgence, Ukraine’s war, and memory as political terrain.

Assistant: Very well.

Very well. Now we enter the years 2018 to 2024—a period marked by renewed global instability, the full invasion of Ukraine, intensified authoritarianism in Russia, and the transformation of historical memory into a battlefield. In this era, the legacy of the Gershovitz family—once denied, then exploited, then quietly defended—became a flashpoint in a new war of narratives.

This was not simply about what happened. It was about who was allowed to remember, how, and why.

The Gershovitz Legacy in the Age of War and Memory (2018–2024)

Inheritance, Disinformation, and the Fight to Remember

2018–2020: GHOSTS IN THE ARCHITECTURE

By the end of 2018, the Russian state had firmly positioned the Gershovitz siblings as icons of a selectively sanitized heritage. Meanwhile, a digital underground, especially among young artists and émigrés, pushed back with increasingly bold reinterpretations.

Key Events

• 2019: A new Russian state history curriculum includes a chapter titled “Soviet Art Under Pressure: Strength Through Suffering”. A sanitized version of Yakob’s Symphony No. 3 is used as an example of “overcoming dissonance through national devotion.”
• 2020: A New York dance collective, led by the granddaughter of one of Franka’s original students, stages Iron Flowers using AI-generated choreography derived from Franka’s journals. The performance goes viral on TikTok under #GhostOfFranka.
• 2020 (Russia): The Ministry of Culture hosts a Centennial Exhibition on “Russian Spiritual Modernism,” prominently featuring Yakob and Franka—but not Israel. A single placard mentions: > “The siblings overcame their personal and ethnic heritage to serve Soviet greatness.”

Their Judaism is rebranded as an obstacle. Their survival becomes proof of patriotism.

2021–2022: WAR, EXILE, AND WEAPONIZED MEMORY

The Invasion of Ukraine (February 2022)

The full-scale Russian invasion of Ukraine marks a rupture in the post-Soviet order. Western institutions sever cultural ties. Russian artists face bans and exile. State propaganda intensifies.

Within this geopolitical convulsion, the Gershovitz legacy fractures again.

In Russia: Full Co-optation

• The Russian government launches a "Cultural Defense Campaign", urging artists to “preserve the homeland’s aesthetic sovereignty.”
• Yakob’s early folk arrangements and Israel’s pro-revolutionary poetry are used in propaganda broadcasts and military recruitment videos.
• A new state ballet, Franka: Flame of the Motherland, premieres at the Mariinsky. It shows Franka as a Bolshevik heroine who dances through enemy lines with a red banner. The music is “inspired by Yakob”—though no original scores are used.

Key distortion: The family’s Jewishness, dissidence, and repression are erased entirely. They are reborn as perfect Soviets, devoid of complexity.

In the West: Counter-Curation

• The Gershovitz Digital Archive, maintained by descendants of Irina Rozanova in Berlin and Toronto, launches a fully bilingual, open-access platform with hundreds of original manuscripts, unreleased scores, and oral histories from surviving students.
• Ukrainian cultural institutions, especially in Lviv and Kyiv, publish articles highlighting Israel’s suppressed Jewish identity, noting that he had once tried to visit Ukraine in 1944 to bear witness to the Holocaust by bullets—and was refused.
• A London gallery curates an exhibition called “Elegies for the Silenced: Yakob G. and the Echoes of Eastern Europe,” positioning the composer alongside Polish, Jewish, and Ukrainian modernists.

In the diaspora, the Gershovitz siblings are increasingly seen not as “Russian” at all—but as part of a broader post-imperial, transnational story of survival and resistance.

2023–2024: MEMORY AS A POLITICAL ACT

As war drags on and disinformation grows more sophisticated, memory becomes an act of defiance.

AI and the New Misinformation

• Deepfake videos circulate showing Franka performing for Stalin at a fabricated 1943 gala—meant to glorify “unity between artist and state.”
• A right-wing American influencer misquotes Israel’s early poetry to support a talking point about “Western decline,” drawing outrage from scholars.
• State-backed Russian bots flood YouTube with “explainer videos” simplifying Yakob’s work as “proto-nationalist art” and accusing the West of “corrupting his legacy.”

Countermeasures

• The Gershovitz Trust (established by Rozanova’s great-niece) begins watermarking and timestamping verified materials. They publish a statement: > “These works were made without permission and preserved against silence. They belong to no state. They belong to truth.”
• A Moscow underground zine called Фантом (“Phantom”) begins publishing excerpts of Israel’s censored poems alongside essays about Yakob’s unreleased scores.

In the final issue before the editors are detained, one page simply reads:

You want them as saints. They were survivors. You want them as weapons. They were warnings.

2024: ANNIVERSARIES, AMBIGUITIES, AND A CHOICE

This year marks:

• 90 years since Yakob’s blacklisting
• 100 years since Israel’s first poem was published
• 80 years since Franka last danced a full solo

A large state-sponsored concert is announced at the Grand Kremlin Palace:

• Titled “The Resilient Note: Russia’s Artistic Triumph,” it promises orchestrated performances of Yakob’s “most patriotic works” and “never-before-seen” dances inspired by Franka.
• Invitations are issued to Western dignitaries. A promotional trailer includes stock footage of Russian tanks and ballet side by side.

Simultaneously, a network of underground studios, digital archivists, and émigré artists coordinate an international counter-event titled “Ashes Without Applause.”

• The event spans six cities—Warsaw, Kyiv, Berlin, Tel Aviv, Toronto, New York.
• No new works are created. Only existing pieces are performed—unaltered, unadorned, and in their full original complexity.
• Franka’s Unmarked Movements is danced by a Syrian refugee in Berlin.
• Yakob’s Elegy for Stravinsky is played in Kyiv, in a school once shelled during the war.
• Israel’s Night Without Flags is recited aloud in a synagogue in New York—accompanied by silence.

No press covers it in Russia.

But the livestream is watched by over 300,000 people.

WHAT REMAINS

• In Russia: The Gershovitzes are icons without nuance, used to validate a new empire’s myth.
• In exile: They are symbols of refusal, of complexity under pressure.
• To those who still remember: They are neither saints nor slogans—but the ongoing answer to a single question:

Can art survive not just oppression—but resurrection in the hands of those it once warned against?

Would you like to continue into the near-future speculative decade of 2024–2034? Or would you prefer a narrative story—a moment in time—drawn from this age of fractured memory and digital ghosts?