Because of my great interest in the Russian language, I eagerly looked forward to attending a performance of Shostakovitch's 13th Symphony--Babii Yar--at the Myerhoff Symphony Hall in Baltimore. I already knew that Shostakovitch was a famous Russian composer, and I had heard some of his other pieces, but I had no knowledge of Yevgeny Yevtushenko or his work--or even his poem, "Babii Yar," which gives its name to this symphony. I was extremely surprised to learn, a few days before the performance, that Yevtushenko would be there himself. I remember sitting in the dark Hall, not knowing what to expect, yet excited to hear how a composer would weave poetry into music. The first half of the performance consisted of the complex musical opening to the piece. Only during the second part of the symphony did I hear the words of the poem, sung in Russian by a man with a deep, sonorous voice. The English translation ran across a small rectangular screen that was suspended high above the stage. Although I glanced at this translation a few times, I focused my attention on the sounds of the Russian words, and felt that the dark, complicated quality of the music complemented and wove itself into the sadness of the tone of the song. I strove to understand some of the Russian words and resolved to expand my knowledge of the language so that someday, while listening to a Russian opera or symphony, I could understand everything that was sung.

One of the most dramatic moments of the performance came after the symphony had ended and Yevtushenko himself appeared on the stage and read his poem aloud in Russian and in English. We stood and clapped for 10 minutes after this. Not only did Yevtushenko have an amazing mastery of words and images, but he also had an exuberant and emotionally strong
personality. After the performance, I resolved to stand in line, all night if I had to, to have Yevtushenko sign the book of his poems that I had purchased. Shaking his hand and watching him sign my book, I realized how incredible it was that I was shaking the hand of one of the most famous poets in Russia and the world.

--Rachel Miller '04

No monument stands over Babii Yar.
A drop sheer as a crude gravestone.
I am afraid.
    Today I am as old in years
as all the Jewish people. [...]
I seem to be
    Anne Frank
transparent
    as a branch in April.
And I love.
    And have no need of phrases.
My need
    is that we gaze into each other.
How little we can see
        or smell!
We are denied the leaves,
          we are denied the sky.
Yet we can do so much--
        tenderly
embrace each other in a dark room.
They're coming here?
        Be not afraid. those are the booming
sounds of spring:
        spring is coming here.
Come then to me.
    Quick, give me your lips.
Are they smashing down the door?
            No, it's the ice breaking...
The wild grasses rustle over Babii Yar.
The trees look ominous,
          like judges.
Here all things scream silently,
            and, baring my head,
slowly I feel myself
        turning gray.
And I myself
      am one massive, soundless scream
above the thousand thousand buried here.
I am
    each old man
        here shot dead.
I am
    every child
        here shot dead.

Translated by George Reavey. Adapted from http://lightning.prohosting.com/~zhenka/015.html