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The Leningrad Symphony
It was the summer of 1941, and the Nazis were tearing through Russia, destroying everything in their path. Adolf Hitler pompously declared that by August 9, 1942, he and the Nazis would celebrate the taking of Leningrad (the present-day St. Petersburg) in the city’s Hotel Astoria.
By early September, the Nazis had surrounded Leningrad, blockading the city and cutting off its main arteries for food, supplies, communication, and reinforcements. But the city’s three million inhabitants (which included roughly four hundred thousand children) refused to surrender. Thus began an 872-day siege of catastrophic death and famine. By the war’s end, the number of deaths in Leningrad outnumbered those who died in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, combined.
In the midst of such hellish conditions, the orchestra of Leningrad planned a counteroffensive. Instead of focusing on what they couldn’t do, they focused on what they could do. And what could they do? They could make music.
In 1942, the remaining members of the orchestra resolved to perform the newly completed Symphony No. 7 by Dmitri Shostakovich, a native of Leningrad, and broadcast it—on loudspeakers—toward enemy lines.
The score—both long and complex—called for a ninety-piece orchestra, and only half of the members of the Leningrad orchestra had survived the horrors of the siege. And despite extra rations, many of the musicians fainted from exhaustion during rehearsals. They had strength enough to play through the whole piece only once—three days prior to their big performance.
The performance itself was on August 9, 1942—the very day on which Hitler had planned to celebrate the capture of Leningrad.
In her book Leningrad: The Epic Siege of World War II, 1941–1944, Anna Reid wrote, “On the morning of the concert…General Govorov mounted a special Operation Squall, so as to prevent disruption from air raids or barrages. Inside the grandee-packed auditorium the performance itself was ragged, but the atmosphere was overwhelming. ‘Some wept,’ remembered a woman in the audience.”1
In an interview, Kseniia Makianovna Matus, an oboist in the Leningrad orchestra, shared her recollection of the symphony’s grand finale: “When the piece ended, there was not a sound in the hall—silence. Then someone clapped at the back, then another, then there was thunder. It was improper to embrace, but we wanted to.”2
Karl Eliasberg, the director and conductor of the symphony, said, “People stood and cried.… They knew this was not a passing episode but the beginning of something. The hall, the homes, the front, the whole city was one human being seizing his victory over the soulless [Nazi] machine. And we had it, in the music” (emphasis added).3
Long after their triumphant performance, Matus related a remarkable account that Eliasberg had shared with her:
Several years later, after the war was over, the Board of Directors sent for Karl Il’ich and said: “Karl Il’ich, some Germans are here and they want to meet you.” “Me!” he said. “They tried to kill us! So many people died, so many horrible things.” He was half German, half Jewish. But they said to him: “Karl Il’ich, it’s an order.” So someone was told to accompany him, and he went to the Astoria. He sat down and was then approached by some men from a nearby table.
“Karl Il’ich, hello. We are very glad to meet you and we want to express our gratitude.”
“For what?”
“For the symphony. We were sitting not far from you, in the trenches. We were bombing you, and the planes were flying—our airfield was there. After all, we had orders to destroy Leningrad. But we sat in a trench and listened to your symphony. And we burst into tears and realized: “Whom are we bombing? We will never be able to take Leningrad because the people here are selfless.”4
When I get really discouraged, I often think about the Leningrad orchestra. They were starving, dying, and surrounded by forces that wanted to destroy them. And yet, in the face of such hellish evil, they chose to focus on what they could do. Instead of thinking “We’re not soldiers, we can’t fight back” or “Everything is against us, we can’t win,” they focused on “can.”
“We can play music.”
Think of it! Instead of curling up in a corner and giving up on life, they played music. And as baffling as it may seem to historians and military generals, their music was a force that helped to turn the tide of the war. Focusing on the things we can’t do will defeat us. Focusing on the things we can do will lead us to victory.
There can be no miracle without belief. In a very real way, belief is the fuel of miracles.
Consider what would happen if we believed in the encouragement and advice of others. What if, instead of constantly tearing ourselves down, we believed the best about ourselves? What if we believed that we could achieve our dreams, and then worked to do so? Imagine the power of these beliefs!
Instead of focusing on the impossible, focus on what is possible. Instead of giving added attention to what you can’t do, give strength and power to what you can do. I promise that doing so will turn the tide in your favor as you battle your way forward.