Engaging Cultural Ideologies: Classical Composers and Musical Life in Poland 1918-1956 9798887190228

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ENGAGING CULTURAL IDEOLOGIES Classical Composers and Musical Life in Poland 1918–1956

Polish Studies Series Editor Series Editor: Andrzej Karcz, Polish Academy of Sciences, Warsaw Editorial Board Halina Filipowicz (University of Wisconsin, Madison) Robert Frost (University of Aberdeen) Christopher Garbowski (Maria Curie-Skłodowska University, Lublin) Elwira Grossman (University of Glasgow) Irena Grudzinska Gross (Princeton University; Polish Academy of Sciences, Warsaw) Beth Holmgren (Duke University) Joanna Michlic (University College London) Ryszard Nycz ( Jagiellonian University, Krakow; Polish Academy of Sciences, Warsaw) Neal Pease (University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee) Ursula Phillips (University College London) Bozena Shallcross (University of Chicago) Keely Stauter-Halsted (University of Illinois-Chicago) Oscar Swan (University of Pittsburgh) Kris Van Heuckelom (University of Leuven)

ENGAGING CULTURAL IDEOLOGIES Classical Composers and Musical Life in Poland 1918–1956 Cindy Bylander

BOSTON 2022

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Bylander, Cindy, author. Title: Engaging cultural ideologies: classical composers and musical life in Poland 1918–1956 / Cindy Bylander. Description: Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2022. | Series: Polish studies | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2022030057 (print) | LCCN 2022030058 (ebook) | ISBN 9798887190211 (hardback) | ISBN 9798887190228 (adobe pdf) | ISBN 9798887190235 (epub)   Subjects: LCSH: Music--Political aspects--Poland--History--20th century. | Music--Social aspects--Poland--History--20th century. | Poland--Cultural policy--History--20th century. Classification: LCC ML3917.P58 B95 2022  (print) | LCC ML3917.P58 (ebook) | DDC 306.4/842094380904--dc23/eng/20220629 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022030057 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022030058 Copyright © Cindy Bylander, 2022 All rights reserved. ISBN 9798887190211 (hardback) ISBN 9798887190228 (adobe pdf) ISBN 9798887190235 (epub) Book design by PHi Business Solutions. Cover design by Ivan Grave. Published by Academic Studies Press. 1577 Beacon Street Brookline, MA 02446, USA [email protected] www.academicstudiespress.com

Contents

List of Illustrations vii Acknowledgmentsix Abbreviationsxi Introduction1 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

Between the World Wars: Performing a Utopian Vision World War II: Continuity And Disruption From War to Socialism: Elitism versus Accessibility 1944–1948 Negotiating a New Path 1949–1953 Ideological Turbulence, Hopeful Composers 1954–1956 Socialist Ramifications

13 64 99 171 248 284

Bibliography299 Index325

List of Illustrations

Figure 1 Organization for Musical Activity (ORMUZ) concert program, Warsaw, April 30, 1937 25 Figure 2 Warsaw Philharmonic concert program, March 21, 1924. Grzegorz Fitelberg, conductor, Zbigniew Drzewiecki, pianist 32 Figure 3 Poster for performances at Warsaw’s Art and Fashion café (SiM), 1942 76 Figure 4 Andrzej Panufnik, Tragic Overture, the final twenty-eight measures 79 Figure 5 Andrzej Panufnik, Warsaw Children86 Figure 6 Artur Malawski, Symphonic Etudes, page 10 155 Figure 7 Poster for a Slavic Music Festival concert sponsored by Polish Music Publishers, November 9, 1947 158 Figure 8 Stanisław Wiechowicz, On a Clay Vase, measures 62–85, from Stanisław Wiechowicz, Z pieśni chóralnych241 Figure 9 Polish Composers’ Union (ZKP), 12/138, last page  258 Figure 10 Kazimierz Serocki, Suite of Preludes, movement 5, measures 1–15 278

Acknowledgments

Many people and organizations have helped me along the long path that led to this book. In the United States, I found valuable materials at The Ohio State University, The University of Texas at Austin, the New York Public Library, and the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign, the latter as a participant in the Summer Research Laboratory hosted by the university’s Slavic Reference Service and the Russian, East European, and Eurasian Center. At the Polish Music Center at the University of Southern California, Assistant Director Krysta Close allowed me to spend quality time examining their amazing collection. The American Musicological Society provided funds for a research trip to Poland and for travel to conferences to present papers related to this project. During numerous trips to Poland, the headquarters of the Polish Composers’ Union in Warsaw became my home away from home. Its library, now part of the Polish Music Information Centre (POLMIC), contains an abundance of unpublished and published materials, which the Centre’s staff graciously and unhesitatingly allowed me to examine. Composers’ Union President and POLMIC Director Mieczysław Kominek, Vice Director Izabela Zymer, and archivist Beata Dźwigaj have been of invaluable assistance for this and other research projects. During my initial visits to the Union in the mid-1980s, Kazimierz Nowacki (now deceased) and Stanisław Czopowicz became my friends as well as a support system for maneuvering through Communist Poland; they also provided access to some of the texts used in the current volume. This book could not have been written without the encouragement of everyone at this organization. At the University of Warsaw’s Archive of Polish Composers, curatormusicologist Magdalena Borowiec clued me into materials I did not know existed, but which became essential to my research. I am indebted to her, Director  Piotr Maculewicz, and the entire staff for their friendship and assistance. I also took advantage of the vast collections at the University of Warsaw and Poland’s National Library. In particular, I thank the employees in the National Library’s Documents of Social Life department, who brought me to a small room and let me review a decade’s worth of concert programs and posters, which became the basis for a large portion of this study. I was also able to see papers related to the life of Zygmunt Mycielski, which are housed in the Library’s Special Collections area.

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I am grateful to numerous employees at the Archive of Modern Records, who allowed me to look through a wide variety of documents from the decades in question. I want to thank the staff of the Institute of Art at the Polish Academy of Sciences, where I perused its holdings, including the Bohdan Wodiczko materials in its Special Collections division. I also conducted research at the Polish Radio Archives at Polish Television’s Warsaw headquarters; my thanks to that institution. Marta Szoka not only invited me into her home, but brought me documents from the Polish Composers’ Union’s regional offices in Łódź and arranged for me to examine concert programs and other papers at the Łódź Philharmonic. Thank you, Marta. My appreciation goes out to Daniel Cichy, the Director of Polish Music Publishers, who hand–carried a catalog printed in 1955 from Kraków to Warsaw for my personal use and has corresponded with me about other matters. I want to express my gratitude to Teresa Bochwic, who kindly provided unpublished materials and other information about her father, Witold Rudziński. I also want to thank other individuals with whom I have exchanged information, laughed, and shared meals and transportation, and who inspired me to complete this project. I undoubtedly will omit some names, for which I apologize; any oversight is unintentional. In the United States, these colleagues include Andrea Bohlman, Lisa Jakelski, Mackenzie Pierce, David Tompkins, and Lisa Cooper Vest. Adrian Thomas in Great Britain has been a friend and source of knowledge since my first trip to Eastern Europe. Among my friends and associates in Poland, I would be remiss if I did not thank Beata BolesławskaLewandowska, who not only offered comments on an early version of this manuscript, but also answered many emails and met me in coffee shops and concert halls. Others in Poland who have been of immense help include Lech Dzierżanowski, Danuta Gwizdalanka, Michał Klubiński, Iwona Lindstedt, Katarzyna Naliwajek, Zbigniew Skowron, and Marlena Wieczorek. I am grateful for all of your assistance.

Abbreviations

AAN—Archiwum Akt Nowych (Archive of Modern Records) AKP—Archiwum Kompozytorów Polskich (Archive of Polish Composers, University of Warsaw) BN—Biblioteka Narodowa (National Library) BWKZ—Biuro Współpracy Kulturalnej z Zagranicą (Office of Foreign Cultural Cooperation) CBK—Centralne Biuro Koncertowe (Central Concert Bureau) CZOFIM—Centralny Zarząd Oper, Filharmonii i Instytycji Muzycznych (Central Board of Operas, Philharmonics, and Music Institutions) DIAO—Departament Imprez Artystycznych i Obchodów (Department of Artistic Events and Celebrations) DTA—Departament Twórczości Artystycznej (Department of Artistic Production) FMP—Festiwal Muzyki Polskiej (Festival of Polish Music) GDTOiF—Generalna Dyrekcja Teatrów, Oper i Filharmonii (General Direction of Theaters, Opera, and Philharmonics) ISCM—International Society for Contemporary Music MKiS—Ministerstwo Kultury i Sztuki (Ministry of Culture and Art) ND—Narodowa Demokracja (National Democratic Party) ORMUZ—Organizacja Ruchu Muzycznego (Organization for Musical Activity) PKWN—Polski Komitet Wyzwolenia Narodowego (Polish Committee of National Liberation) POIA—Państwowa Organizacja Imprez Artystycznych (State Organization for Artistic Events) POLMIC—Polskie Centrum Informacji Muzycznej (Polish Music Information Centre) PPR—Polska Partia Robotnicza (Polish Workers’ Party) PPS—Polska Partia Socjalistyczna (Polish Socialist Party) PSL—Polskie Stronnictwo Ludowe (Polish People’s Party) PWM—Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne (Polish Music Publishers) PZPR—Polska Zjednoczona Partia Robotnicza (Polish United Workers’ Party)

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RFE—Radio Free Europe RGO—Rada Główna Opiekuńcza (Central Aid Council) TWMP—Towarzystwo Wydawnicze Muzyki Polskiej (Polish Music Publishing Society) ZKP—Związek Kompozytorów Polskich (Polish Composers’ Union)

Introduction

“The source of today’s tragic situation is the chasm growing between the world of music and the sphere of society’s daily interests.”1 (anonymous editorial, 1933) “Little Overture [by Roman Palester] . . . expressed some kind of international musical language. I am not demanding any folklore concepts. No! Little Overture . . . can still remain . . . the music of Palester the modernist . . . but we have the right to demand one thing from him: It should resound with ‘Polishness’. It should say that it was created by a Pole. This is its task and duty.”2 ( Jan Maklakiewicz, 1936) “The Kraków public has repeatedly given proof of its culture. It will certainly not be indifferent to a great contemporary work.”3 (Stefan Kisielewski, 1946) “A Polish composer must not forget what kind of community he lives in and what this society expects of him.”4 (Piotr Perkowski, 1950)

1

“Żródło tragizmu dzisiejszej sytuacji leży w tym, że pomiędzy światem muzyki a sferą codziennych zainteresowań społeczeństwa rośnie przepaść.” “Muzyka polska w niebezpieczeństwie!,” Muzyka 10, no. 1 (1933): 18. This may have been written by Mateusz Gliński, the editor of Muzyka. All translations are the author’s unless otherwise noted. 2 “‘Mała uwertura’ Palestra . . . wyraziła się jakimś międzynarodowym językiem muzycznym. Nie wołam tu o jakieś folklorystyczne koncepcje. Nie! ‘Mała uwertura’ może . . . pozostać nadal muzyką Palestra modernisty . . . ale tego jednego mamy prawo od niego żądać: powinna rozbrzmiewać ‘polskością’, mówić o tym, że była stworzona przez Polaka. To jest jej zadanie i obowiązek. Jan Maklakiewicz, “Polska muzyka winna mieć własne piętno,” Kurier Poranny, no. 300 (1936): 8. Bolding is in the original text. 3 “Publiczność krakowska wielokrotnie dała dowód swej kultury—wielkie dzieło współczesne na pewno nie zastanie jej obojętną.” Stefan Kisielewski, “Życie muzyczne,” Tygodnik Powszechny 2, no. 40 (1946): 7. 4 “Kompozytor polski nie może zapominać w jakiej społeczności żyje i czego odeń to społeczeństwo oczekuje.” These comments are found in the minutes of the 1950 Polish Composers’ Union congress. ZKP, 12/5 (V Walny Zjazd 16, 17, 18, 19.VI 1950 Wwa),

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“For whom in the nation are our composers writing? Of course, in view of such a wide range of needs resulting from the lack of musical traditions and the low musicality of our society, the addressee of a composition is not the entire nation. After all, nobody can even demand today that Bacewicz write for the village.”5 (Zofia Lissa, 1954) These statements, separated chronologically by less than two dozen years, come from different political and sociological periods in Poland’s history. At the same time, however, each of them could have been written at any time during these years. From the end of World War I to the Polish October of 1956 (and even beyond), concerns about the social function and technical content of music— especially new compositions—in Polish society were raised over and over again. Critics, musicians, and cultural officials repeatedly asked: To what extent should concert programs reflect the current interests of society? Should composers be interested in exploring compositional techniques employed in music from other countries, in Polish compositions of the past, or both? Who should assist in funding composers and performers? What did it mean to be called a Polish composer? These questions were construed not only as points for rhetorical debate, but also as concrete issues that directly affected composers’ livelihoods and the country’s overall musical life. Those most interested in these inquiries were, not surprisingly, those whose careers depended on the responses: composers, musicologists, music critics, performers, teachers, and cultural impresarios. Society as a whole voiced its opinion not so much with its voice as with its feet, so to speak, as it chose to attend or avoid specific musical events. The authors of the quotes above pursued different occupations in the musical profession, often multi-tasking among the various endeavors that needed to be addressed at specific moments in time. Their opinions also reflected different points on the ideological spectrum that delineated many conversations and cultural policies throughout these decades.

Protokół z obrad Zwyczajnego Walnego Zgromadzenia członków Związku Kompozytorów Polskich, page 25. 5 “Dla kogo w narodzie nasi kompozytorzy dziś piszą? Oczywiste, że wobec tak wielkiej rozpiętości potrzeb, jakie wynikają z braku tradycji muzycznych, z nikłego umuzykalnienia naszego społeczeństwa—adresatem tej twórczości nie jest cały naród. Nikt zresztą nawet nie może wymagać, by Bacewiczówna pisała dziś dla wsi.” Zofia Lissa, “Z perspektywy dziesięciolecia (Referat wygłoszony na walnym zjeździe ZKP),” Muzyka 5, nos. 7–8 (1954): 18.

Introduction

As Poland moved from being newly independent in 1918, through the horrors of World War II and the Holocaust, to the reality of living under a Sovietbacked regime soon after the end of military hostilities, musicians were forced to repeatedly revise or reaffirm their roles in society. Shifting political interests at the national level affected composers’ ability to write music, not just in a tangible economic sense but also in a more subjective, psychological manner that was influenced by both the public and the private reception of their compositions. The interplay between critical discourse about the role of contemporary composition in society, the development of cultural programs in support of music, and the performance in Poland of new works by its native composers in some ways reveals strikingly similar issues throughout the decades in question, as Polish citizens struggled to create an identity as a nation with its own talents and character after more than a century of partitions and foreign subjugation. For composers, these ongoing debates, broadly stated, concerned the need to reflect a national spirit and “Polishness” in new compositions, the power of patrons (whether private or governmental, local or national) to compel them to produce certain types of pieces, and their ability to push back against any perceived injustices, including racial and ethnic biases, either as individuals or as members of organizations. But just as similar concerns abounded throughout this portion of the twentieth century, differences were also apparent as the ebb and flow of cultural and political life resulted in different behaviors and policies in successive historical periods that were marked by profound social upheavals. In particular, the controversies over nationalism, the admissibility of international influences, elitism, and accessibility—all related to the content of new music—were loudly discussed but never resolved between the two world wars. These concerns were largely diminished during World War II, when many Polish musicians banded together to create an underground concert and educational life for their compatriots, even as their foreign occupiers exacerbated existing racial issues in society and filled everyone’s lives with disruption and trauma. For the most part, composers and other musicians abandoned their previous concerns about a musical life that no longer existed, although they did not neglect planning for a time when they might live in a free country once more. Immediately following the end of the Nazi occupation, however, these same interwar issues were again heatedly debated. At least theoretically (although not in practice), these disputes were resolved during Poland’s so-called Stalinist years (1949–1953), when the Communist government, seeking to control musical life, imposed socialist realist principles, which embraced concerns regarding accessibility of compositions and the incorporation of nationalist aspects that

3

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were related to those voiced prior to the war. Policies of exclusion came into vogue under the guise of social inclusivity. Traces of ethnic biases among musicians were somewhat lessened, but can still be seen in private correspondence and other postwar records. With regard to composition, government-sponsored competitions and special funding opportunities aimed at fulfilling official priorities resulted in few works of note, while a composer-dominated commissions committee offered monies to nearly all their colleagues for their mostly unrestricted use, thus circumventing the directives of cultural authorities. Despite the rhetoric alluding to a utopian vision of social equality that was employed by postwar Communists in Poland, the reality was that these new political leaders wanted to become the most important members of the “elite” class, while at the same time undermining the influence of the interwar intellectuals (which included musicians). Using their perceived power, they wanted to compel composers to write music not for the elite, but for the non-elite in society. They frequently spoke in binary terms as they offered recipes for success—do this, do not do that. The resulting power struggles between authorities and those charged with satisfying official desires would become a prominent component of postwar musical life as, working at a more local level, both composers and their postwar organization, the Polish Composers’ Union, frequently and often successfully attempted to circumvent the desires of their governmental patrons. As such, this period differed from musical life during the interwar era, with its more free-wheeling attitude toward critical discourse and financial planning and its avoidance of any top-down approach to composition and cultural programming. An important—but often neglected—part of the scholarly study of Polish composers’ professional lives concerns the presentation of their music in their country’s concert halls and other venues. Although at least a partial performance history of some of the most important compositions by Polish composers active during the years in question has been discussed previously, an in-depth picture of what transpired on and off stage with regard to funding opportunities, potential and actual performances, and the planning of concert programs has not been offered, nor has the relationship of these performances to the reigning artistic values and dogmas been comprehensively investigated. Yet the culture of any country is profoundly impacted by what music its citizens hear, how its own creators are treated, and what they are able to offer to their audiences. Performances, then, are an integral part of the depiction of cultural life at any given time, as are any efforts designed to bring new compositions to the stage. This project explores, in part, the relationship between the concert programs offered to Polish audiences, especially those including recently written pieces by

Introduction

native composers, and the discussions regarding accessibility, nationalism, race, and other concerns that arose within the government, the press, and the musical community. Which recently composed pieces by Polish composers were offered to domestic audiences, why were these pieces chosen from among the hundreds that were completed, and why did these particular compositions come to life? Throughout, I am concerned with so-called serious or classical music, not the popular or light music that was also an integral part of social life in Poland. Many compositions that emerged during this time were never published or recorded, but extant reviews and other forms of evaluation provide us with details about their style and character. As others have shown to some extent, the personal relationships that existed (whether supportive or antagonistic) before 1939 carried into the first postwar decade.6 New alliances that developed during the war as part of musicians’ attempts to create some sort of concert life for Polish residents also proved to be long-lasting. Those composers who were heavily involved in conducting, teaching, publishing, and administrating during the interwar period became crucial participants in rebuilding musical life after the Nazi occupation ended and, in many cases, had also been active musically during the occupation. Personal opinions about current issues in Poland’s musical life were occasionally modified over time, but more often individual stances concerning policies related to musical life remained consistent throughout these decades. Although institutions inside and outside of government were powerful components of cultural life from 1918–1956, ultimately, of course, it is individuals who offered comments, proposed changes, enacted policy, and reacted against any decisions and actions taken. Taking advantage of diaries, private and institutional correspondence, governmental documents, and the wealth of concert programs available in Polish archives, I seek to recontextualize this period through the lens of composers’ experiences as they interacted with policymakers, performers, and professional organizations to claim their own space (both rhetorical and compositional) in the debates swirling around them about the social role of new music and as they dealt with successive private and governmental initiatives, many of which ultimately failed to assuage their concerns about the viability of their careers. In reality, throughout this period, some active musicians (including composers) held positions of authority in governmental institutions and agencies, making decisions that affected their colleagues. At the same time, these musicians—as well as those not in authoritative positions—could and 6

For example, see John Mackenzie Pierce, “Life and Death for Music: A Polish Generation’s Journey across War and Reconstruction, 1926–53,” (PhD diss., Cornell University, 2019).

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sometimes did ignore other policy makers. Discussions continued unceasingly and policies and procedures were modified frequently as both political circumstances and the personalities involved transformed concert life and the profession of composition. By spotlighting composers’ responses to tactics regarding social concerns, cultural infrastructure, patronage, and concert programming (while not ignoring similar issues faced by the country’s performing ensembles), we will see that regardless of any prevailing socio-political constraints, these musicians as a whole defended their ability to independently choose their own compositional path. Attempts to entice composers to do otherwise through soft power initiatives or outright criticism were ultimately unsuccessful, although instances of backlash against both supporters and opponents of successive regimes brought frustration, hesitancy, and compromise as well.7 To provide a more comprehensive picture of the entire period in question, not only will the more renowned Polish composers be discussed (Karol Szymanowski, Grażyna Bacewicz, Tadeusz Baird, Witold Lutosławski, Andrzej Panufnik, and Kazimierz Serocki), but others relatively well-known in Poland yet unfamiliar to those abroad will also be highlighted, for their input offers much in the quest to provide a more accurate picture of Polish musical life. Thus, names such as Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, Artur Malawski, Zygmunt Mycielski, Roman Palester, Witold Rudziński, Stanisław Wiechowicz, Kazimierz Wiłkomirski, and Bolesław Woytowicz will be brought to light as examples of composers who made critical contributions to the issues of the day through both their own music and their activities outside of composing. Their attempts to maintain control over their compositional lives, regardless of which cultural policies they supported, illustrate not only the inconsistent implementation of some of these directives, but also the ways in which they were often able to sidestep those they deemed undesirable. Foregrounding the contributions to the local cultural scene made by composers whose names are known in Poland but are often not recognized elsewhere complicates existing narratives, yet empowers a reinterpretation of musical life in that country that acknowledges that the primary base of power was often held by creators, not those in positions of higher authority. Research into the interwar and World War II eras in Polish music has been limited by the relative scarcity of available primary sources. Surviving materials, including journals, newspapers, and some musical scores, offer a somewhat 7

For a discussion of soft power, see Patryk Babiracki, Soviet Soft Power in Poland: Culture and the Making of Stalin’s New Empire, 1943–1957 (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 2015).

Introduction

limited picture of the musical scene as it existed throughout the country. Although the correspondence of some musicians, most notably musicologist Adolf Chybiński, has been scrutinized in recent years, the destruction caused by World War II meant that many similar collections were lost permanently. Among postwar Polish authors, Zofia Helman and Roman Jasiński have provided the most incisive scholarship concerning the interwar period. Their contributions have illuminated the primary stylistic trends of interwar composition by Polish composers and have given readers access to critical commentary about performances of these same works. Although much of their work concentrated on musical life in Warsaw, they did not ignore events that occurred in other cities.8 In recent years, Katarzyna Naliwajek, who has uncovered important documents related to Polish musical life during World War II, has greatly enriched our knowledge of this period.9 The first post-World War II decade in Polish history was described for many years as a time in which by 1949 a Soviet-supported regime had implemented a top-down system of harsh restrictions on musical life, which resulted in a drastic loss of creative independence for composers. Other writers discussed the decade’s compositional output with few if any references to socialist realist ideology as a defining factor in its production.10 More recently scholars, recognizing that the complexities of artistic and political life in that decade warrant further demarcations, have offered a soft division of the period into three stages

Zofia Helman, Historia muzyki polskiej, vol. 6, Między romantyzmem a nową muzyką 1900–1939, ed. Stefan Sutkowski (Warsaw: Sutkowski Edition, 2014; Adobe Digital Editions EPUB); Zofia Helman, Neoklasycyzm w muzyce polskiej XX wieku (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1985); Zofia Helman, “Muzyka polska między dwiema wojnami,” Muzyka 23, no. 3 (1978): 17–34; Roman Jasiński, Na przełomie epok: Muzyka w Warszawie (1910–1927) (Warsaw: Państwowy Instytut Wydawniczy, 1979); Roman Jasiński, Koniec epoki: Muzyka w Warszawie (1927–1939) (Warsaw: Państwowy Instytut Wydawniczy, 1986). 9 See, for example, Katarzyna Naliwajek-Mazurek, “Nazi Censorship in Music, Warsaw 1941,” in The Impact of Nazism on Twentieth–Century Music, ed. Erik Levi (Vienna/Cologne/Weimar: Böhlau Verlag, 2014), 153–176; Elżbieta Markowska, Katarzyna Naliwajek-Mazurek, eds. Okupacyjne losy muzyków, vol. 1 (Warsaw: Towarzystwo imienia Witolda Lutosławskiego, 2014); Katarzyna Naliwajek-Mazurek, Andrzej Spóz, eds. Okupacyjne losy muzyków, vol. 2 (Warsaw: Towarzystwo imienia Witolda Lutosławskiego, 2015); Katarzyna NaliwajekMazurek, “The Use of Polish Musical Tradition in the Nazi Propaganda,” Musicology Today 7 (2010): 243–259. 10 Zofia Lissa, “Muzyka polska w latach 1945–1956,” in Polska współczesna kultura muzyczna 1944–1964, ed. Elżbieta Dziębowska (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1968), 11–60; Ludwik Erhardt, Music in Poland (Warsaw: Interpress, 1975), 74–99; Krzysztof Baculewski, Polska twórczość kompozytorska 1945–1984 (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1987), 15–32; Grzegorz Michalski, “Nowa muzyka,” in Dzieje muzyki polskiej, ed. Tadeusz Ochlewski, 2nd ed. (Warsaw: Interpress, 1983), 149–165. 8

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that delineate the rise and fall of what might be called Stalinist-style socialist realism (approximately 1944–1948, 1949–1953, 1953–1956), but in reality was Poland’s own distinctive implementation of this cultural theory.11 In the field of music, authors have begun emphasizing the intricacies of the contributions made by individuals as well as institutions. Lisa Cooper Vest and J. Mackenzie Pierce have discussed important links in Polish musical life between the interwar and immediate postwar periods. Vest, in her recent monograph Awangarda: Tradition and Modernity in Postwar Polish Music (2020), frames her conversation through the prisms of backwardness and deficiencies, exploring how different writers treated the issues of progress, tradition, and their relationship to Western European music. Pierce, in his 2019 dissertation “Life and Death for Music: A Polish Generation’s Journey across War and Reconstruction, 1926– 53,” highlights the importance of relationships, including those between Jewish and ethnically Polish musicians, as he delves into organizational histories and the development of cultural policies.12 David Tompkins, in his study comparing Polish and East German musical life during the first post–World War II decade, emphasizes the role of Poland’s cultural institutions, particularly the Polish Composers’ Union and the Ministry of Culture and Art, in determining the course of the country’s musical life. In his interpretation of the archival record, he argues that almost all Polish composers willingly complied with institutional demands on their compositional output and, with few exceptions, agreed with the cultural ideology implicit behind these provisions. Although he discusses soft power initiatives, including statefunded commissions for new compositions and festivals designed to highlight composers’ contributions to Poland’s new political reality, Tompkins focuses primarily on their financial and organizational factors rather than musicians’ personal actions regarding these events and the specific characteristics of the concert programming offered to Polish society.13

11 Norman Davies distinguishes two periods, from 1944–1948 and from 1948–1956. Norman Davies, God’s Playground: A History of Poland, vol. 2, 1795 to the Present (New York: Columbia University Press, 1984), 556. For other historical overviews, see Patrice Dabrowski, Poland: The First Thousand Years (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2014), 423–437; Brian Porter-Szűcs, Poland in the Modern World: Beyond Martyrdom (Chicester: Wiley Blackwell, 2014), 186–237; Erhardt, Music in Poland, 80–84; David G. Tompkins, Composing the Party Line: Music and Politics in Early Cold War Poland and East Germany (West Lafayette, Indiana: Purdue University Press, 2013), 25–46. 12 Lisa Cooper Vest, Awangarda: Tradition and Modernity in Postwar Polish Music (Oakland: University of California Press, 2021), 11–62; Pierce, “Life and Death.” 13 Tompkins, Composing the Party Line.

Introduction

In his book Polish Music Since Szymanowski (2005), Adrian Thomas describes the compositional style of Poland’s major composers within the context of the post–World War II political and ideological situation. Along with his published essays about specific events during the first postwar decade, his contributions offer much to the English reader’s understanding of this time. In their monographs, Sławomir Wieczorek and Tomasz Tarnawczyk respectively consider rhetorical discourse and symphonic composition from approximately 1945–1956.14 All of the publications cited above offer invaluable interpretations of Polish music and musical life in the twentieth century. Yet by emphasizing different aspects of the ideologically-based writings and speeches from this period than others have highlighted, probing the origins and reception of a wider selection of compositions by living Polish composers than has been done to date, and relying as much as possible on composers’ personal statements and actions, many of which have not been illuminated by other scholars, I hope to offer fresh insights into the multiplicity of polemics concerning musical composition that were marked by similar points of contention across seemingly diverse historical eras. I also seek to present a more penetrating picture of the life cycle and performance history of contemporary Polish compositions during this time, especially as these relate to the aforementioned ideological documents and remarks. Taken as a whole, I hope that my work invites a deeper appreciation of the impact that Polish composers had on cultural life in these turbulent decades as they responded to (or willfully ignored) a myriad of social and political demands. I do not, however, claim that my interpretations are definitive. Indeed, previously unexplored sources and new analyses are being brought to light by others even as I write this book. All of these efforts have the potential to alter our understanding of the cultural dynamics of this period. A loosely bipartite structure has been selected as the framework for this study. For each major chronological section (1918–1939, interwar; 1940–1944, war; 1945–1948, early postwar; 1949–1953, socialist realism; 1953–1956, transition 14 Adrian Thomas, Polish Music Since Szymanowski (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 3–79; Adrian Thomas, “File 750: Composers, Politics and the Festival of Polish Music (1951),” Polish Music Journal 5, no. 1 (2002). https://polishmusic.usc.edu/research/ publications/polish-music-journal/vol5no1/composers-politics-polish-music-festival/; Adrian Thomas, “Mobilising Our Man: Politics and Music in Poland during the Decade after the Second World War,” in Composition—Performance—Reception: Studies in the Creative Process in Music, ed. Wyndham Thomas (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998), 145–168; Sławomir Wieczorek, Na froncie muzyki: Socrealistyczny dyskurs o muzyce w Polsce w latach 1948–1955 (Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Wrocławskiego, 2014); Tomasz Tarnawczyk, Optymistyczna i monumentalna: Symfonia w muzyce polskiego socrealizmu (Łódź: Akademia Muzyczna im. Grażyny i Kiejstuta Bacewiczów, 2013).

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to the political and cultural thaw), I focus in part on what might be called “preparing new music for performance,” which encompasses the organization of musical life, especially the support of performing ensembles and music publishers, composers’ responses to funding initiatives (or the lack thereof), and these same musicians’ reactions to those ideological controversies (for example, regarding nationalism and elitism) that interrogated the type and content of music to be presented to the public. I also delve into “performing new music by Polish composers,” examining concert repertoire and the public and private reception of new compositions, especially as they were affected by prevailing cultural values and policies. Case studies and other vignettes focused on composers’ challenges are featured throughout, illuminating previously unexplored nuances of the power struggles concerning cultural preferences that occurred throughout these decades. The interwar period in Polish contemporary music has been relatively neglected by scholars except for studies of its finest composer, Karol Szymanowski. Chapter 1 offers new insights into this era by comparing the disputes concerning nationalism, cosmopolitanism, accessibility, and issues of race in musical life to critics’ responses to new compositions and individual composers. Criticism of Polish musical life was primarily, although not exclusively reactive, responding to individual events rather than proposing radical changes for the sake of current political thought, although at times critical references also mirrored the country’s political and ethnic turbulence. Composer-critics Piotr Rytel, Roman Palester, Konstanty Regamey, and Jan Adam Maklakiewicz were among the most outspoken musicians who sparred over the social and artistic value of new compositions. Despite these heated debates, composers maintained the ability to write as they wished, which led to Józef Koffler’s dodecaphonic pieces and romantic, neoclassic, and/or folk-inspired compositions by many other composers. Musicians of all types crossed Poland’s borders in both directions and Polish composers and audiences were introduced to a wide variety of recently written compositions. All this was accomplished despite the relatively meager financial resources offered by private patrons and local and national governments. The years of Nazi and Soviet occupation (chapter 2) saw a remarkable— although not unanimous—unity of thought and action directed against the invaders. Within the German-controlled zone known as the General Governorate, nearly all ideological conflicts that had arisen in the preceding twenty years were set aside. Composers and other musicians organized a striking number of events, including many held in defiance of the occupying authorities, even as they also continued to write new music, receive commissions from the Polish underground, and educate the next generation. Similar activities were

Introduction

mostly impossible to arrange in Soviet-occupied areas or portions of interwar Poland incorporated into Germany. During the immediate postwar years (chapter 3), the new government moved to rebuild and centralize its control of musical life. Composers eagerly assisted, working as conductors, teachers, and administrators. This period also produced increasingly bitter debates defined by the continuation of interwar rhetoric about the wisdom of writing accessible music in a national style for the general public. Yet the increased involvement of Soviet musicians and other governmental officials in Polish musical life brought about a co-opting of musicians’ concerns about the appropriateness of certain compositional styles for audiences, which morphed into an attempt to implement Soviet-style socialist realism in music. Even as restrictions regarding new composition were foreshadowed, however, compositional innovation was frequently praised, a wide range of works was commissioned from many composers, and an outlook to foreign countries in the form of frequent travel for performances, study, and participation (for example, in the International Society for Contemporary Music, or ISCM) was encouraged. Understandably, performances of new music in Poland were limited by the availability of concert halls, musicians, and printed music, yet for these few years the country’s relatively open society offered many opportunities to composers of all persuasions. From late 1948 until at least 1953, a period scrutinized in chapter 4, Polish composers faced demands to create a new narrative in composition, one featuring a simplified musical style that would satisfy the aspirations of the Polish United Workers’ Party, the ruling entity that was a Communist political organization in all but name. Experimentation was rejected as an unwanted influence from Western countries, while nationalist music inspired by local folk elements was strongly encouraged (and frequently produced). Many composers, however, disagreed with these precepts. The Composers’ Union and many of its members attempted to negate these restrictions through half-hearted efforts at compliance while also pursuing a path via commissions and evaluations that allowed composers to pursue at least some measure of compositional freedom. For many, only the financial need to support themselves and their families or, in some cases, the desire to keep their relatives safe compelled them to complete commissions for compositions they often had little desire to write. Although a few composers chose to not return to their homeland, others shaped their own agendas while remaining in the country. Instead of following the exclusionary strategies of governmental officials, they often practiced a type of accommodation or, in some cases, silent resistance in order to preserve their profession as they thought appropriate. Others, however, supported the ideals espoused by the nation’s leadership. Concert programs in

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outlying towns and factories often featured mass songs and cantatas in praise of the new political system, but in larger cities such pieces were only heard at music festivals, which were held irregularly. Moreover, the government’s desire to promote itself as a progressive nation that was culturally superior to its Western neighbors brought little music that would be of interest to foreign performers (if they were even able to learn about it). Following Joseph Stalin’s death in March 1953, which triggered official commemorations but indifference or relief among most Polish citizens, a political and cultural thaw initiated in the Soviet Union began to flow westward to Poland (and other’s People’s Democracies, as the Soviet-bloc countries were sometimes called). As discussed in chapter 5, new details about composers’ reactions to the gradual changes of cultural ideology, their own modification of commissioning policy, and the rapidly expanded programming of both recently composed pieces by Western composers and previously neglected Polish compositions demonstrate how eagerly musicians reacted to the events in their neighboring country by compelling a return to many interwar activities. The idea that Polish music could and should accept the influences of musical trends previously deemed experimental and thus inappropriate gained currency and was welcomed by the very institutions that previously had repressed such a course. As noted in chapter 6, after the political events of October 1956, composers quickly withdrew many of their postwar compositions from their own catalogs of compositions and both they and the country’s musicologists generally declined to discuss their actions during the first postwar decade. At the same time, the notion of a Polish school of composition was presented in part as a means of marketing the nation’s composers abroad. The Warsaw Autumn International Festival of Contemporary Music, which began in 1956, was the most ostentatious result of the policy changes regarding contemporary music. Polish composers quickly took advantage of the opportunity to open up the country’s concert stages to music representing a wide variety of compositional techniques. In turn, the compositions of Witold Lutosławski, Krzysztof Penderecki, and Henryk Mikołaj Górecki became recognized internationally for their avant-garde innovations. As rewarding as the consideration of this post-Stalinist period in Poland has been for musicians and scholars, however, the preceding decades of the twentieth century should be considered equally as noteworthy, particularly for the ways in which many Polish composers from those years, confronted with often undesirable cultural ideologies, continually exerted their own authority in musical life, undeterred by their rivals and those in positions of power. Hopefully the current volume presents a compelling picture of the many personalities who, with their voices and actions, made a difference in the complex cultural engagements that marked these years.

CHAPTER 1

Between the World Wars: Performing a Utopian Vision

In May 1932, Grzegorz Fitelberg (1879–1953) conducted the Warsaw Philharmonic in a concert of recently written Polish compositions. Included in the program were Michał Kondracki’s Soldiers (Żołnierze), Piotr Perkowski’s Sinfonietta, and Józef Koffler’s Fifteen Variations on a Twelve-Tone Row (Piętnaście wariacji szeregu dwunastu tonów).1 According to Mateusz Gliński (1892–1976), editor of Muzyka (Music), then the country’s most important music publication, Perkowski’s work was well received by the audience. Its “unpretentious style”2 featured a logical concept, traditional imitative textures, and tonal harmonies. Kondracki’s piece was less impressive, at least in Gliński’s opinion. As he described it, in this expressionist picture of two processions of singing soldiers, snippets of military songs were carelessly thrown onto a canvas of sounds to create “grating”3 harmonies wrapped around banal melodies. Koffler’s piece, on the other hand, demonstrated that interesting effects and contrasts could be obtained even from a group of string instruments. Its elements of dodecaphony proved to be less threatening than this compositional technique often seemed to its detractors, to which Gliński himself admittedly belonged. In this case, the Variations’ musical invention was sufficiently strong enough to overcome what he called the “artificiality of this bizarre theory.”4

1 Also performed was Stravinsky’s Suite from Petrushka. Mateusz Gliński, “Warszawa: ‘Francesca da Rimini’ w Teatrze Wielkim, nowe kompozycje polskie w Filharmonii, konkurs śpiewaczy ‘Tonu’, popisy szkół muzycznych,” Muzyka 9, nos. 5–6 (1932): 146. 2 Ibid. After graduating from Warsaw Conservatory in 1925, Perkowski (1901–1990) had spent two years in Paris studying composition with Albert Roussel. 3 Ibid. In addition to composing, Kondracki (1902–1984) was also a music critic. 4 Ibid. Koffler (1896–1944) was also a musicologist.

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Another critic and composer, Stanisław Niewiadomski (1859–1936), a frequent writer for Kurier Polski (Polish Courier) who at that time was in his seventies, was typically conservative in his remarks. For him, Perkowski’s Sinfonietta was interesting and understandable “even to prewar” listeners, for the composer’s still youthful output generally avoided “modernist exaggerations.”5 Kondracki’s Soldiers was simple but filled with gruff humor. Its patriotic songs, known to many listeners even if sung wildly and falsely in this composition, reflected “the necessity of realism.”6 Koffler’s Variations, however, “speak like a young, scholarly rabbi . . . [Koffler] does not shout or make noise . . . but rejoices with his wisdom and distinctiveness, believing that this should be sufficient for listeners. However, it does not happen like that.”7 Piotr Rytel (1884–1970), a composer and critic writing in the conservative newspaper Gazeta Warszawska (Warsaw Gazette), was consistently the most strident critic of new music in Poland during the interwar decades. Here, he belittled Perkowski’s Sinfonietta as “uncritical chatter about pointless things . . . [It is] foolishness, that’s all.”8 Kondracki’s piece was a “potpourri of Polish folk melodies . . . in a modern robe . . . Someone said they are old melodies with new falsehoods . . . There is a huge number of chords stained with an excess of foreign sounds.”9 Koffler “wants to be rather too clever.”10 These critical comments made about just three compositions on a single concert speak volumes about the state of music in interwar Poland. With their references to accessibility for the average listener, realism in musical composition, the possible advantages of functional tonality versus early twentiethcentury modernist harmonies, and even allusions to anti-Semitism (Koffler was of Jewish descent, as was Fitelberg), these brief remarks embrace many of the topics related to aesthetic tastes in contemporary composition that were discussed frequently in interwar Poland. Such polemics undoubtedly affected the reception of many new compositions and, in turn, the reputation of both composers and critics. At the same time, however, as will be discussed in more detail below, although Polish composers received relatively few performances of their works in their home country, their ability to write freely was not hindered by

5 St[anisław] Niewiadomski, “Imre Ungar żegna się z Warszawą,” Kurier Polski, no. 140 (1932): 5. 6 Ibid. 7 Ibid. 8 Piotr Rytel, [unknown title], Gazeta Warszawska, May 23, 1932, quoted in Jasiński, Koniec epoki, 204. 9 Ibid., 205. 10 Ibid., 204.

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official cultural ideologies and their awareness of the musical world surrounding Poland was relatively extensive. In any discussion of the music of a particular era, multiple issues are interwoven throughout printed reviews, letters, and other memorabilia. Polish music is no different in this regard. The country had specific needs during the interwar period, however, as it attempted to unify itself after the partitions that had occurred in the late eighteenth century, which had left the geographical area of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth under Prussian, Russian, and Austrian (Habsburg) control. The country became independent again following World War I, albeit with a significant loss of land and people compared to its eighteenth-century presence. In the area of music, the creation of musical institutions following the war proceeded with a limited degree of success but seemingly unfettered initiative. Coalescing a group of composers, critics, and other musicians into a viable artistic community proved to be equally problematic. As is common in any society, generational differences of opinion and other typical disagreements about the value of modern musical trends in new composition were apparent. Those involved in the country’s musical life were unable to adopt either a uniform vision for its public exhibitions or accept the possibility of a diversity of efforts and opinions. In Poland, such concerns were also complicated by political and ethnic-racial disagreements that threatened the existence of any amiable unity among composers and critics. Many of these contentious issues would be carried through to the post-World War II era, just as many of the individuals involved would also be active in once more redeveloping their nation’s musical life.

The Political and Economic Situation in Interwar Poland Having achieved independence in November 1918 following more than a century of foreign occupation, Polish citizens entered the 1920s optimistic about their country’s future.11 Many enthusiastically anticipated creating their own system of government and enriching their cultural life by openly promoting their own national icons and institutions. However, enduring legacies of poverty and illiteracy hindered the development of both the nation’s economy and its cultural assets. 11 Although November 11, 1918 is typically used as the date of Poland’s independence and the start of the Second Polish Republic, the country’s borders were not definitively established until 1922. Dabrowski, Poland, 386.

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During the interwar period, Poland was primarily an agrarian society. According to Brian Porter-Szűcs, most workers lived in poor housing with few resources for food and other necessities. However, those citizens living in the western half of the country, which included the major cities of Warsaw, Poznań, Kraków, and Katowice, fared somewhat better than those in the country’s eastern regions, whose most important urban centers were Lwów (today, Lviv) and Wilno (today, Vilnius).12 Among other things, salaries were higher in the west and, in that area’s cities, amenities such as electricity and running water were available more widely than they were elsewhere. In eastern Poland, literacy levels were also decidedly lower. A national legislative provision that required students to remain in school for seven grades did not eliminate this gap. Perhaps as a result of the apparent disparity in wealth, at the end of the 1930s, nearly all of the families who had access to radios (and thus to broadcasts of music) resided in the western areas of the country.13 Of most importance for this project was the need to rebuild and reintegrate Poland’s infrastructure as a result of World War I; the partitions of the long nineteenth century meant that the country’s immediate cultural needs were often overlooked by the government and private enterprise, as will be discussed further below.

12 Porter-Szűcs, Poland in the Modern World, 105–113. Lviv (or L’viv), known as Lwów in Polish, is currently located in Ukraine. It was also called Lemberg when the city was under Austrian control during the partitions of 1772–1918 and again under Nazi occupation from 1941–1944. During the partitions, it had been the capital and cultural center of the Kingdom of Galicia and Lodomeria, which was part of the Habsburg Empire. Vilnius, known in Poland as Wilno, is currently the capital of Lithuania. Throughout this book, I will use the city name that was in use during the year(s) being discussed, while also offering the alternate version occasionally. 13 Ibid., 110–113. The first radio station in postwar Poland began regular broadcasts in Warsaw in 1926. Additional regional stations opened as follows: Kraków in March 1927, Wilno and Katowice in December 1927, and Lwów and Łódź in February 1930. Broadcasts from the Raszyn station, which opened in 1931, reached the entire country. Subscriptions were required to gain access to broadcasts. “Pierwsza audycja radiowej Jedynki: ‘Halo, halo! Tu Polskie Radio Warszawa!’” https://www.polskieradio.pl/39/156/Artykul/667225,Pierwsza-audycjaradiowej-Jedynki-Halo-halo-Tu-Polskie-Radio-Warszawa; “Radiostacja w Raszynie—sygnał od 1931 roku,” https://www.polskieradio.pl/39/156/Artykul/1448878,Radiostacja-wRaszynie-sygnal-od-1931-roku; “Rozgłośnia Polskiego Radia w Katowicach—ze Śląska na cały świat,” https://www.polskieradio.pl/39/156/Artykul/1308169,Rozglosnia-PolskiegoRadia-w-Katowicach-ze-Slaska-na-caly-swiat; Stanisław Dybowski, Magdalena Dziadek, and Janina Tatarska, “Kalendarium najważniejszych wydarzeń w polskim życiu muzycznym XX wieku,” in Kompozytorzy polscy 1918–2000, ed. Marek Podhajski, vol. 1, Eseje (Gdańsk: Wydawnictwo Akademii Muzycznej im. S. Moniuszki and Warsaw: Akademia Muzyczna im. Frederyka Chopina, 2005), 127–128; Danuta Gwizdalanka, 100 lat z dziejów polskiej muzyki (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 2018), 29.

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Several political parties competed for attention on a national level, each with its own view of the appropriate qualities for Polish society. The most important of these were the Polish Socialist Party (PPS, which favored an independent, socialist, and multi-cultural Poland), the National Democrats (ND, or Endecja, which believed nationalism and Roman Catholicism were the keys to the nation’s success), and the Polish People’s Party (PSL, partially supported by the rural population). As Brian Porter-Szűcs has further noted, a total of twenty-nine political parties, some of them representing Jews, Ukrainians, and other ethnicities, participated in the 1922 election. After the election, nearly half of them earned seats in the Sejm (the lower house of the Polish parliament). For the next few years, the government was run by various coalitions of these and other emerging parties.14 Although initially Poland had the trappings of a democracy, a 1926 coup by Józef Piłsudski (1867–1935) and his followers, who came from all major political parties except the Endecja, brought an authoritarian style of government that included elements of repression. Piłsudski at least theoretically touted a vision in which all ethnic and religious groups would live harmoniously, but in practice, his government eventually cracked down on activists pushing for Ukrainian nationalism by ordering the military to subdue them via church burnings, arrests, and other forms of harassment.15 The tiny Communist Party of Poland (KPP), which favored creating a Polish republic within the Soviet Union rather than establishing an independent Poland, was legally banned in 1919 but operated thereafter in an underground fashion. Its members were also imprisoned during Piłsudski’s time in power.16 Issues related to national, ethnic, and religious identity were near the forefront of political and cultural discourse during this period. Nearly two-thirds of Poles identified as Latin Rite Catholics and roughly ten percent as Jewish (one-third of Warsaw’s population was Jewish). Ukrainians (who were mostly Eastern Rite or Orthodox Catholic) represented about fourteen percent of the population, Poles about sixty-nine percent, and Germans less than five percent, Other ethnicities, including Belorussian and Lithuanian, were present in even smaller numbers. Many considered themselves to be Polish citizens, yet did not

14 Porter-Szűcs, Poland in the Modern World, 92–97. 15 According to Dabrowski, the Ukrainians who found themselves in Polish territory after World War I were not pleased with being in that country, since they had hoped to gain their own independence. Due in part to their general economic poverty and the failure of Poland’s interwar land reform efforts to satisfy their own desires, some Ukrainians turned to violent measures against the Poles. This led, at least in part, to the retaliation by the Polish military. Ibid., 95–101, 137–140; Dabrowski, Poland, 385, 396, 401. 16 Porter-Szűcs, Poland in the Modern World, 99.

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speak Polish as their first language. Fewer than ten percent of Jews were fully integrated into Polish society.17 As we shall see, discrimination toward Jews and others of different ethnic backgrounds did exist in Polish music circles. In most cases, however, it is not possible to make connections between the ethnicity or political affiliations of musicians (the latter of which are frequently unknown) and their opinions about the development of the country’s musical life.

The Development of Performing Ensembles The country’s long-awaited re-emergence following World War I prompted the creation or rejuvenation of institutions that would hopefully enable a national musical life to evolve. The primarily private or municipal nature of cultural funding meant that musical offerings developed locally, without a broadly centralized operational plan. Nonetheless, the gradual appearance of symphony orchestras and opera houses gave composers the means to promote themselves and their music and provided the public with opportunities to hear new compositions. The Warsaw Philharmonic was the only regularly performing professional orchestra in the country during the entirety of the interwar period. Its story of financial woes and organizational changes is worth recounting, since similar—and frequently worse—situations existed in other cities and towns. Its history also brings to light disagreements in programming and social function that would not be resolved either before the next war or in the years immediately following the occupation and Holocaust. This orchestra, founded in 1901, experienced financial crises continually during the interwar period. While its activities continued on a regular basis for most of that time, it was forced to cancel concerts or delay season openings more than once. Headed initially after the war by the Warsaw Philharmonic Company (Filharmonia Warszawska, Spółka Akcyjna), with Roman Chojnacki (1875– 1938) as artistic director, it underwent several organizational changes in subsequent years. In the fall of 1923, the orchestra’s musicians boycotted their own hall after the Philharmonic Company changed its statute, apparently protesting the organization’s lack of consultation with the performers. For almost two months the ensemble performed instead in Warsaw’s Grand Theater. In December of that year, a Friends of Symphonic Music Society was established to support the orchestra, but this organization was unable to overcome the ensemble’s large budget deficits 17 Ibid., 126–127; Erica L. Tucker, Remembering Occupied Warsaw: Polish Narratives of World War II (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2011), 140–141.

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and ceased to exist after the 1924–1925 season. In 1924, the musicians, wanting to become more involved in the orchestra’s management, created an Artists’ Association that worked with Chojnacki on programming and personnel.18 From 1923–1934, Grzegorz Fitelberg, Poland’s preeminent conductor and a champion of twentieth-century repertoire, led the Philharmonic orchestra. His programming choices, which were frequently criticized by the press for their modernist tendencies, were accompanied by poor audience attendance.19 After 1925, he began conducting the ensemble less frequently and was replaced in the pulpit by a rotating series of foreign and Polish conductors.20 In response to a poll organized by Muzyka in the mid-1920s that questioned how to increase the number of attendees at the Philharmonic, participants claimed they wanted “only undeniably good music,” “an attractive performer,” and an end to presenting “often weak works”21 just because they were written by Polish composers. One reaction to this occurred in 1931, when additional changes made to the Company’s statute meant that its activities could focus more on bringing in a profit than in providing a high quality orchestra. After complaints about this from some musicians, the orchestra’s management refused to allow them to enter the Philharmonic’s building. The ensemble’s musicians boycotted again in 1934, partly in response to the low representation of Polish music on recent concert programs; at that point, the orchestra’s musicians played for two months in the acoustically inferior hall of the Warsaw Conservatory instead of the Philharmonic’s own space.22 The Philharmonic was not the only ensemble active in Warsaw. The Professional Musicians’ Union gave occasional concerts, the city’s cultural department arranged

18 Marian Gołębiowski, Filharmonia w Warszawie 1901–1976 (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1976), 265–266; Helman, Między romantyzmem a nową muzyką, 665; Mateusz Gliński, “Dzieje Filharmonii Warszawskiej (Szkic syntetyczny),” Muzyka 3, nos. 11–12 (1926): 569–570; Kazimierz Wiłkomirski, Wspomnienia (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1971), 301–302. 19 mgl [Mateusz Gliński], “Impresje muzyczne,” Muzyka 3, no. 1 (1926): 28. Concert programs in interwar Poland were typically determined collectively by conductors, guest performers, and ensemble administrators. Fitelberg’s international prestige as a conductor undoubtedly gave him considerable leeway in choosing programs for the concerts he led. 20 Leon Markiewicz, Grzegorz Fitelberg 1879–1953: Życie i dzieło (Katowice: Fibak Marquard Press, [1995]), 90–92. 21 “Rozmaitości: Ankieta w sprawie Filharmonii,” Muzyka 2, no. 3 (1925): 139. 22 Gołębiowski, Filharmonia w Warszawie 1901–1976, 266–267; Mateusz Gliński, “Martyrologia muzyki polskiej,” Muzyka 9, nos. 3–4 (1932): 91–92; Jan Maklakiewicz, “Listy do redakcji: W sprawie ‘Poloneza Triumfalnego’,” Muzyka 9, nos. 3–4 (1932): 103; B. R. [Bronisław Rutkowski], “Z ruchu muzycznego w Polsce: Warszawa,” Muzyka Polska 1, no. 5 (1935): 77; Maria Wacholc, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz (Warsaw: Triangiel, 2012), 51–52.

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school concerts and orchestral performances, and, beginning in 1928, the Warsaw Music Society organized chamber concerts.23 Polish Radio created its own orchestra in Warsaw in 1932, which Grzegorz Fitelberg began to conduct regularly in 1934. In a reflection of the nation’s diversity, the Philharmonic and Radio orchestras were comprised of citizens of varied ethnic and religious backgrounds, while a Musicians’ Union Christian Orchestra and an orchestra sponsored by Warsaw’s Jewish Music Society also enriched the city’s cultural offerings.24 Symphony orchestras existed in other major cities, although their status as permanent ensembles never came to fruition, which in turn affected the possibilities for hearing music by the country’s living composers. In Kraków, orchestral concerts were presented at first by the Professional Musicians’ Union, which offered mostly music of a popular nature on an irregular basis until 1932, when budget problems forced the liquidation of the union’s ensemble.25 In the mid1930s, the Kraków Music Society formed the Kraków Philharmonic as a private organization. The impresario Eugeniusz Bujański (1890–1952) managed his own concert agency, which organized chamber concerts and recitals.26 In Poznań, the opera orchestra occasionally presented symphonic concerts under the name of the Poznań Philharmonic.27 Other music societies supported orchestras in cities such as Bydgoszcz, Kraków, Lwów, and Łódź. Economic difficulties persisted.28 Kazimierz Wiłkomirski (1900–1995), a cellist, conductor, and composer, recalled that the Łódź Philharmonic’s musicians were paid per performance. To make a living, they also played in movie houses, cafés, and dance halls.29 This same philharmonic, established in 1915, ceased operations for several months in 1925. 23 “Z całego świata: Kronika krajowa,” Muzyka 8, no. 10 (1931): 432; “Wiadomości bieżące,” Muzyka 6, no. 6 (1929): 345; Andrzej Spóz, Warszawskie Towarzystwo Muzyczne 1871–1971 (Warsaw: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1971), 59–61. 24 Gwizdalanka, 100 lat z dziejów polskiej muzyki, 30, 36; Leon Tadeusz Błaszczyk, Żydzi w kulturze muzycznej ziem polskich w XIX i XX wieku: Słownik biograficzny (Warsaw: Stowarzyszenie Żydowski Instytut Historyczny w Polsce, 2014), 297. 25 S[tanisław] Golachowski, “Z ruchu muzycznego w Polsce: Kraków,” Muzyka Polska 2, no. 8 (1935): 298. 26 Bujański also worked with the Kraków Opera for a brief period and collaborated with theaters in Kraków. “History,” http://www.filharmonia.krakow.pl/Institution/History/; “Eugeniusz Bujański,” http://www.encyklopediateatru.pl/osoby/46794/eugeniusz-bujanski. 27 “History and Patron,” https://filharmoniapoznanska.pl/en/philharmonic/history-andpatron/. 28 Stefan Śledziński, ed., Muzyka polska: Informator (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1967), 139; “Kronika,” Muzyka 4, no. 2 (1927): 88; Jerzy Wachtel, “Kraków: Bilans ubiegłego sezonu muzycznego, perspektywy,” Muzyka 1927, no. 10 (1927): 483; “Kronika,” Muzyka 6, no. 2 (1929): 101. 29 Wiłkomirski, Wspomnienia, 287.

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Subsidies from the city made a few concerts possible over the next several years, but by mid-1928 the ensemble had been dissolved.30 Approximately half of the orchestra’s musicians were Jewish; many then left for Tel Aviv to perform with Polish-born Bronisław Huberman’s ensemble. Several Jewish members of the Warsaw Philharmonic also left Poland for Palestine prior to the outbreak of World War II.31 In Lublin, a philharmonic led by Faustyn Kulczycki (1894– 1960) operated only from 1924–1926,32 while in Wilno, Polish Radio managed to organize a few concerts in the mid-1930s.33 In Lwów, a professional-level orchestra existed from 1933–1939.34 Opera companies existed in Warsaw, Kraków, Lwów, Wilno, Katowice, and Poznań, although, due to lack of adequate financial support, each of these enterprises was forced to close for periods of time and, in some cases, for the remainder of the interwar period.35 Recitals and other chamber concerts took place in

30 F[eliks R.] Halpern, “Łódź: Przegląd sezonu koncertowego,” Muzyka 1, no. 2 (1924), 81–82; F[eliks R.] Halpern, “Łódź: ‘Koncerty mistrzowskie’, jubileusz St. Barcewicza, muzyka kameralna,” Muzyka 2, no. 3 (1925): 124; F[eliks] R. Halpern, “Łódź: Koncerty symfoniczne, koncert jubileuszowy chóru ‘Hazomir’,” Muzyka 3, no. 4 (1926): 171; Feliks R. Halpern, “Łódź: Wznowienie koncertów filharmonicznych, ‘koncerty mistrzowskie’, w ‘Tow. Miłośników Muzyki Kameralnej’,” Muzyka 3, nos. 11–12 (1926): 613; F[eliks] R. Halpern, “Łódź: Osłabienie ruchu muzycznego, koncerty filharmoniczne, koncerty mistrzowskie, laureaci szopenowscy w Łodzi, Towarzystwo Miłośników Muzyki, zmierzch Opery Łódzkiej, odczyt Dr. Reissa, Teiko Kiwa, harfa,” Muzyka 4, no. 6 (1927): 226; “Impresje muzyczne,” Muzyka 5, no. 6 (1928): 244. 31 Wiłkomirski, Wspomnienia, 307–308. Zofia Trębacz has described the emigration of Jews from Poland in the late 1930s as being the result of their increased concerns for personal safety. She also noted that multiple political parties saw Jews as problematic, not just the National Democratic Party. Zofia Trębacz, “The Rise of Emigrationism: The Radicalization of Polish Elite Political Thought in the 1930s,” (paper presented at the Association for Slavic, East European, and Eurasian Studies Virtual Conference, November 5, 2020). 32 Władysław-Henryk Wierzbicki, “Lublin: Ruch muzyczny w bieżącym sezonie, Faustyn Kulczycki, audycje muzyczne,” Muzyka 7, no. 2 (1930): 110–111. 33 Tadeusz Szeligowski (1896–1963), also a composer and teacher at the Poznań and Wilno conservatories, attempted to organize orchestral concerts in Wilno in 1936, but his ideas conflicted with those of Polish Radio, which had made similar plans with the Wilno Philharmonic Society. Szeligowski appears to have made enemies of some residents there who did not appreciate his efforts to enliven the music scene. J. Kiełpisz, “Na przełomie sezonu muzycznego: Ankieta noworoczna, Wilno,” Muzyka 13, nos. 7–12 (1936): 95–96. 34 Zofia Ottawa-Rogalska, Lwy spod ratusza słuchają muzyki: Wspomnienia o Helenie Ottawowej (Wrocław: Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1987), 113. 35 In Lwów, the opera ceased performing in 1933; in Wilno, this occurred in 1925. Katowice’s opera house closed its doors in 1931. In Kraków, the opera did not function from 1924–1931, while Warsaw’s opera closed briefly in 1919 and 1924. Jasiński, Na przełomie epok, 293–294, 308, 505–506; “Z całego świata: Kronika krajowa,” Muzyka 7, no. 6 (1930): 408; Tadeusz Szeligowski, “Wilno: Zmierzch Opery, ostatnie wznowienia i koncerty,” Muzyka 2, nos. 4–5 (1925): 192; Tadeusz Szeligowski, “Wilno: Refleksje przedsezonowe, koncerty letnie,”

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many cities and towns across the country, showcasing both local and foreign performers. Such international stars as Artur Rubinstein (born in Łódź, Poland and an ardent supporter of his native country), Vladimir Horowitz, Nathan Milstein, and Alfred Cortot presented recitals, Igor Stravinsky, Sergei Prokofiev, and Béla Bartók appeared on stage to direct and/or perform their own works, and esteemed conductors such as Wilhelm Furtwängler, Bruno Walter, and George Georgescu led either local orchestras or their own ensembles.36 Choirs and choral societies consisting of amateur vocalists were extremely popular throughout the country. As Zofia Ottawa-Rogalska later recounted, “In Poland everyone has sung since the earliest times.”37 The total number of choirs in the country approached 20,000 during the interwar period, an astounding figure that shows the popularity of music and community involvement in those years, as well as the possibilities for music education for all ages and economic levels.38 Moreover, Polish composers were active in directing these efforts and in writing music for them. Jan Adam Maklakiewicz (1899–1954), Feliks Nowowiejski (1877–1946), and Stanisław Wiechowicz (1893–1963) were among the most important of these musicians. Choral repertoire of the time consisted primarily of patriotic, folk, and religious works, although some ensembles performed with the orchestras mentioned above, for example, in Karol Szymanowski’s folk-inspired Harnasie. As Danuta Gwizdalanka has explained, these choral and instrumental ensembles constituted an important space for the intermixing of nationalities in all areas of the nation. For example, choirs in Poznań included both Poles and Germans, while those in eastern Poland were comprised of singers of Lithuanian, Muzyka 2, no. 10 (1925): 30–31; “Historia,” https://opera.krakow.pl/historia; Feliks Sachse, “Katowice: Likwidacja opery, ruch koncertowy,” Muzyka 9, nos. 5–6 (1932): 151; Stefania Łobaczewska, “Lwów: Wieczór kompozytorów lwowskich,” Muzyka 11, no. 2 (1934): 67. 36 Mateusz Gliński, “Warszawa: Trzy premiery w ‘Teatrze Wielkim’, wznowienie ‘Pana Twardo­ wskiego’, koncert kompozytorski Karola Szymanowskiego, ‘Symfonia Ofiarna’ L. M. Rogowskiego, soliści,” Muzyka 3, no. 5 (1926): 222; Mateusz Gliński, “Warszawa: Premiery ‘Lakme’ i ‘Uczty Szyderców’, występy gościnne, nowe kompozycje symfoniczne, występy solistów, Chór Łotewski,” Muzyka 4, no. 11 (1927): 535–538; Feliks R. Halpern, “Łódź: Koncerty symfoniczne, soliści, muzyka kameralna, oratorium, akademicy z Pragi, orkiestry wojskowe,” Muzyka 7, no. 6 (1930): 382–383; Mateusz Gliński, “Warszawa: Inauguracja sezonu, reorganizacja Opery Warszawskiej, koncerty symfoniczne w Konserwatorium i Filharmonii, recitale, soliści,” Muzyka 11, nos. 10–12 (1934): 374–375; Mateusz Gliński, “Warszawa: Paradoksy i dysproporcje w życiu muzycznym stolicy, Opera Warszawska czeka na zasadnicze reformy, jaki los czeka akcję artystyczną w Filharmonii?, dobre założenia i wadliwa realizacja reformy transmisji radiowych,” Muzyka 12, nos. 10–12 (1935): 240–241; Thomas, Polish Music, 9. 37 Ottawa-Rogalska, Lwy spod ratusza, 122. 38 In addition to composing and teaching, Maklakiewicz was a music critic and organist, Wiechowicz was a choral conductor and music critic, and Nowowiejski was a conductor and organist. Gwizdalanka. 100 lat z dziejów polskiej muzyki, 32.

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Belorussian, and Ukrainian heritage. Not all ensembles reflected this ethnic diversity, however. Those comprised of Jewish residents existed in several cities and in some areas Ukrainians or Germans presented their own programs.39

Other Cultural Initiatives While the picture presented above may seem to be indicative of a relatively active musical life for a country emerging from more than a century in which a Polish spirit existed more in the mind than in the public structures of daily life, it must be filtered by the reality of incomplete concert seasons and insufficient financing. Each of these performing endeavors was financed almost entirely by private initiatives. From available reports, concerts occurred sporadically, primarily due to the financial costs involved.40 Moreover, as Gwizdalanka has pointed out, ticket prices increased astronomically due to hyperinflation that affected the entire economy; a philharmonic ticket in Łódź that cost 600 Polish marks in 1922 cost 4,000 marks a year later.41 Although governmental departments—the Ministry of Art and Culture from 1918–1922, thereafter the Ministry of Religious Affairs and Public Education— provided some stipends to individuals, it appears that most performing ensembles operated with little to no federal support.42 Another agency, the Fund for National Culture, provided money for publishing and student stipends. Operating within the Council of Ministers, controversy surrounded this organization due to its lack of coordination with the Ministry of Religious Affairs and Public Education, its anti-Semitic biases, and its heavy-handed manipulation of available funds. These financial exploits resulted in the scaling back of support for the monthly Muzyka publication, which ceased operations in 1938, and the creation in 1934 of a rival periodical, Muzyka Polska (Polish Music).43

39 Ibid., 34–36. 40 Tadeusz Przybylski, “Kompozytorzy krakowscy w latach 1888–1945” in Krakowska szkoła kompozytorska 1888–1988: W 100-lecie Akademii Muzycznej w Krakowie, ed. Teresa Malecka (Kraków: Akademia Muzyczna, 1992), 11, 17. 41 Gwizdalanka. 100 lat z dziejów polskiej muzyki, 23. The mark was replaced by the zloty (złoty), the currency still used today, in 1924. Porter-Szűcs, Poland in the Modern World, 117. 42 Gwizdalanka, 100 lat z dziejów polskiej muzyki, 21–23; Feliks [R.] Halpern, “Łódź: Piętnastolecie Łódzkiej Orkiestry Filharmonicznej, poranki, koncerty, opera, Gertruda Bodenwieser,” Muzyka 7, no. 3 (1930): 179. 43 Redakcja i Administracja, “W sprawie czasopisma ‘Muzyka’: Do wszystkich przyjaciół ‘Muzyki’,” Muzyka 12, nos. 10–12 (1935): opening page; “Klika czy nie klika? W odpowiedzi na ‘W odpowiedzi’,” Muzyka 14, no. 3 (1937): 84–86.

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To improve concert life in small towns and villages, where such events were rarely organized, an Organization for Musical Activity (Organizacja Ruchu Muzycznego, or ORMUZ) was formed in 1934, with financial support from the Polish Music Publishing Society (Towarzystwo Wydawnicze Muzyki Polskiej, or TWMP), which itself was subsidized by the Fund for National Culture.44 As J. Mackenzie Pierce has argued, ORMUZ offered a national initiative that differed from the predominantly private, local endeavors that had existed to date.45 Tadeusz Ochlewski (1894–1975) and Bronisław Rutkowski (1898–1964), performers and cultural administrators who had supported the elimination of ministerial funding for Muzyka, were the masterminds behind ORMUZ’s creation and ongoing projects. This organization succeeded in providing musical events to a wide swath of society, many of whom would have been unable to attend concerts in Warsaw, Kraków, or other larger cities. The first year of its existence brought 335 public and school concerts in sixty-five towns and villages. By the 1938–1939 season, a total of 247 school concerts in Warsaw and 534 public and school concerts in more than sixty other towns had been attended by more than 250,000.46 Although most ORMUZ-organized concert programs are unavailable today, Pierce’s description of the extant remarks presented at some concerts indicates that pieces by Frédéric Chopin, Franz Joseph Haydn, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and Ludwig van Beethoven, along with themed presentations of Polish opera, dance, and compositions written after Chopin’s death were among the offerings. Contemporary compositions are not known to have been programmed often; the same is true of works by composers of Jewish heritage. Figure 1 shows one such all-Polish program, however, that featured Ludomir Różycki’s String Quartet, Karol Szymanowski’s Myths (Mity), Jan Adam Maklakiewicz’s Spring in the Countryside (Wiosna na wsi) for cello and piano, Antoni Szałowski’s Aria for cello and piano, and Jan Ekier’s piano works (Two Preludes, Lullaby [Kołysanka], Humoresque, Intermezzo, Toccata, and Fugue). ORMUZ-sponsored performances of Ekier’s Highlander Suite (Suita góralska) and pieces by Emil Młynarski (1870–1935) and Stanisław Niewiadowski were also mentioned in the contemporary press and Pierce has pointed to a performance of a sonatina by Polish-Jewish composer, conductor,

44 Tadeusz Ochlewski, “O. R. Muz.,” Muzyka Polska 1, no. 4 (1934), 332–334. 45 Pierce, “Life and Death,” 95–96. 46 Tadeusz Ochlewski, “Po pierwszym roku ‘ORMUZU’,” Muzyka Polska 2, no. 6 (1935): 157–160; Jasiński, Koniec epoki, 302–303; “Z ORMUZU: V rok działalności,” Muzyka Polska 6, nos. 6–7 (1939): 349–351.

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and pianist Aleksander Tansman (1897–1986).47 Performers who cooperated with ORMUZ included the Warsaw Philharmonic, the Polish Quartet, church 48

Figure 1.  Organization for Musical Activity (ORMUZ) concert program, Warsaw, April 30, 1937. Public domain48 47 Konstanty Regamey, “Z ruchu muzycznego w Polsce: Warszawa,” Muzyka Polska 4, no. 3 (1937): 128; “Z ORMUZU: Zakończenie III-go sezonu koncertowego,” Muzyka Polska 4, no. 5 (1937): 253; Tadeusz Ochlewski, “Po pierwszym roku ‘ORMUZU’,” 159; Pierce, “Life and Death,” 111. My thanks to J. Mackenzie Pierce for sharing additional information via email. 48 https://polona.pl/item/program-inc-xiii-koncert-odbedzie-sie-w-srode-14-go-kwietnia1937-r-o-godz-8-15,Njc0Mzk0NTU/0/.

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choirs, and noted soloists such as violinist Irena Dubiska (1899–1989) and pianists Henryk Sztompka (1901–1964) and Stanisław Szpinalski (1901–1957). Only positive remarks about ORMUZ’s activities were offered in the press, as many recognized the need for such endeavors in what was generally a musically illiterate countryside.49 Although Pierce has suggested that audiences for these concerts were probably more inclusive of the intelligentsia (and Jews, in predominantly Jewish areas),50 the process of disseminating classical music to the general public throughout the country nevertheless attained a relatively high degree of success, as had also occurred with the lively amateur choral scene. This theme of popularizing music in society would be widely discussed after World War II and would become an integral part of the rhetoric and actions related to socialist realism in music. Radio provided another way both to increase audience awareness of domestic and foreign music and to offer financial support to existing ensembles. Given that broadcasts were mostly accessible only to certain geographical regions and were restricted to those who purchased subscriptions, the effectiveness of this form of artistic outreach for the general public was somewhat limited, yet composers and musicians still benefitted from such activities.51 Musical offerings on Polish Radio included Warsaw Philharmonic concerts, which were broadcast on Friday evenings and Sunday mornings beginning in 1927.52 After the Polish Radio orchestra in Warsaw began activities as a full ensemble in 1933, subsidies to that city’s Philharmonic for its concert broadcasts were reduced and for a few years only its Friday evening programs were heard live. In Poznań, opera productions were broadcast and other concerts were also aired.53 Among the many

49 J. Mackenzie Pierce has suggested that ORMUZ’s rationale for providing music outside of major cities could be understood in part as a desire to point to these more rural areas as being artistically less developed and thus in need of assistance. The urban centers where most musicians resided could then be perceived as culturally advanced. Pierce, “Life and Death”: 85. 50 J. Mackenzie Pierce, “Peasants into Concert-Goers: Modernity and ‘Musicalization’ in 1930s Poland,” (paper presented at the Association for Slavic, East European, and Eurasian Studies Virtual Conference, November 7, 2020). 51 Tadeusz Szeligowski also complained from Wilno in 1934 that Polish Radio had eliminated budget items related to bringing music to the so-called provinces. He criticized the plan to have an all-Poland radio broadcast and to have regional programs subject to the approval of employees in Warsaw. Tadeusz Szeligowski, “Uwagi krytyczne o działalności muzycznej Polskiego Radia na prowincji,” Muzyka Polska 1, no. 1 (1934): 38–41. 52 Tadeusz Czerniawski, “Cele i zadania działalności muzycznej ‘Polskiego Radia’,” Muzyka 4, no. 2 (1927): 95; “Przed nowym sezonem radiowym: Rozmowa z kierownikiem muzycznym Polskiego Radia prof. T. Czerniawskim,” Muzyka 8, no. 10 (1931): 428. 53 “Kronika polska,” Muzyka 13, nos. 1–6 (1936): 65; Marek Rzepa, “Arnold Rezler—twórca i animator kultury muzycznej,” Kronika Bydgoska 32 (2010): 511–512.

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composers who accepted commissions from Polish Radio to write music for radio plays and other broadcasts were Stefan Kisielewski (1911–1991), Michał Kondracki, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, Artur Malawski (1904–1957), Roman Padlewski (1915–1944), Roman Palester (1907–1989), Witold Rudziński (1913–2004), and Tadeusz Szeligowski (1896–1963), nearly all of whom were then at the start of their careers.54 Other new pieces could also be heard on radio: Józef Koffler composed his Symphony No. 1 with radio audiences in mind and the premieres of Bolesław Woytowicz’s Funeral Poem (Poemat żałobny) in 1936 and Witold Lutosławski’s Symphonic Variations (Wariacje symfoniczne) in 1939 were conducted by Fitelberg as part of live broadcasts.55

Limited Resources Given the inadequate funding levels experienced by all ensembles during the interwar period, combined with the economic crises that affected the nation, it is perhaps no surprise to learn that unemployment among professional musicians rose from ten percent in 1929 to sixty-two percent in 1934.56 Resources available to individual Polish composers for pursuing their compositional careers were extremely limited. With little to no funding available from civic and state entities (other than Polish Radio), they often turned to private patrons to subsidize their writing. Unfortunately, few details have emerged about the extent of such support. Perhaps the most detailed information concerns Karol Szymanowski (1882–1937), the country’s finest interwar composer. Although he concertized as a pianist in Europe and the United States and was the dean of Warsaw’s conservatory from 1927–1929 and again from 1930–1932, he was 54 Kisielewski was also a writer, a music essayist, a pianist, a politician (from 1957–1965), and, particularly after World War II, an outspoken critic of Communism. In addition to composing, Padlewski was a musicologist, pianist, violinist, and conductor, Palester was a music critic and, beginning in 1952, a radio broadcaster for Radio Free Europe in Munich, West Germany. Rudziński was an organist and music administrator, while Szeligowski was an organist, conductor, and, until 1927, an attorney. Violetta Kostka, Tadeusz Zygfryd Kassern: Indywidualne odmiany stylów muzycznych XX wieku (Poznań: Rhytmos, 2011), 79–80; Gwizdalanka, 100 lat z dziejów polskiej muzyki, 31. 55 Jasiński, Koniec epoki, 374; Danuta Gwizdalanka and Krzysztof Meyer, Lutosławski, 2 vols., vol. 1: Droga do dojrzałości, vol. 2: Droga do mistrzostwa (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 2003, 2005), 1: 109; Maciej Gołąb, Józef Koffler: Compositional Style and Source Documents (Los Angeles: Polish Music History Center at the University of Southern California, 2004), 43. 56 “Impresje muzyczne,” Muzyka 11, no. 4 (1934): 163; Porter-Szűcs, Poland in the Modern World, 113–123.

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almost perpetually short of funds, in part because he was not adept at managing his own finances. Danuta Gwizdalanka has identified several people who provided him with housing and money on an occasional basis, including Artur Rubinstein, Władysław Lubomirski (1866–1934) and other arts lovers. She claims the only work for which Szymanowski accepted a commission was his late period Stabat Mater, although he either ignored or rejected other proposals for new compositions.57 Whether other composers received similar private gifts is mostly unknown. Limited information is available about commissions for specific compositions, although we know that competitions for various types of musical pieces were occasionally held by Muzyka as well as various music societies and choirs.58 Tadeusz Szeligowski noted that he received money for arranging several songs by Stanisław Moniuszko (1819–1872) for children’s choir, but such commissions do not seem to have occurred consistently, nor did they provide substantial sums of money. A government stipend to study in Paris ultimately brought Szeligowski requests to stay abroad to teach and perform, which he rejected in favor of returning to Poland, where he taught in Poznań and then in Wilno. He also earned money conducting an amateur choir and writing for a local newspaper.59 Szeligowski’s experiences mirror those of many other composers. Encouraged by Szymanowski, who maintained an affinity for French music and Stravinsky’s ballets (which were all the rage in Paris), many young Polish composers studied in France’s capital city with Nadia Boulanger, Albert Roussel, Paul Dukas, and others. Among them were those who would be active in Polish composition and the organization of musical life during and after World War II, including Grażyna Bacewicz (1909–1969), Michał Kondracki, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, Zygmunt Mycielski (1907–1987), Piotr Perkowski, Ludomir Różycki, Witold Rudziński, Kazimierz Sikorski (1895–1986), Michał Spisak (1914–1965), Antoni Szałowski (1907–1973), Tadeusz Szeligowski, Stanisław Wiechowicz, and Bolesław Woytowicz (1899–1980).60 Most of these musicians returned 57 Danuta Gwizdalanka, Uwodziciel: Rzecz o Karolu Szymanowskim (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 2021), 568–585. 58 “Pierwszy konkurs kompozytorski miesięcznika ‘Muzyka’” Muzyka 3, no. 6 (1926): 294; “Wiadomości bieżące,” Muzyka 6, no. 4 (1929): 231; “Kronika,” Muzyka 12, nos. 3–4 (1935): 92. 59 Tadeusz Szantruczek, “Postać i losy kompozytora na podstawie jego listów z lat 1922–1932,” in Henryk Martenka, ed., Tadeusz Szeligowski. Studia i wspomnienia (Bydgoszcz: Pomorze, 1987), 57–76; Kiełpisz, “Na przełomie sezonu muzycznego: Ankieta noworoczna. Wilno,” 95. 60 Zofia Helman, “Muzycy i muzyka polska w Paryżu w okresie międzywojennym,” Muzyka 17, no. 2 (1972): 80–104.

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to Poland before the outbreak of the war to teach at conservatories and music schools in Łódź, Poznań, Warsaw, and other cities. Others, including Józef Koffler and Andrzej Panufnik (1914–1991), traveled to Vienna for studies, with Koffler returning to teach in Lwów and Panufnik moving to Paris and eventually London for additional education. Panufnik was back in Warsaw by June 1939. Composers from older generations also held a variety of positions during the interwar period; many would be similarly engaged following the war. Eugeniusz Dziewulski (1889–1978), for example, whose compositions were honored several times at competitions, held positions as music director at theaters in Warsaw, Wilno, and Lublin. Other earnings came from teaching as well as composing for Polish Radio and theaters.61 Stanisław Wiechowicz conducted choirs, edited the magazine Przegląd Muzyczny (Musical Review), and taught in Poznań. Nearly all of his compositions completed during the interwar period were intended for these amateur choirs, which he later described as his own attempt to bring art music to a wide audience. Witold Friemann (1889–1977) taught piano in Lwów before going to Katowice to establish a conservatory, where he taught composition alongside Bolesław Szabelski (1896–1979). He eventually went to Warsaw to work at Polish Radio.62 If composers were accustomed to contributing to the development of their nation’s musical life through teaching (as nearly all of them did), performing, and writing both essays and music, their exposure to contemporary music from foreign countries aided not only their own evolution as musicians but also that of their students and audiences. As those who studied or performed abroad came into contact with other musicians and heard recently written compositions by composers such as Igor Stravinsky, Maurice Ravel, Alban Berg, Albert Roussel, and others, they undoubtedly felt as if they also were, or could be part of the international musical landscape. Through their efforts, they could promote Polish music among foreign audiences and bring the newest music of other countries back to Poland. Their own nation, in their opinion, would benefit from such mutual exposures. The problem was, not everyone in Poland appreciated 61 AKP, MKiS Materiały, Eugeniusz Dziewulski, Działalność artystyczna Eugeniusza Dziewulskiego w latach 1914–1938. Feliks Roderyk Łabuński (1892–1979) also studied in France. Soon after returning to Poland in 1934, he moved permanently to the United States. Szymon Laks (1901–1983), a composer, violinist, and writer who was of Jewish background, studied in Paris but never returned to Poland. 62 “Witold Friemann,” https://polmic.pl/index.php?option=com_mwosoby&id=761&litera= 7&view=czlowiek&Itemid=5&lang=pl; “Stanisław Wiechowicz,” https://polmic.pl/index. php?option=com_mwosoby&id=573&litera=26&view=czlowiek&Itemid=5&lang=pl; Jolanta Bauman-Szulakowska, Śląskie intermundia: Muzyka instrumentalna na Śląsku w latach 1945–1995 (Katowice: Akademia Muzyczna im. Karola Szymanowskiego, 2001), 25.

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such influences. Some preferred that composers cultivate a compositional style that would not be dependent on what occurred in other countries. In many ways, Polish music critics did not always appreciate the direction in which Polish music was developing. Before discussing in more detail the critical response to Polish composition and musical life in general, however, the actual content of concert programs in the country, especially performances of twentieth-century music, should be considered.

Contemporary Music as Concert Repertoire Although it is difficult to compile a comprehensive list of performances of contemporary music during the interwar period and even more problematic to look at the scores from these pieces, from extant newspapers, magazines, and memoirs, it is clear that a healthy dose of contemporary European music could be heard on Polish concert stages. Among the offerings were multiple works by Béla Bartók, Henry Cowell, Claude Debussy, George Gershwin, Arthur Honegger, Ernst Krenek, Sergei Prokofiev, Maurice Ravel, Arnold Schoenberg, Alexander Scriabin, and Igor Stravinsky. Poland was represented by a relatively broad range of its own active composers, with works by Karol Szymanowski, Ludomir Różycki, Michał Kondracki, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, Artur Malawski, Roman Palester, Bolesław Woytowicz, and others heard in concert.63 More than 1,100 performances of pieces by living Polish composers are known to have been heard during the interwar period, which is almost certainly an understatement of the actual total. Of these, Różycki’s ballet Mr. Twardowski (Pan Twardowski), premiered at the Warsaw Opera in 1921, had been staged more than 500 times by the start of World War II.64 Filled with Polish dances (the krakowiak, polonaise and oberek), it was esteemed for its theatrical spectacle, but criticized for the poor construction of its music.65 63 Useful sources of information about Warsaw’s concerts can be found in Jasiński, Na przełomie epok, and Jasiński, Koniec epoki. Performances in Warsaw and other cities are also mentioned in the interwar journals Muzyka and Muzyka Polska as well as in Helman, Między romantyzmem a nową muzyką. 64 Despite its success, music publishers in Poland and abroad reportedly declined to print even a piano reduction of the ballet. Marcin Kamiński, Ludomir Różycki: Opowieść o życiu i twórczości (Bydgoszcz: Pomorze, 1987), 86, 330. 65 Kamiński, Ludomir Różycki, 238–242; Konstanty Regamey, “Muzyka polska na tle współczesnych prądów,” Muzyka Polska 4, nos. 7–8 (1937): 341–342; Rafał Ciesielski, Refleksja estetyczna w polskiej krytyce muzycznej dwudziestolecia międzywojennego (Poznań: Wydawnictwo Poznańskiego Towarzystwa Przyjaciół Nauk, 2005), 188–189.

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The first extended display of contemporary music occurred during a Festival of Polish Music held in Poznań in 1929 as part of a national exhibit that boasted more than 1,400 exhibitors and attracted millions of spectators.66 Grzegorz Fitelberg, Poland’s leading conductor, led the Warsaw Philharmonic in three concerts of Polish works, mostly by living composers. Among the featured works were Karol Szymanowski’s Symphony no. 3 and Violin Concerto no. 1, Kazimierz Sikorski’s Symphony no. 1, and Ludomir Różycki’s popular symphonic poem Anhelli.67 During the 1930s, concerts organized by the Polish section of the International Society for Contemporary Music (ISCM),68 the Polish Music Publishing Society (TWMP), and the Polish Composers’ Association (Stowarzyszenie Kompozytorów Polskich) featured many chamber pieces. Among these were string quartets by Roman Palester, Bolesław Woytowicz, Antoni Szałowski, and Piotr Perkowski, Michał Spisak’s Quartet for winds, Grażyna Bacewicz’s Partita for violin and piano, Antoni Szałowski’s Andante for violin and piano, piano works by Stefan Kisielewski, Witold Lutosławski (1913–1994), and Kazimierz Wiłkomirski, and trios by Zygmunt Mycielski, Bacewicz, and Kisielewski. Other festivals also had Fitelberg’s imprint on them. Kraków was the scene of an annual summer festival at the Wawel Royal Castle, to which the conductor brought Warsaw’s Polish Radio Orchestra several times in the late 1930s. Displaying an affinity for programming twentieth-century music, his efforts—as alluded to above— were not always welcomed by critics and the public.69 Nonetheless, Fitelberg’s insistence on showcasing new music, such as the program featuring works by Arnold Schoenberg, Maurice Ravel, and Sergei Prokofiev shown in Figure  2, brought performances of both Polish compositions and music from abroad that might otherwise never have been heard on domestic stages during these years. As such, he succeeded in exposing composers and other music lovers to a broad array of new music. Such a broad representation of twentieth-century music would not occur on Polish stages for most of the first post–World War II decade.

66 “Guide to General Domestic Exhibition in 1929 in Poznań,” “https://powstanie.wmn. poznan.pl/wielkopolska-and-the-second-polish-republic/guide-to-general-domesticexhibition-in-1929-in-poznan/?lang=en. 67 Markiewicz, Grzegorz Fitelberg, 104–105. 68 The Polish section of the ISCM was led initially by Karol Szymanowski, pianist Zbigniew Drzewiecki, composer-teachers Felicjan Szopski and Łucjan Kamieński, conductor Emil Młynarski, musicologist Adolf Chybiński and music critic, conductor, and musicologist Mateusz Gliński. By 1930, the section’s executive board consisted of Drzewiecki, Gliński, Kazimierz Sikorski, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, and Kazimierz Wiłkomirski. Szymanowski became an honorary member. “Kronika,” Muzyka 1, no. 1 (1924): 46–47; “Ze związków i stowarzyszeń,” Muzyka 7, no. 2 (1930): 131. 69 Markiewicz, Grzegorz Fitelberg, 80–92; “Rozmaitości: Ankieta w sprawie Filharmonii,” 139.

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Figure 2.  Warsaw Philharmonic concert program, March 21, 1924. Grzegorz Fitelberg, conductor, Zbigniew Drzewiecki, pianist. Public domain70 70

70 https://polona.pl/item/program-inc-piatek-21-marca-1924-r-xii-ty-wielki-koncertsymfoniczny-udzial,NjYxNTgwNjg/0/.

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For lovers of twentieth-century music, the range of compositions heard on Polish stages by the country’s own composers during the interwar period might seem to have been an impressive accomplishment. Yet it would be misleading to argue that this music enjoyed equal representation throughout the country. In fact, many of these performances took place in Warsaw, under the aegis of the Warsaw Philharmonic and, in the second half of the 1930s, the Polish Radio Orchestra. Fitelberg, of course, factored into many of these presentations. Other cities, including Lwów, Kraków, Poznań, and to a lesser extent, Wilno, did not ignore recently written music, however. In Lwów, musicologist Stefania Łobaczewska lamented that the city’s musical life was not as good as elsewhere in Poland. Audiences, however, could still hear new compositions by local residents Józef Koffler and Witold Friemann as well as such works as Ludomir Różycki’s Piano Concerto, Karol Szymanowski’s Symphony no. 4, and pieces by Gustav Mahler, Maurice Ravel, Richard Strauss, Alexander Scriabin, and Paul Hindemith.71 Fewer concerts occurred in Wilno, but by 1929 it was possible to hear compositions by local composers Tadeusz Szeligowski and Eugeniusz Dziewulski.72 Poznań listeners were invited to hear works by Arthur Honegger and Leoš Janáček in addition to Polish compositions such as Ludomir Różycki’s opera Eros and Psyche and Tadeusz Szeligowski’s Concerto for Orchestra.73 Given the financial difficulties experienced by all musicians and ensembles, however, many recital and concert programs often trended toward familiar works that hopefully would attract larger audiences. As one Warsaw concertgoer said in 1924, programs should include only “high-quality” works, an “attractive performer, and very low ticket prices . . . All repertoire experiments are inadmissible at the present time.”74 By the early 1930s, the situation was no better

71 Stefania Łobaczewska, “Lwów: Uwagi przed rozpoczęciem sezonu muzycznego,” Muzyka 2, no. 10 (1926): 533; Stefania Łobaczewska, “Lwów: ‘Wesołe kumoszki z Windsoru’ w Operze Lwowskiej, koncerty, audycja kompozytorska prof. W. Friemanna,” Muzyka 3, no. 1 (1927): 28; Stefania Łobaczewska, “Lwów: Koncerty symfoniczne Opery Lwowskiej i Tow. Muzycznego, koncerty kameralne, Chór Nauczycieli Słowackich,” Muzyka 3, no. 11 (1927): 538–539; Stefania Łobaczewska, “Lwów: Koncerty symfoniczne, czterdziestolecie ‘Echa-Macierzy’, koncert kompozytorski K. Szymanowskiego,” Muzyka 5, no. 1 (1928): 30–31; Stefania Łobaczewska, “Lwów: Nowe kompozycje polskie i obce w Filharmonii i w Polskim Towarzystwie Muzyki Współczesnej,” Muzyka 9, no. 12 (1932): 356–357; Gołąb, Józef Koffler, 227, 229, 259. 72 Tadeusz Szeligowski, “Wilno: Koncerty filharmoniczne, recitale,” Muzyka 6, no. 2 (1929): 95. 73 “Kronika,” Muzyka 3, no. 2 (1926): 86; Zygmunt Latoszewski, “Poznań: Premiery - ‘Zygfryd’, ‘Żywila’ Dworzaka, zakończenie sezonu koncertowego,” Muzyka 3, no. 6 (1926): 280; Tadeusz Kassern, “Poznań: Opera, koncerty symfoniczne, nowe kompozycje polskie, recitale,” Muzyka nos. 10–12 (1935): 244. 74 “Rozmaitości: Ankieta w sprawie Filharmonii,” 139.

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as far as new music was concerned. One anonymous writer opined that “new works and new characters appear daily, new outstanding talents burst forth, but we still do not have ‘new’ lovers of music. Those we know . . . are hostile to newer music.”75 The available data for performances shows, in fact, that most living Polish composers (with the exception of Karol Szymanowski and Ludomir Różycki) received relatively few performances of their compositions. Jan Adam Maklakiewicz’s music was programmed more than forty times, while pieces by Grażyna Bacewicz, Michał Kondracki, and Roman Palester are known to have been heard on about twenty concerts, but other composers received even fewer performances. Of these, more than half were heard by Warsaw audiences. As alluded to above, the remainder were presented primarily in Poznań, Kraków, Lwów, and Wilno. The International Society for Contemporary Music (ISCM) festival, an international event held in Warsaw for the first time in April 1939, was intended by its Polish hosts to further advance the awareness of new composition among reluctant domestic audiences. Although many Polish composers may have been fascinated with the festival’s offerings, other audience members (including critics) remained unwilling to accept unfamiliar compositional styles.76 Certainly, none of the Polish compositions scheduled to be presented were among the most stylistically modern pieces of that time. These included Karol Szymanowski’s Stabat Mater and his ballet Harnasie, Michał Kondracki’s ballet Legend, or the Kraków Fairy Tale (Legenda czyli baśń krakowska), Roman Palester’s ballet Song of the Earth (Pieśń o ziemi) and Saxophone Concerto, and Jerzy Fitelberg’s String Quartet no. 4.77 According to one critic who cited additional Polish pieces as part of his appreciation of the more conservative side of the overall program, Bolesław Woytowicz’s Symphony no. 1 (at that time titled 20 Variations in the Form of a Symphony) was an important piece that did not try to impress through effects. Stanisław Wiechowicz’s Romantic Cantata (Kantata romantyczna) was “stylistically calm . . . free from festival radicalisms.”78 Michał Kondracki’s Cantata ecclesiastica linked archaic Latin texts with modern choral style, while Szałowski’s lively Overture contained hints of irony.79 The more radical side of

75 “Muzyka nowoczesna a publiczność,” Muzyka 9, no. 12 (1932): 352. 76 Konstanty Regamey, “Po festiwalu warszawskim,” Muzyka Polska 6, no. 5 (1939): 253–269. 77 Palester’s Saxophone Concerto and Fitelberg’s quartet were canceled when the performers did not arrive. Szeligowski’s motet Angels Sang Sweetly (Angeli słodko śpiewali) was performed at a concert of early Polish music held as an unofficial Festival event. “Kronika,” Muzyka Polska 6, no. 2 (1939): 100–102; Regamey, “Po festiwalu warszawskim,” 257. 78 Karol Stromenger, “Festiwal muzyki współczesnej,” Wiadomości Literackie 16, no. 20 (1939): 9. 79 Ibid.

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the schedule, at least in the opinion of Konstanty Regamey (1907–1982), was represented by foreign works, including Anton Webern’s String Quartet, Luigi Dallapiccola’s Tre Laudi, Wladimir Vogel’s Violin Concerto, Philip Christian Darnton’s Five Orchestral Pieces, and Robert de Roos’s Five Etudes for piano and orchestra, all of which were significantly removed from the domain of tonality. As Regamey noted, however, the overall festival was not overly radical in terms of composition trends.80 As a prestigious event held amid threatening signs of the upcoming war, which prompted the cancellations of some foreign guests and performers, some Polish critics were gratified that this event allowed them for the first time to become acquainted with an array of the newest compositions.81 As Piotr Rytel sarcastically pointed out, however, Grzegorz Fitelberg had already introduced Polish audiences to such music. Others, however, believed that even Fitelberg’s adventurous concert programs had not succeeded in fully penetrating the “darkness” that affected “those [musicians and audiences] who were backward,”82 thus making the festival an important remedial effort. Rytel lamented in turn that the money spent on hosting this festival could have been better spent on music schools, the opera, and unemployed artists.83

Polish Interwar Compositional Style Before turning to a more detailed discussion of the interwar reception of contemporary music, a brief summary of the stylistic traits of Polish interwar composition will be helpful in understanding the dynamics of these critical responses. Although relatively few scores and recordings survived the Nazi occupation, such an evaluation of interwar music is still possible, thanks in part to critiques published in extant newspapers and magazines. In 1937, Konstanty Regamey provided his own synopsis of his country’s new music.84 As many then and now would agree, he categorized interwar composers according to the level of their affinity for European (that is, non-Polish) music or, in other words, an outlook accepting of foreign trends and influences versus a more inward-looking stance regarding contemporary music. Such a distinction brings into focus the notion 80 Webern’s piece was eventually canceled. Regamey, “Po festiwalu warszawskim,” 253–269; “1939 Warsaw, Krakow,” https://www.iscm.org/activities/wnmd/1939-warsaw-krakow. 81 Regamey, “Muzyka nowoczesna a totalizm,” Muzyka Polska 6, no. 4 (1939): 180–181. 82 P. Rytel, “Festiwal Muzyki Współczesnej,” Warszawski Dziennik Narodowy 5, no. 104 (1939): 5. 83 Ibid. 84 Regamey, “Muzyka polska na tle współczesnych prądów,” 341–352.

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that Polish musicians did not always consider themselves and their products to be an integral part of Europe, even though geographically they were part of that world. More specifically, Regamey said, there was a battle “‘for or against Szymanowski’,”85 that is, for the admissibility of international musical styles and techniques as a way to restore Polish composition to the level of new music in other European countries, which he implied had occurred only with Szymanowski’s own contributions, or for a “‘homespun purity of Polish art’”86 that promoted national values over “‘the deluge of foreign influences.’”87 Those (unfortunately unnamed critics, but Rytel was certainly among them) who disliked Karol Szymanowski’s music were convinced that new Polish music needed to be recognized as different from that of other countries and that the best way to achieve such a distinction was for composers to work with Polish folk melodies and harmonies. Those who supported Szymanowski—Regamey named Piotr Perkowski, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, and Michał Kondracki—believed Polish music needed to have a more prominent place in the overall European musical scene and that being open to building upon the features heard in music by foreign composers was one way to accomplish that.88 Although Regamey also claimed that many in Poland, including the composers just named, were unaware of current European compositional trends, the discussion above regarding Polish concert programs has shown that this was not quite an accurate statement. It is true, however, that composers outside of Warsaw had much less opportunity to learn about current musical styles. This relative lack of knowledge is one of the reasons why Szymanowski encouraged young composers to study abroad. Szymanowski’s music, not widely known outside of Poland today, is often divided by scholars into three stylistic periods, each marked by different influences. Generally stated, these were, from 1899–1913, the impact of the music of Frédéric Chopin, German Romanticism, and Alexander Scriabin; 1914–1919, impressionism and oriental influences that brought harmonic and timbral explorations; and 1920–1937, the incorporation of Polish folk and religious music fused with a modern twist. His music is replete with expressive sweeps of

85 Regamey, “Muzyka polska na tle współczesnych prądów,” 342. 86 Ibid. 87 Ibid. 88 Szymanowski also included Stanisław Wiechowicz, Józef Koffler, and Mateusz Gliński as his supporters. “Facsimile Karola Szymanowskiego (z listu do redaktora ‘Muzyki’),” Muzyka 14, nos. 4–5 (1937): 162.

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melody and harmony, not the more acerbic traits of many neoclassic compositions.89 Szymanowski also was a prolific writer of letters and essays and he was not reluctant to confront critics of his innovational compositional style and his desire to bring Polish composition into the sphere of more broadly European music. As the head of Warsaw’s music conservatory, his attempts at modernization were met with derision by those who wanted to maintain the status quo, as will be discussed further in this chapter.90 Any criticisms directed toward him— and there were many—often reflected a blend of opinions about his own compositions and his generally international outlook regarding music education and compositional style. More recently, Zofia Helman has taken a somewhat different look at interwar Polish composition.91 She notes the late romantic traits of older composers such as Felicjan Szopski (1865–1939), Tadeusz Joteyko (1872–1932), Witold Maliszewski (1873–1939), Piotr Rytel, Ludomir Różycki, and others.92 She then points to Karol Szymanowski as the “spiritual leader” of Poland’s younger generation of composers, who considered nineteenth-century romanticism as a trend that had reached its natural end. Many of these younger composers were attracted to the music of Igor Stravinsky, Maurice Ravel, and Arthur Honegger. Helman further described the “anti-romanticism” group as trending toward “folkloric-national”93 and neoclassic sentiments. Making a distinction that would be repeated by some musicians in the late 1940s and early 1950s, she notes that creating a “national character”94 in music did not require the use of authentic folk texts and melodies in new compositions, although this was certainly a permissible path of exploration. Some musical works reflected certain vaguely defined national qualities, invoked by modeling characteristic folk rhythms, sounds, and motives in original compositions. Among composers who occasionally favored the use of folk music traits in their own music were Michał Kondracki

89 For one discussion of the musical style of Szymanowski’s compositions, see Jim Samson, The Music of Szymanowski (London: Kahn & Averill, White Plains, New York: Pro/am Music Resources, 1990). 90 Małgorzata Dziadek, Od Szkoły Dramatycznej do Uniwersytetu: Dzieje wyższej uczelni muzycznej w Warszawie 1810–2010, vol. 1, 1810–1944 (Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Muzycznego Fryderyka Chopina, 2011), 390–457. 91 Zofia Helman, “Muzyka polska między dwiema wojnami,” Muzyka 23, no. 3 (1978): 17–34. 92 Szopski, a music critic, also worked at the Ministry of Religious Affairs and Public Education. Joteyko was a conductor, author of music textbooks, and composer of a so-called national opera titled Zygmunt August. Maliszewski, in addition to teaching, was the head of the Music Department at the Ministry of Religious Affairs and Public Education from 1927–1934. 93 Helman, “Muzyka polska między dwiema wojnami,” 21. 94 Ibid., 22.

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(Little Highlander Symphony “Pictures on Glass” [Mała symfonia góralska “Obrazy na szkle”]), Tadeusz Zygfryd Kassern (Oravian Suite [Suita orawska]), Jan Adam Maklakiewicz (Hutsul Suite [Suita huculska]), Stanisław Wiechowicz (The Hop [Chmiel]), Roman Palester (Dance from Osmoloda [Taniec z Osmołody]), and Tadeusz Szeligowski (Under Eaves of Snow [Pod okapem śniegu]). The relatively recent neoclassical style was attractive to many of the composers who had recently spent time in France, including some who also used folk-inspired compositional features. These included Aleksander Tansman (quartets and concertos), Piotr Perkowski (Sinfonietta), Bolesław Woytowicz (String Quartet no. 1), Roman Palester (quartets), Antoni Szałowski (Overture, quartets), and Grażyna Bacewicz (Quintet for winds, Sinfonietta, Violin Concerto no. 1). Serialism and atonality, options that were relatively unfamiliar to many composers, were heard primarily in the music of Józef Koffler.

Critiques of New Music in Poland As mentioned earlier, music critics during the interwar period (who were often also composers) were often grouped into conservative and progressive camps, with Piotr Rytel being the most outspoken of the more traditionalist group and Karol Szymanowski representing a corollary role for the progressive side. Indeed, these two composers frequently exchanged polemical opinions in print. As Lisa Cooper Vest has discussed, others held similar (if not so vitriolic) points of view and still others represented more moderate positions.95 Given the relative richness of new music by foreign composers on Warsaw’s interwar concerts, however, it is perhaps not surprising to note the animosity to such programming expressed by more conservative writers or the acrimony apparent between personalities voicing differing beliefs in Poland’s small musical community. Pianist and music administrator Zbigniew Drzewiecki (1890–1971) confirmed the existence of such factions when he described the typical post-concert scene in a Warsaw café: “There was a ‘reactionary’ table where [Eugeniusz] Morawski, [Walerian] Bierdiajew, [Piotr] Rytel and their associates reigned and a ‘progressive’ table with [Grzegorz] Fitelberg and young composers—[Michał] Kondracki, [ Jan Adam] Maklakiewicz, [Antoni] Szałowski, [ Jerzy] Waldorff and others; Karol [Szymanowski] remained faithful to the Astoria restaurant.”96 95 Vest, Awangarda, 14–19. 96 Zbigniew Drzewiecki, Wspomnienia muzyka, 2nd edition (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 2010), 83. One caricature published at the time of the 1939 International Society

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As early as 1919, Rytel had professed a concern for what Polish audiences were being offered on concert programs. He complained at that time about the prevalence of works by foreign composers—Richard Strauss, Vincent d’Indy, and even Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky—on Polish concerts instead of those of the country’s own composers.97 Acknowledging the complexity of this issue, however, he had this to say following the Warsaw Philharmonic’s 1923/1924 season, which in an abbreviated period of time had featured Strauss’s Til Eulenspiegel’s Merry Pranks, Darius Milhaud’s Serenade, Ravel’s La Valse, and Prokofiev’s Piano Concerto no. 1 alongside pieces by Polish composers (Karol Szymanowski’s Symphony no. 3, Eugeniusz Morawski’s Nevermore, Ludomir Różycki’s Anhelli, and Rytel’s own Legend of St. George [Legenda o św. Jerzym] and Holy Grove [Święty gaj]): Normally, in current conditions, when only one institution in town that treats music issues seriously is open, this institution, the Philharmonic, should be full. There should be a shortage of tickets . . . This is not the case. Why? . . . The issue is convoluted . . . It is easy to say the public is guilty because it hates music, but what shall we say if the other side inverts this opinion, saying that music is guilty because it hates us, it distresses us, it torments us, it imposes completely foreign and wild concepts on us. . . . Our audience, however, undoubtedly does not understand the importance of carving out the details of the compositions being played . . . [and thus] leaves the room disappointed instead of [feeling an] aesthetic satisfaction.98

of Contemporary Music (ISCM) festival also reflects this same division of opinions. The “modernists” (critic Jerzy Waldorff, composer, critic and orientalist Konstanty Regamey, and pianist Zbigniew Drzewiecki), who were among the principal Polish organizers of the ISCM festival in Warsaw, envisioned a stage filled with heavenly music. The “conservatists” (Piotr Rytel, composer-teacher Stanisław Kazuro, and conductor-teacher Eugeniusz Morawski), heard a cacaphony created by blaring brass instruments, a barking dog, and a weapon. Drzewiecki, Wspomnienia muzyka, photo between pages 64–65. 97 Jasiński, Na przełomie epok, 321. 98 “Normalnie, w warunkach obecnych, kiedy w mieście czynna jedna tylko instytucja poważnie traktująca sprawy muzyki, powinno być w Filharmonii pełno, powinno braknąć biletów . . . Jest inaczej. Dlaczego? . . . Łatwo jest powiedzieć; publiczność winna, bo muzyki nienawidzi, ale co odpowiemy, jeśli druga strona zdanie odwróci, mówiąc: muzyka winna, bo nas nienawidzi, bo nas dręczy, męczy, narzuca nam pojęcia zgoła obce, dzikie . . . Publiczność nasza, aczkolwiek, nie rozumie zapewne ważności cyzelowania szczegółów w kompozycjach odtwarzanych . . . zamiast zadowolenia estetycznego wynosi z sali rozczarowanie.” P[iotr] Rytel, “Wieczory muzyczne,” Gazeta Warszawska, no. 265 (1924): 2.

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Rytel’s frustrations, however, were not directed toward all twentieth-century compositions. At other times during the interwar period, he praised Ludomir Różycki’s symphonic poem Anhelli, composed in 1909, for its “intensity of sound and expression”99 and Bolesław Woytowicz’s Concertino for small orchestra, completed in 1936, as being truly musical. In 1930, however, he had described Piotr Perkowski’s compositions as a “tragedy” and the composer as having “harnessed himself to a chariot of ephemeral grandeur.”100 After a 1931 Warsaw performance of Michał Kondracki’s Partita for small orchestra, Rytel claimed that the composer, although talented, was unable to express deep emotion in his music.101 He had also castigated Aleksander Tansman, his former student, for his continued activities in Paris and expressed outrage at the latter’s Eight Japanese Melodies Kaї-Kaї (Osiem melodii japońskich Kaї-Kaї), performed in Warsaw in 1922.102 Of Jan Adam Maklakiewicz’s Violin Concerto no. 1 from 1930, he said the composer had “modernist pretensions.”103 These and similar comments likely did not endear him to his fellow composers. They also cemented his reputation as someone who could applaud the music of German composers from previous centuries, but whose praise of recent compositions was limited almost exclusively to those written by composers active prior to World War I, for example, Różycki.104 The others named above had been born around the turn of the century. Many of Rytel’s writings were published in Gazeta Warszawska and its successor, Warszawski Dziennik Narodowy (Warsaw National Daily), both of which were organs of the National Democratic Party. The nationalist stance of this 99 P[iotr] Rytel, [unknown title], Gazeta Warszawska, December 5, 1928, quoted in Jasiński, Koniec epoki, 65; Piotr Rytel [Witold Szeliga, pseud.]. “Koncert symfoniczny w ‘Romie’,” Warszawski Dziennik Narodowy 3, no. 28 (1937): 4. 100 P[iotr] Rytel, [unknown title], Gazeta Polska, November 19, 1930, quoted in Jasiński, Koniec epoki, 139. 101 Piotr Rytel, [unknown title], Gazeta Warszawska, March 3, 1931, quoted in Jasiński, Koniec epoki, 151. 102 Piotr Rytel, “O polską muzykę,” Gazeta Warszawska, October 9, 1922, quoted in Jasiński, Na przełomie epok, 429. 103 Piotr Rytel, [unknown title], Gazeta Warszawska, April 14, 1931, quoted in Jasiński, Koniec epoki, 155. 104 For examples of Rytel’s admiration for German composers of past centuries, see Jasiński, Koniec epoki, 125, 153. Lisa Cooper Vest has argued that Rytel and other conservative critics wished to create a Polish tradition that would be an extension of the German musical canon, avoiding where possible the influences of music from other European countries. However, with regard to twentieth-century music, Rytel in particular rarely voiced appreciation for any new compositions by foreign composers and only reluctantly commended those from his compatriots, even though these generally avoided modernist extravagances. Vest, Awangarda, 12.

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political party, which envisioned a country that was ethnically Polish, Catholic, and Polish speaking, certainly seems to align with the general tone of Rytel’s music reviews, which rejected recent influences from outside Poland and instead promoted a uniquely Polish (but not experimental) musical art that favored a sort of romantic emotionality. Rytel’s own compositions did not always meet the approval from other critics. A performance of his Legend of St. George was sarcastically described by one writer, the well known poet, essayist, and music aficionando Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz, as being “too long [and] some of its ‘melodies’ could be played by an organ grinder,” but it was better than his “‘thoughtless critiques.’”105 Such remarks invite the question of whether Rytel’s sometimes scathing attacks on his colleagues constituted a form of jealousy or even revenge. Either accusation has plausible merit, for Rytel had been mentioned as a candidate to head the Warsaw Conservatory in 1922, 1926–1927, and again in 1930 after the institution’s transformation to a Higher School of Music.106 He never earned such a position, but in criticizing the works of Michał Kondracki, Piotr Perkowski, and Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, he publicly rebuked supporters of Karol Szymanowski, who did become the Conservatory’s leader. Other composer-critics, especially younger ones, supported the presence of modernist compositions in Poland. In his 1934 article titled “In Defense of New Music,” Roman Palester asserted that the style of new music was only a logical consequence of the past . . . The dissonant development of musical means of expression . . . occurs . . . in such a clear and deliberate manner that one has to be blind not to see the continuity . . . But enemies of modernism think historically only up to the age of Wagner, some up to the impressionists, and everything that happened later is . . . a rebellion, a monstrosity, a horror, the end of music!107 Referring to recently written music, Regamey stated that while being new does not automatically confer value on a composition, “a bigger mistake is

105 Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz, “Kronika muzyczna: Ostatnie koncerty—‘Św. Jerzy’ Rytla,” Wiadomości Literackie 1, no. 7 (1924): 3. 106 Dziadek, Od Szkoły Dramatycznej, 360–361, 390, 419. 107 Roman Palester, “W obronie nowej muzyki,” Muzyka 11, no. 5 (1934): 200–201.

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condemning altogether everything that is new, because even if newness is not enough to determine value, it is, however, a necessary component.”108 Divisions among critics were especially heated in discussions prior to the 1939 International Society of Contemporary Music (ISCM) festival in Warsaw. Rytel attacked the local chair, pianist Zbigniew Drzewiecki, for treating Poland as a musical “backwater” that needed corrective assistance. Putting on his conservative cap, he excoriated the ISCM festivals in general, stating that they pressured young composers to write unusual music, which led directly to “experimentation that for the most part has nothing in common with true art . . . Let them not think that putting the Lwów Jew Koffler, who is certainly devoid of creative talent, at the forefront of today’s Polish composers will convince Warsaw’s musical world of Koffler’s genius.”109 Rytel’s irritation concerning Koffler was in reference to the 1938 ISCM festival, when only one Polish work, Koffler’s Symphony no. 3, was presented.110 At the time of the 1939 event, the Polish ISCM section included several composers whose music was disliked by Rytel, among them Michał Kondracki, Konstanty Regamey, Artur Malawski, and Stefan Kisielewski.111 For music critic Jerzy Waldorff (1910–1999), hosting the ISCM festival in Warsaw would benefit Poland and its musical life. After praising contemporary Polish composition, he scathingly described the current scene in “Polish musical reality” as being “nonsense, a quagmire of stupidity and backwardness, a hotbed of the most grim intrigues, bamboozling, and lies that have grown from the borderland of hot gossip and narrow mindedness . . . thrown from time to time like logs on the path of musical progress in order to hamper it.”112 He also claimed Rytel’s failure as a composer had provoked the latter’s attacks on contemporary music. Michał Kondracki, one of the composers represented at the 1939 festival, insisted that Rytel’s offensive toward new musical trends was the result of professional jealousy, noting that the latter’s symphonic poems had not been performed outside of Warsaw.113 (Of the dozen known performances of Rytel’s music during the interwar period, ten took place in Warsaw. The others occurred 108 Konstanty Regamey, “Hasła a żywa twórczość w muzyce współczesnej,” Muzyka Polska 5, no. 3 (1938): 111–112. 109 P[iotr] Rytel, “Siódmy koncert symfoniczny,” Warszawski Dziennik Narodowy 4, no. 329 (1938): 5. 110 “1938 London,” https://iscm.org/wnmd/1938-london/. 111 Międzynarodowe Towarzystwo Muzyki Współczesnej: XVII Festival. Warszawa-Kraków 14–21 kwietnia 1939 (Warsaw: s.n., 1939). 112 Jerzy Waldorff, “Krytyka z magla,” Kurier Poranny, no. 346 (1938): 3–4. 113 Kondracki did not name Rytel directly, but described him as a professor of harmony and counterpoint at the Conservatory and a composer of symphonic poems. M. Kondracki,

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in Poznań and Lwów. Nearly all were of his symphonic poems Korsarz [Pirate], Dante’s Dream [Sen Dantego], Holy Grove, and Legend of St. George). For Waldorff and Kondracki, who favored an open approach to composition, Rytel’s denunciation of any sort of compositional experimentation was tantamount to condemning much of current Polish musical life, which offered opportunities to hear new music from across Europe and gave composers the chance to travel to foreign countries to enrich their musical knowledge, not to mention the opportunity to use more innovative compositional techniques. Another critic, Karol Stromenger (1885–1975), who like Rytel favored the National Democratic Party’s nationalist views, was typically more circumspect and, some might say, more realistic in his music reviews. Attempting to summarize the situation in 1931, he declared that concertgoers wanted to hear opera melodies and “classics,” while modern music was being created in “ivory towers.”114 Yet he went on to admit that “a return to the past was closed. The only path open was to the future. Meanwhile the present is painful . . . Atonality . . . was absurd.”115 Unlike Rytel, Stromenger had recently praised Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, this time for his Concerto on Gregorian Themes for cello and orchestra. In Stromenger’s opinion, the concerto’s turn from the “atonal lyricism” of his Symphony no. 2 Holy God (Symfonia nr 2 Świety Boże) helped him earn recognition as the finest Polish composer of the youngest generation.116 According to Maklakiewicz’s biographer, the symphony, intended as a tribute to Karol Szymanowski, avoided strictly functional tonality. The concerto, which incorporates Gregorian chant, the medieval Polish hymn Bogurodzica (Mother of God), and folk dances, is decidedly more within the tonal realm.117 Thus, although Stromenger clearly did not support most modern compositional trends in Europe, he did recognize that composers of his day would write differently than their predecessors. The divide between supporters of the latest musical trends and those preferring more traditional styles was perhaps most apparent when considering their appraisals of atonal and dodecaphonic music, which, as mentioned above, did not have an enthusiastic following in Poland. Musicologists Stefania Łobaczewska (1888–1963) and Zofia Lissa (1908–1980) published articles treating atonality, “O wyjaśnienie nieporozumienia,” Tygodnik Ilustrowany 80, no. 1 (1939): 12. See also “Z prasy: Pojedynek Rytel—Waldorff,” Muzyka Polska 6, no. 1 (1939): 34–40. 114 Karol Stromenger, Gazeta Polska, October 20, 1931, quoted in Jasiński, Koniec epoki, 173. 115 Ibid. 116 Karol Stromenger, “Maklakiewicz,” Wiadomości Literackie 7, no. 10 (1930): 6. 117 The Concerto was written at Kazimierz Wiłkomirski’s request. Wacholc, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, 154–155, 163–164.

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polytonality, and dodecaphony in an objective, educational manner.118 Lissa further described Alban Berg’s Wozzeck and Arnold Schoenberg’s Verklärte Nacht as emotionally satisfying compositions.119 Łobaczewska, however, despite her mostly unbiased efforts on this topic, described Berg in 1936 as an “uncompromising follower of the most extreme leftist direction in contemporary music,”120 which provoked Józef Koffler to rebuke her for making such a politicized comment. Yet Łobaczewska had admitted in the same essay that Berg’s Wozzeck, acclaimed on European stages, had proven that emotional content could be achieved with dodecaphonic techniques. A year earlier, she had also praised Koffler’s Symphony no. 1 for its excellent construction, although she did take note of its “extremely radical” twelve-tone technique.121 Lissa, Łobaczewska, and Koffler all resided in Lwów. Although it is tempting to think that the two musicologists were partial to Koffler and his compositions merely because he was a local musician, such an interpretation cannot be substantiated by available evidence. Not all critics were swayed by the efforts of these two musicologists to praise these musical techniques. As alluded to earlier with Koffler’s Fifteen Variations on a Twelve-Tone Row for string orchestra, which blends twelve-tone rows into a neoclassic sonic environment,122 reviewers were generally indifferent at best, if not openly hostile about the prospect of either atonality or dodecaphony being incorporated into Polish composition.123 Although Koffler’s works were performed primarily in Lwów, other Polish audiences had reacted skeptically to foreign works that utilized these techniques. One such performance, of Schoenberg’s Chamber Symphony in Warsaw in 1929, was deemed by the 118 Zofia Lissa, “Politonalność i atonalność w świetle najnowszych badań,” Kwartalnik Muzyczny nos. 6–7 (1930): 192–237; Stefania Łobaczewska, “Po wiedeńskim festiwalu Międzynarodowego Towarzystwa Muzyki Współczesnej (1932),” Kwartalnik Muzyczny, no. 16 (1932): 744–750; Konstanty Regamey, “Czy atonalizm jest naprawdę atonalny? (Luźne uwagi),” Muzyka Polska 3, no. 1 (1936): 32–39. 119 Lissa’s views in the interwar period were not adverse to accepting the more experimental side of composition, unlike her public attitude during the first postwar decade, as will be discussed in subsequent chapters. Zofia Lissa, “Moje najgłębsze wzruszenie muzyczne,” Muzyka 12, nos. 3–4 (1935): 76–77. 120 Stefania Łobaczewska, “Nekrologia: Na grób Albana Berga,” Muzyka 12, nos. 10–12 (1935): 236–237; Józef Koffler and Stefania Łobaczewska, “Dwugłos polemiczny: O muzyce dwunastotonowej,” Muzyka 13, nos. 1–6 (1936): 20. 121 Stefania Łobaczewska, “Lwów: Smutny bilans ruchu koncertowego, zmierzch Opery,” Muzyka 12, nos. 10–12 (1935): 243. 122 Gołąb, Józef Koffler, 41–48. 123 Tadeusz Majerski in Lwów also experimented with twelve–tone technique. Iwona Lindstedt, “The Development of Twelve-Note and Serial Techniques in the Music of Polish TwentiethCentury Composers,” Musicology Today 2 (2005): 108, 120.

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conservative critic Stanisław Niewiadomski to be “highly cacophonic”; its score should be kept in a “museum storing medieval tools of torture,”124 not the Philharmonic’s music library. Somewhat less derisively, Berg’s Violin Concerto, presented in Warsaw in 1938 by Ernest Ansermet and the Warsaw Philharmonic with Louis Krasner as soloist, was described by composer-critic Felicjan Szopski as leaving listeners indifferent, partly due to its lack of invention.125 These differences of opinion regarding new music reached into the organizations created to support Polish composers. In particular, the Section of Contemporary Polish Composers, which began in 1925 as part of the Warsaw Music Society, consisted almost exclusively of the more conservative members of the compositional community. This was reflected in its executive board, which included composers Tadeusz Czerniawski (1877–1938), Ludomir Różycki, Tadeusz Joteyko, Stanisław Kazuro (1881–1961), Witold Maliszewski, Stanisław Niewiadomski, Piotr Rytel, Adam Wieniawski (1879–1950), and Ludomir Rogowski (1881–1954).126 Only Rogowski, with his interest in impressionism and a variety of scales (for example, whole-tone, pentatonic, and Persian) could be said to have any interest in exploring innovative compositional techniques.127 Although the Section’s goals pointed to improving the position of Polish music domestically and internationally, by the following year, charges were being directed toward the organization related to its alleged condemnation of foreign music in favor of advocating a nationalized flavor of Polish music. The substance of these accusations is unclear; the Section presented several concerts consisting primarily of works by its members, but not all living composers chose to join the organization. By the end of 1926, the group of about forty members had been transformed into the Polish Composers’ Association, which was unaffiliated with the music society. At that time, composers possessing a more international outlook became members. By 1932, Karol Szymanowski was the association’s president, with several of his supporters (Kazimierz Sikorski, Michał Kondracki, Mateusz Gliński, and Piotr Perkowski) named to the executive board.128 Many of these same composers were also active in the Polish section of the International Society for Contemporary Music (ISCM).

124 Jasiński, Koniec epoki, 104. 125 Felicjan Szopski, “Z muzyki,” Kurier Warszawski, no. 79, evening ed. (1938): 7–8. 126 Dybowski, Dziadek, and Tatarska, “Kalendarium najważniejszych wydarzeń,” 1: 126. 127 Zofia Chechlińska, “Rogowski, Ludomir Michał,” Grove Music Online, https://www. oxfordmusiconline.com/grovemusic/view/10.1093/gmo/9781561592630.001.0001/ omo-9781561592630-e-0000023688. 128 Mgl [Mateusz Gliński], “Impresje muzyczne,” Muzyka 3, no. 2 (1926): 71–72; “Kronika,” Muzyka 3, no. 3 (1926): 133; “Impresje muzyczne,” Muzyka 3, no. 4 (1926): 164; “Kronika,”

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The field of music education was not immune to similar controversies. As Magdalena Dziadek has described in detail, Szymanowski was selected by the government to be the new director of the Warsaw Conservatory in 1927, ignoring the wishes of the institute’s faculty, who had suggested more conservative personalities. In coordination with the government, Szymanowski dismissed some professors and brought in those seen as more predisposed toward allowing Polish music to be influenced by trends occurring elsewhere in Europe. A campaign against him soon followed, often voiced in the local press. Many students, however, supported the new director. As Maria Dziewulska (1909–2006), then a composition student, later put it, “We [students] looked on it above all as a field of fiery battle of the old and new . . . We saw Szymanowski, who, like a large lonely tree in an almost empty field, focuses on himself all the thunder cast at what was new, revelatory, avant-garde, [and] a new beauty in music . . . He was the symbol of our artistic dreams and desires.”129 Szymanowski resigned in 1929, but accepted the position as chancellor (rektor) of the same school, now called the Higher School of Music of the State Music Conservatory (Wyższa Szkoła Muzyczna Państwowego Konserwatorium Muzycznego, a universitylevel institution) in 1930. (The remainder of the conservatory was reorganized into a middle school and courses for music teachers.) His renewed efforts to make the Warsaw school the finest in the country again backfired. After only one year, he became the focus of the institution’s perceived lack of achievements. He resigned in 1932, after which many of his appointees (Grzegorz Fitelberg, Ludomir Różycki, and Kazimierz Sikorski among them) were released from teaching responsibilities.130 This was not the end of the saga, however. As Dziadek explained, Szymanowski’s defenders claimed that he had been “the victim of intrigues.”131 While this was not unexpected given the animosity frequently directed toward the composer, his supporters further accused Eugeniusz Morawski (1876–1948) of instigating the charges against Szymanowski’s work at the Higher School of Music. Morawski, a teacher and composer aligned with the more conservative musicians, had become the head of Warsaw’s new Middle School of Music of the State Music Conservatory (Średnia Szkoła Muzyczna Państwowego Konserwatorium Muzycznego) in 1930. As he had hoped, he became the chancellor of what

Muzyka 3, nos. 11–12 (1926): 634; “Kronika,” Muzyka 5, no. 6 (1928): 262; “Kronika,” Muzyka 9, nos. 5–6 (1932): 173. 129 Quoted in Dziadek, Od Szkoły Dramatycznej, 401. 130 Ibid., 1: 390–452. 131 Ibid., 1: 452.

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became the university-level State Music Conservatory after the Higher School of Music was liquidated in 1932.132 Thus, different artistic viewpoints about music in Poland were exacerbated by personal rivalries, and not for the first time.

Nationalism and Cosmopolitanism Not surprisingly, many of the critiques in Poland regarding the conservative or progressive trends of twentieth-century music were tightly interwoven with opinions regarding the relationship between Polish music and compositions by composers in other countries. What was Poland’s desired place in the European music scene? Given Poland’s new status as an independent country, should it attempt to create a distinctive musical voice? If so, what should that be and who should determine its characteristics? In other words, did Poland want to create a distinctive national compositional scene or join the European artistic community? Some wanted both—a national identity and an international presence. The truth is that many Polish musicians and cultural officials were conflicted about these matters. Piotr Rytel’s frequent published chastisements concerning the perceived profusion of new compositions by foreign composers on domestic concert programs and the willingness of Polish composers to be influenced by musical trends in other countries touched upon this controversy regarding nationalism in Polish music. He couched his opinion in isolationist terms, thus supporting, even if unintentionally, the attitudes of the National Democratic Party, with its emphasis on promoting a homogeneous nation of ethnic Poles and Polish speakers. In his opinion, foreign musical influences were detrimental to Polish composition. Programming contemporary works from other countries meant ignoring music by living Polish composers. In this sense, then, Polish musical nationalism would be, in part, a reaction against what was perceived as foreign cultural domination. Much of this attitude undoubtedly resulted from the recent partitions of Poland, when the country’s own cultural identity had been officially rejected by multiple foreign governments. Now, as an independent country once again, some believed it needed to develop its own national character, one that would strengthen the spirit of its people and serve as a uniquely Polish marker.

132 Ibid., 1: 442–462.

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Nationalism in new Polish music was to be of a two-fold nature, according to most of its advocates at that time. Its negative, exclusionary connotation was that it should not reflect any influences of contemporary composers living abroad, for example, Claude Debussy, Igor Stravinsky, or the Second Viennese school (Arnold Schoenberg, Alban Berg, and Anton Webern). On the positive, inclusive side, composers were lauded for incorporating Polish folk melodies into their pieces, or at least providing the flavor of these regional tunes. Karol Szymanowski was praised (among others, by Michał Kondracki, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, and Mateusz Gliński) for his turn to Polish folk music in such pieces as Harnasie, Symphony no. 4, and Kurpian Songs,133 while the works of twenty-year-old Andrzej Panufnik were applauded by Maklakiewicz for their “genuinely Polish atmosphere of sentiments and emotions.”134 Konstanty Regamey commended Bolesław Woytowicz’s compositional style for its sense of “Polishness,”135 even though it did not include direct folk quotations. Such praise for evoking the spirit of Poland in music is reminiscent of the romantic ideals of the early nineteenth century, when what Brian Porter describes as a “‘national essence’” permeated the country as Poles attempted to “sustain their national identity”136 during the partitions. Ludomir Różycki’s call for action highlighted the need to improve Polish music and musical life by avoiding external influences: An entire generation of young people (here) is being raised with no knowledge of Polish music or music in general. Tremendous layers of society do not listen to music. The source of further growth of Polish musical culture does not lie in the area of a certain layer of the intelligentsia secluded in Western European slogans . . . The propagation of foreign music at the expense of Polish composition causes the removal of such a powerful factor as national music . . . Polish music should be brought to light every day . . . The direct connection of the young generation with this music will create a new audience and give Polish music the

133 Mateusz Gliński, “Warszawa: W Operze i salach koncertowych stolicy,” Muzyka 9, no. 12 (1932): 353; Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, “Zagadnienia współczesnej twórczości muzycznej w Polsce,” Muzyka Polska 1, no. 1 (1934): 34; Michał Kondracki, “Stosunek kompozytorów do muzyki ludowej,” Muzyka Polska 3, no. 2 (1936): 112. 134 Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, “Nowe znakomite kompozycje,” Kurier Poranny, no. 350 (1936): 8. 135 Konstanty Regamey, “Bolesław Woytowicz,” Muzyka Polska 4, no. 3 (1937): 118. 136 Brian Porter, When Nationalism Began to Hate: Imagining Modern Politics in NineteenthCentury Poland (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 16.

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possibility of development and a basis for existence. In this way, it will solve the problem of unemployment in this area.137 Perhaps surprisingly, of the critics who made the above comments promoting musical nationalism in Poland (Mateusz Gliński, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, Ludomir Różycki, Michał Kondracki, and Konstanty Regamey), the latter two were known for promoting the acceptance of an array of international influences in music, not a more insular domestic version. Their statements demonstrate that it was possible to accommodate both global and national references in one’s stance about musical life and new composition. Perhaps tellingly, however, both also called for composers to avoid relying on direct quotations of folk music in classically oriented pieces. According to Kondracki, folk music should be handled carefully and even avoided at times. Composers who wrapped folk melodies with conventional classical harmonies and counterpoint were making a mistake by neglecting the true character of these native tunes.138 In saying this, he was echoing Karol Szymanowski, who in 1922 had called for composers to avoid what he described as the “academic elaboration of folk music,” but instead search for “the most profound racial characteristics without doing damage to the formal unit of the work of art.”139 Kondracki, in fact, had named Szymanowski as the only living composer who had successfully assimilated folk music into an independent composition. For Konstanty Regamey, national music could not be created on demand; any argument that such compositions would have more appeal for many people was a mistake.140 He worried that national music as it was being discussed in Poland was being equated with older, familiar music that even during the interwar period

137 “Całe pokolenie młodzieży (u nas) wychowuje się w nieznajomości muzyki polskiej i muzyki w ogóle. Olbrzymie warstwy społeczne nie słyszą muzyki. Żródło dalszego rozrostu kultury muzycznej polskiej bynajmniej nie leży w sferze pewnej warstwy intelegencji, zasklepionej w hasłach zachnio-europejskich . . . Propagowanie obcej muzyki kosztem twórczości polskiej, powoduje usunięcie tego tak potężnego czynnika, jakim jest muzyka narodowa . . . Muzykę polską należy na światło dziennie wyprowadzić . . . Bezpośrednie zetknięcie się młodego pokolenia z tą muzyką stworzy nową publiczność, która da muzyce polskiej możność rozwoju i podstawę bytu, a tym samym rozwiąże problem bezrobocia na tym polu.” Ludomir Różycki, Pion 2, no. 8 (1934), quoted in “Przegląd prasy,” Muzyka 11, no. 1 (1934): 31. 138 Kondracki, “Stosunek kompozytorów do muzyki ludowej,” 106–112. 139 Jerzy Rytard, “Karol Szymanowski o muzyce współczesnej: Wywiad specjalny ‘Kuriera Polskiego’,” Kurier Polski no. 310 (1922): 6, translated as “Karol Szymanowski on Contemporary Music,” in Szymanowski on Music, ed. Alistair Wightman (London: Toccata Press, 1999), 201–202. 140 Konstanty Regamey, “O muzyce narodowej,” Prosto z mostu, date unknown, quoted in “Z prasy: Muzyka narodowa,” Muzyka Polska 4, no. 3 (1937): 123–124.

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was considered conservative.141 He also was concerned about the need for musical excellence, for he described Jan Adam Maklakiewicz’s The Last Drumbeats (Ostatnie werble), a symphonic poem written in memory of Józef Piłsudski, as a piece of such low quality that, despite its use of military and patriotic songs to commemorate the Polish political and military leader, it could not be accepted as an example of national art. He claimed that musicians disliked the piece and that audiences would prefer to hear the quoted songs in their original form.142 Maklakiewicz described two approaches taken by contemporary composers in many countries: the cosmopolitan and the national. Cosmopolitanism, in his opinion, brought negativity in the form of musical experimentation that, at least in Poland, had no uplifting cultural value. National music, on the other hand, implied something positive, because it could be linked to local traditions. Polish compositions should possess a distinctive character that displayed the strength of the nation. Composers were to connect their music to the ideals represented by Frédéric Chopin and Karol Szymanowski, but only the latter’s most recent works, which were based on Polish traits. In other words, living composers were to create high-quality pieces that were inspired, at least in part, by folk music (even though not all of Maklakiewicz’s own music did the same). At the same time, Maklakiewicz requested that Polish composers produce more pieces that amateurs could perform, preferably incorporating Polish elements into these compositions. For him, the appropriate audience for every composer should be the “working masses,”143 a comment that would acquire a great deal of politicized baggage following the upcoming war. Although Maklakiewicz did not define the term cosmopolitanism or point to any specific examples of musical experimentation, by contrasting it with the benefits of relying on local musical attributes, he implied that contemporary Polish composition should avoid foreign influences. As mentioned earlier, however, Regamey had included Maklakiewicz in Szymanowski’s progressive orbit. Maklakiewicz had also frequently praised the work of Grzegorz Fitelberg in bringing new music to Polish audiences, but as shown with these words and those quoted at the beginning of this book’s introductory chapter, he also preferred that Polish composers create a distinctive national musical art instead of 141 Konstanty Regamey, “Dwadzieścia lat muzyki w Polsce,” Muzyka Polska 5, no. 11 (1938): 477–478. 142 Konstanty Regamey, “O muzyce narodowej,” 125; Paulina Pieńkowska, “Werble, których nie usłyszał Józef Piłsudski. Poemat symfoniczny Jana Adama Maklakiewicza,” https://www. historiaposzukaj.pl/wiedza,muzyka,144,muzyka_jan_maklakiewicz_-_werble_ktorych_ nie_uslyszal_jozef_pilsudski.html. 143 Maklakiewicz, “Zagadnienia współczesnej twórczości muzycznej w Polsce,” 33–37.

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favoring what he considered to be unproven stylistic traits from foreign compositions.144 His statements demonstrate that we should be cautious when characterizing individuals as leaning in a particular ideological direction, for Maklakiewicz expressed support in his writings and his music for what might be considered both conservative and progressive ideals. Nevertheless, cosmopolitanism should not be equated with experimentation per se and those who maintain a cosmopolitan attitude do not necessarily seek radical innovations. Instead, the term is frequently applied to societies and individuals who accept many nationalities as possible conduits for inspiration. Most often it refers to an attitude that is greater than patriotism as it relates to a particular geographical area. For that reason, it can be considered contrary to ideas related to nationalism, which refer to a specific country or local culture, although some scholars have suggested that the two concepts are complementary rather than opposites. Nationalist composers might incorporate Polish folk melodies into their compositions, if not literally, then at least in spirit, by providing the flavor of these regional tunes.145 For cosmopolitan composers, such national concerns were of secondary importance; their aspirations to participate in a wider international community were of primary interest. To embrace both aspects of composition and musical life was to be, as Dana Gooley has discussed with regard to the nineteenth century, a “nationalist cosmopolitan.”146 Among interwar Polish composers, Michał Kondracki, Konstanty Regamey, and even Jan Adam Maklakiewicz might be construed in this way, judging from their comments discussed above. As had Maklakiewicz, other Polish critics occasionally used the term cosmopolitanism in a pejorative or exclusionary sense. Ludomir Różycki tackled the concept in 1925, saying: The movement that has now emerged in our [Polish] music world . . . is aimed at: 1. Opposing the idea of internationalism and cosmopolitanism reigning in our musical relations; 144 Jasiński, Koniec epoki, 393. 145 Dana Gooley, “Introduction to Cosmopolitanism in the Age of Nationalism, 1848–1914,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 66, no. 2 (2013): 526–528. See also Ryan Minor, “Beyond Heroism: Music, Ethics, and Everyday Cosmopolitanism,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 66, no. 2 (2013): 529–532; Alicja Jarzębska, “Ideologies of Progress and Nationalism,” Musicology Today 2 (2005): 5–24; Małgorzata Dziadek, “The Evolution of Cosmopolitan Attitudes in Polish Musical Culture of the Twentieth-Century,” Musicology Today 2 (2005), 25–36; Cathy S. Gelbin and Sander L. Gilman, Cosmopolitanisms and the Jews (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2017), 115–143. 146 Gooley, “Introduction to Cosmopolitanism, 526–527.

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2. Strengthening the direction of Polish music in our music institutions; 3. Limiting the influx of foreign music only to the masterpieces of classical literature; 4. Opposing the forbidden and unwarranted supremacy of foreign contemporary art, which creates an atmosphere of mixed concepts [and] disregard of native art, while granting to Warsaw . . . the character of an international musical fair . . . It is a battle for our spiritual independence.147 Różycki went on to say that Germany and France had already nationalized their music, and that now it was Poland’s turn to do the same. For some, but not all interwar critics, then, new Polish music should have a national flavor and avoid what they considered to be unacceptable international traits. It should relate somehow to the past and be part of the continuum of centuries-old traditions related to Poland’s own experiences. In declaring this, they ignored the idea that dodecaphony, for example, had its roots in the chromatic expansions of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and thus could be associated with prior musical traditions. Moreover, during the interwar period, although neoclassicism in music was considered by Polish critics to be a European rather than a specifically national trend, numerous Polish compositions intertwined this particular ‘ism’ with the incorporation of folk-inspired elements. Polish composers, therefore, willingly demonstrated that nationalism in music could successfully incorporate newer external influences.

Race and Ethnicity in Music Intertwined with appeals to nationalism was the issue of race in Polish society. As Andrzej Tuchowski has discussed, the term “race” (rasa) in Poland at that time was often tied not only to one’s genetic background but also to discussions

147 “Ruch, który się obudził obecnie w naszym świecie muzycznym . . . Ma on na celu: 1) przeciwstawienie się idei międzynarodowości i kosmopolityzmu panującemu w naszych stosunkach muzycznych; 2) wzmocnienie kierunku muzycznego polskiego naszych instytucji muzycznych; 3) ograniczenie dopływu muzyki obcej tylko do arcydzieł literatury klasycznej; 4)  przeciwstawienie się niedozwolonej, nieuzasadnionej supremacji sztuki obcej współczesnej, która stwarza atmosferę zamieszania pojęć, nieuznania sztuki ojczystej, nadając Warszawie . . . charakter międzynarodowego jarmarku muzycznego . . . Jest to walka o naszą niepodłegłość duchową,” Ludomir Różycki, “O polską muzykę,” Kurier Warszawski, no. 110, evening ed. (1925): 6.

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of ethnicity and nation.148 Karol Szymanowski, for example, referred to Frédéric Chopin as a Polish composer (despite his partial French ancestry and long residency in France) who through his music expressed the essence of his Polish race.149 As Michał Kondracki put it in 1933, “Race in music is the sum of certain elements constituting a nation’s sense of distinctiveness and deciding the ‘directional tension’ of its music. Only the works of those composers who find race in their own music can have true value.”150 In this context, Kondracki linked the notion of race with his personal interest in Polish folk music as a source of inspiration for his own compositions. As a co-founder of the Polish section of the International Society for Contemporary Music (ISCM), he was also interested, as noted above, in enhancing the representation of his country within a wider musical community.151 Thus, as also mentioned above, he occupied a position that was neither exclusively nationalist nor internationalist with regard to Polish music. Zofia Lissa was perhaps the first Polish musicologist to attempt to discuss the issue of race in music. She claimed in 1934 that race was present in composition even though many composers claimed to be unaware of it. She equated race in this context with the “difference in the psychic construction of creators”152 that was impacted by the social and intellectual environment of specific nations. By way of example, she pointed to differences in compositions written by composers from Germany, Italy, and France. Two years later, without invoking the term “race,” she also tied together the ideas of class, cosmopolitanism, and national

148 Andrzej Tuchowski, Nacjonalizm, szowinizm, rasizm a europejska refleksja o muzyce i twórczość kompozytorska okresu międzywojennego (Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Wrocławskiego, 2015), 7–15. Maja Trochimczyk has made similar assertions with regard to pre-World War I narratives about Chopin and his Polishness. Maja Trochimczyk, “Chopin and the ‘Polish Race’: On National Ideologies and the Chopin Reception,” in Halina Goldberg, ed., The Age of Chopin: Interdisciplinary Inquiries (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004), 278–313. 149 Trochimczyk, “Chopin and the ‘Polish Race’,” 300–302. 150 Michał Kondracki, [unknown title], Zet (March 1, 1933), quoted in “Przegląd prasy,” Muzyka 10, nos. 4–6 (1933): 156. 151 Magdalena Mądro, “Neoklasycyzm wobec pieśni powszechnej i ludowej w twórczości Michała Kondrackiego. Obrazek symfoniczny Żołnierze,” in Jan Kalinowski and Marek Szlezer, eds., Polscy kompozytorzy emigracyjni: Szkice i interpretacje (Kraków: Akademia Muzyczna w Krakowie, 2014), 46. 152 Zofia Lissa, “Problem rasy w muzyce,” Muzyka 11, no. 3 (1934): 108–112. Andrzej Tuchowski has also argued that in her discussion of race in music, Lissa drew on ideas that can be linked to Marxist-Leninist thought. Andrzej Tuchowski, “Chopin, polska kultura narodowa a kwestia ‘czystości rasy’: Głos Zofii Lissy w debacie wokół kwestii rasowych w latach 1930,” Polski Rocznik Muzykologiczny 19 (2021), https://doi.org/10.2478/prm-2021-0001.

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music to emphasize that a nation could develop truly distinctive music by turning to its folk music: For centuries, [music] has been the product and the object of the aesthetic experience of the monied classes. It is the most cosmopolitan art of all, speaking in a language that is understandable to all nations and distinguishing itself in the sense of its ‘artistry’ from the vulgar, primitive, and unartistic music of the popular masses. It cannot be denied that the artistic music of different countries has its own distinct character [in each place], but this character appears clearly and strongly only when artistic music reaches into the treasury of appropriate national music, to folk music.153 Associated with these ideas was the issue of who was genuinely Polish. In multiethnic interwar Poland, whose citizens spoke a variety of languages, everyone was theoretically equal in the eyes of the law.154 But in reality, not all were treated alike. The interwar government’s attitude toward Poles of Ukrainian background was mentioned above. In the field of music, traces of prejudice toward non-ethnic Poles were also apparent. Piotr Rytel once proudly noted that Bolesław Woytowicz had “the hallmarks of a healthy, pure race from the Polish borderland.”155 Adolf Chybiński (1880–1952), a senior musicologist, wrote in 1938 that he considered a younger colleague, Józef Chomiński (1906–1994), to be Polish despite the fact that Chomiński was of Ukrainian background and a member of the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church. For Chybiński, it was sufficient that Chomiński was related to many Polish families, wrote in Polish, and

153 “Jest [muzyka] od wieków wytworem i przedmiotem estetycznego doznania klas posiadających, jest sztuką ze wszystkich najbardziej kosmopolityczną, przemawiającą językiem wszystkim narodom zrozumiałym, a odgraniczającą się w poczuciu swej ‘artystyczności’ od muzyki mas ludowych, wulgarnej, prymitywnej, nieartystycznej. Nie można zaprzeczyć, że i muzyka artystyczna różnych krajów posiada swój odrębny charakter. Ale charakter ten występuje wyraźnie i silnie tylko wtedy, gdy muzyka artystyczna sięga do skarbnicy właściwej muzyki narodowej, do muzyki ludowej.” Zofia Lissa, “O stylach narodowych w muzyce,” Sygnały, no. 20 (1936): 6, https://polona.pl/item/ sygnaly-sprawy-spoleczne-literatura-sztuka-1936-nr-20-1-sierpnia,NTczMTg1ODc/5/#inf o:metadata. 154 Porter-Szűcs, Poland in the Modern World, 91. 155 Piotr Rytel, Gazeta Warszawska, February 5, 1933, quoted in Jasiński, Koniec epoki, 230–231. Woytowicz, a composer and pianist, was born in Dunajowce (Dunaivtsi, now in Ukraine).

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in his research dealt with topics concerning Polish music.156 As Kathryn Ciancia has argued with regard to Poland’s eastern borderland areas in 1918–1919, Polish politicians were most willing to accept those of non-Polish ethnicity into their new nation if they felt they could be assimilated into Polish society.157 Chomiński fell into that category, albeit almost two decades later, for Chybiński. These seemingly minor incidents were perhaps not so random as they might appear at first glance. On a more professional level, similar actions that could be interpreted as discriminatory also existed. As discussed earlier, Magdalena Dziadek has described the situation in Warsaw’s conservatory, which in the late 1920s was in the process of being transformed into a university-level institution (a Higher School of Music). In discussing who should be the new leader of such an institution following Szymanowski’s first resignation, Karol Stromenger suggested the names of Ignacy Jan Paderewski (1860–1941, a pianist, composer, and statesman) and Zygmunt Stojowski (1870–1946, a pianist and composer), partly because they were “of purely Polish origin.”158 Morawski, who several years later became the head of the conservatory, was also of Polish heritage. While it may not be unusual that a Polish citizen would be considered for such an important position, the racial undertones apparent in this decision should not be ignored. At the same time, we should acknowledge that such inflections were fairly common in interwar Poland, as they were elsewhere in Europe, and were made even more frequently toward the end of that period. Notwithstanding the frequent association of race and ethnicity with nation in interwar Poland, those of Jewish descent undoubtedly faced the greatest amount of discrimination. During the interwar period, the Jewish population in Poland was the largest such community in Europe.159 Some considered themselves to be Polish citizens of Jewish extraction, while others thought of themselves as Jews who lived in Poland. However, Jews did not fit into the National Democrats’ concept of Polishness even if they spoke and wrote in Polish and considered themselves to be Polish, nor did they fare well under Piłsudski’s regime.160 As the 1930s progressed and Germany’s escalation of the “Jewish question” was

156 Maciej Gołąb, Józef Michał Chomiński: Biografia i rekonstrukcja metodologii (Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Wrocławskiego, 2008), 33. 157 Kathryn Ciancia, On Civilization’s Edge: A Polish Borderland in the Interwar World (New York: Oxford University Press, 2021), 21–25. 158 Dziadek, Od Szkoły Dramatycznej, 414. 159 Adam Michnik and Agnieszka Marczyk, eds., Against Anti-Semitism: An Anthology of Twentieth–Century Polish Writings (New York: Oxford University Press, 2018), xx. 160 Porter-Szűcs, Poland in the Modern World, 126–127, 130–131; Tuchowski, Nacjonalizm, 88; Pierce, “Life and Death,” 54–82.

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increasingly in the Polish news, intolerance toward these people escalated. From its inception in 1935, the nationalist newspaper Warszawski Dziennik Narodowy frequently contained anti-Semitic articles.161 Jews in Poland had difficulty finding employment in the civic administration, the court system, and in police and military units, even though such hiring was permitted by law. Attempts were made to limit or even prohibit Jewish youth from enrolling in universities. Although such a nationwide ban was never enacted, individual universities were permitted to limit the number of Jewish students. Moreover, these students were sometimes attacked by radical groups and, toward the end of the interwar period, were occasionally forced to sit at “ghetto benches” during class.162 As Jeffrey Kopstein and Jason Wittenberg have recently shown, however, pogroms targeting Jews were undertaken, at least in eastern Poland, because in some towns Jewish residents were more likely to oppose Polish or Ukrainian nationalist sentiments than for purely anti-Semitic reasons.163 Anti-Semitism affected Poland’s musical community as well. At the Warsaw Opera in 1935, a staging of Ludovico Rocci’s The Dybbuk (Dybuk), which was based on an old Jewish legend, provoked a verbal assault from Michał Kondracki. He claimed that a “cult of Jewish favoritism” existed in the country, which led to The Dybbuk being offered with “a tenderness and reverence . . . disproportionate to the opera’s value . . . The gloomy atmosphere of a Jewish ghetto is blowing from the stage . . . [which] is foreign to the spirit of our race and psyche.”164 Such a statement seems to place Kondracki more firmly on the side of those favoring a Polish musical life that discouraged foreign influences. Yet Kondracki in 1932 had praised “the highly developed technique and culture of today’s creators (Debussy, Ravel, Honegger, Scriabin, Szymanowski, Stravinsky, Prokofiev, etc.)”165 Kondracki’s seemingly discriminatory remarks may have resulted from his continued immersion in the increasingly anti-Semitic society that

161 An electronic version of Warszawski Dziennik Narodowy is available at http://crispa.uw. edu.pl. 162 Michnik and Marczyk, Against Anti-Semitism, xxii–xxiii. 163 Although Kopstein and Wittenberg’s study examined pogroms in 1941, following the German invasion of the Soviet Union, the background of these activities lies in interwar Poland. Jeffrey S. Kopstein, Jason Wittenberg, Intimate Violence: Anti-Jewish Pogroms on the Eve of the Holocaust (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 2018). For more information on Polish-Ukrainian-Jewish relations in the borderlands, see Ciancia, On Civilization’s Edge. 164 Michał Kondracki, “Recenzje muzyczne,” Prosto z mostu, no. 22 (1935): 9, quoted in Jasiński, Koniec epoki, 329; http://www.encyklopediateatru.pl/artykuly/77559/dybuk. 165 Michał Kondracki, “Współczesna technika kompozytorska,” Muzyka 9, nos. 1–2 (1932): 19–20.

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characterized Poland in the 1930s; he also may have considered Jewish issues to be somehow distinct from those concerning other national or international influences. Clearly, the matter of ethnic and/or racial influences in Polish society is a complex one that defies simple categorizations. Piotr Rytel, who, as shown earlier, opposed sending Polish composers to study in France, complained that young musicians went there to learn from Jews and Russian emigrants, apparently accusing Nadia Boulanger of having such a heritage. (Boulanger, with whom most Polish composers in France worked, did have a Russian-born mother, but she was not Jewish.) Rytel hinted that stipends from the Fund for National Culture should not be awarded for study with such individuals. Rytel also frequently railed against Grzegorz Fitelberg, not only because the conductor frequently programmed contemporary music from foreign countries, but also because he was Jewish.166 J. Mackenzie Pierce, who has explored the Jewish question in interwar music in some detail, has pointed out that another Polish composer of Jewish background, Roman Palester, had been targeted by the managers of the Fund for National Culture, whose anti-Semitic leanings sometimes led professors to avoid submitting names of Jewish students to be considered for stipends. Although Palester had been baptized as a Christian when he was young,167 this was unimportant to these individuals; his Jewish heritage would also cause him problems during the war. Pierce has also described the circumstances behind the closing of Muzyka, whose editor, Mateusz Gliński, was Jewish. That the journal’s international outlook was directed by a Jew was threatening to some Poles. Government funding for the magazine was withdrawn in 1934 and shifted, as mentioned earlier, to a new publication, Muzyka Polska. The works of Jewish writers were often not included in this new journal; Adolf Chybiński, displaying his anti-Semitic views, apparently even suggested privately that Zofia Lissa’s articles be excluded.168 The only two essays by Lissa published in the new journal appeared in its first year of existence, 1934. Yet sides were not clearly drawn among all musicians. To cite just one example, Tadeusz Ochlewski and Roman Palester cooperated in the

166 P[iotr]. Rytel, “Ósmy koncert symfoniczny,” Warszawski Dziennik Narodowy 4, no. 333 (1938): 6; Piotr Rytel, [unknown title], Gazeta Warszawska, January 1, 1935, quoted in Jasiński, Koniec epoki, 304–305. 167 Palester’s mother was Jewish but also a practicing Christian. Helman, Roman Palester, 15–16; Correspondence with Lech Dzierżanowski (an expert on the life and music of Roman Palester and currently the head of the Music Department of the National Institute of Music and Dance), May 4, 2021. 168 Pierce, “Life and Death,” 63–77.

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activities of the Polish Music Publishing Society (TWMP), despite Ochlewski’s possible connections to funding decisions made by the Fund for National Culture.169 Lissa rarely mentioned the issue of Jewish composers in her own publications. As a Jew who was an assimilated Pole, she perhaps did not wish to make such a distinction. However, she did not hide her religious background, for she was an active participant in Lwów’s Jewish life. As alluded to above with her discussion of race, she believed that Jewish composers wrote music with a sense of belonging to the country in which they lived instead of reflecting some sort of Semitic stereotype.170 Some musicians would likely have disagreed with her. Karol Szymanowski, certainly one of the leading proponents of maintaining an international outlook in music, claimed in an essay in the early 1920s that Jewish composers, though talented, would never achieve greatness, naming Giacomo Meyerbeer, Felix Mendelssohn, and Gustav Mahler as examples. Ernest Bloch, however, was his exception to the rule.171 Polish scholars in recent years have tried to present Szymanowski as not being anti-Semitic, in part because he had Jewish friends, while also acknowledging that some of his statements can be interpreted otherwise.172 Musicologist Józef Reiss (1879–1956), in a 1928 essay, suggested that most Jewish musicians remained outside of the musical mainstream, but praised the works of the same three composers Szymanowski had mentioned. In treating Jewish composers at length in a five-part article, he emphasized the separateness of these musicians from others who resided in the same countries.173 Notwithstanding Reiss’s negative evaluation of most Jewish composers, several of Poland’s most important interwar composers had a Jewish background. Roman Palester, Tadeusz Zygfryd Kassern (1904–1957), and Józef Koffler were the most prominent, receiving more than fifteen performances each in Poland during these decades. All three were active in the Polish Composers’ Association and with the Polish section of the International Society for 169 Helman, Roman Palester, 45. 170 Pierce, “Life and Death,” 78–79. 171 Karol Szymanowski, “Kwestia Żydostwa,” in Szymanowski: Pisma literackie, vol. 2 (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 2018), 233–236, translated by William Hughes as “Karol Szymanowski on the Jews V—The Issue of Jewishness,” https://drwilliamhughes.blogspot. com/2016/02/karol-szymanowski-issue-of-jewishness.html. 172 Szymanowski was close friends with Artur Rubinstein and Paweł Kochański, both of whom were Jewish. Samson, The Music of Szymanowski, 22; Andrzej Tuchowski, Nacjonalizm, 34, 44, 92–95. 173 Józef Reiss, “Dusza żydostwa w muzyce,” Muzyk Wojskowy 3, no. 9 (1928): 1, 3–4; no. 10, 1–2; no. 11, 2–3; no. 13, 1–2; no. 14, 1–2.

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Contemporary Music (ISCM). Kassern, a composer, music critic, and lawyer from an assimilated Jewish family, had converted to Christianity at the age of sixteen.174 Aleksander Tansman emigrated to France in 1919, basing his decision on what he later called Poland’s “conservative approach to music and a certain type of anti-Semitism.”175 Others also decided against returning to Poland after studying or working abroad. Jerzy Fitelberg (1903–1951, the son of the conductor) left for Paris in 1933 after becoming concerned about the increasing anti-Semitism in Germany, where he was then living.176 Alfred Gradstein (1904–1954) and Szymon Laks spent most of the interwar years abroad, where they found themselves at the outbreak of war in 1939. Despite the relative success of at least some Jewish composers in Poland, their situation was precarious. Given the rather heated discussion in the press concerning the role of nationalism in Polish music and the blatant anti-Semitism in universities and the civic arena, it would be surprising if these musicians were not concerned about the future. If Stefania Łobaczewska, who could—as she did in 1938 in a lengthy but generally objective essay on contemporary Polish music—subtly group five composers of Jewish descent ( Jerzy Fitelberg, Józef Koffler, Roman Palester, Aleksander Tansman, and Karol Rathaus) together for “consciously rejecting not only the singular influences represented by especially outstanding personalities in Polish music today ever, but even everything else understood more generally as the influences of the Polish community or the Polish nationality,”177 while describing others (specifically Jan Adam Maklakiewicz and Bolesław Woytowicz) as concentrating musically “on the traditions of the community from which they came”178 yet also drawing on foreign musical models, then these musicians of Jewish background might reasonably feel that they were potential targets for more scathing levels of contempt or even exclusion from their native country’s musical life.

174 Kostka, Tadeusz Zygfryd Kassern, 21. 175 Quoted in Wojciech Wendland, W 89 lat dookoła świata: Aleksander Tansman u źródeł kultury i tożsamości (Łódź: Wydawnictwo Astra, 2013), 13. 176 Ewelina Boczkowska, “O Jerzym Fitelbergu w Nowym Jorku na podstawie źródeł archiwalnych,” in Muzyka polska za granicą, vol. 3, Polscy twórcy za oceanem, eds. Beata BolesławskaLewandowska and Jolanta Guzy-Pasiak (Warsaw: Instytut Sztuki Polskiej Akademii Nauk, 2020), 33. 177 Stefania Łobaczewska, “U źródeł współczesnej muzyki polskiej: Założenia i perspektywy,” Życie Sztuki 3 (1938): 86–87. 178 Ibid., 90.

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Looking to the Future As the 1930s were drawing to a close, concerns about nationalism, race, and foreign influences were not the only topics of discussion among musicians. Other matters of contention revolved around two themes: how to bring classical music to the general public more effectively and how to improve the fragmented organization of Polish musical life. As discussed above, the Organization for Musical Activity (ORMUZ) had achieved some success in bringing classical music to the general public throughout the country. Questions persisted among composers, however, about the best way to encourage audiences to appreciate newly written compositions. With this came conversations about the value of so-called elite music as well as discussions about the social role of Polish composers. Not unexpectedly, agreement among interested parties was not forthcoming. Some favored the idea that a musically illiterate society could best learn to appreciate music by limiting offerings to uncomplicated works, while excluding more involved pieces from concert stages. As Tadeusz Szeligowski noted, it was more important to strengthen artistic culture throughout the Polish community than to nurture music for the elite.179 Konstanty Regamey believed just the opposite, that the “existence of good elite art is needed for the popularization of artistic culture.”180 As he reminisced, when he had attended school concerts sponsored by the Organization for Musical Activity (ORMUZ), students reacted more positively to modern music than to compositions of Johann Sebastian Bach and George Frideric Handel. He balanced competing issues by saying that music for broader society should answer the needs of the people, but that treating compositional experimentation as harmful was a mistake. Stefan Kisielewski and Zygmunt Mycielski, both composers and critics who would become important players in the post-World War II Polish musical world, agreed with Regamey, while emphasizing the critical need to allow composers to make their own compositional choices. For Kisielewski, the social responsibility of an artist was to create good, valuable art, which must be autonomous.181 Mycielski also pointed to the obligation to provide for creative freedom, which should apply to both conservative and progressive artistic tendencies.182

179 Tadeusz Szeligowski, “Dwie odpowiedzi,” Muzyka Polska 6, no. 3 (1939): 141–145. 180 Regamey, “Muzyka nowoczesna a totalizm,” 181, 185. 181 Stefan Kisielewski, “O ‘wartościach społecznych’ w muzyce,” Muzyka Polska 3, no. 3 (1936): 199–204. 182 Zygmunt Mycielski, “W odpowiedzi na ankietę,” Muzyka Polska 4, no. 11 (1937): 503–505.

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Given the frustrations associated with almost any attempt to create some sort of concert or educational program in interwar Poland, appeals to create a central organization that would manage most, if not all musical activities were enticing, at least for some. Piotr Perkowski, a composer, teacher, and music administrator, reported in 1935 that such a plan, to be coordinated by a so-called Music Chamber (Izba Muzyczna), would encompass the development of competitions, concerts, lectures, and publishing as part of its efforts to defend the professional interests of all musicians.183 By the late 1930s, however, the image of a consolidated institution residing within the national government gave rise to concerns related to the specter of the totalitarian systems emerging in the countries bordering Poland. As Konstanty Regamey stated, continuing his thoughts on permitting creative freedom as well as providing music to all layers of society, this powerful role of art . . . has long been understood by total states (państwa totalne), as proven by the tremendous material and organizational efforts made in these countries to make art available to the broadest layers of society . . . We know . . . that very often these same total systems have a destructive influence and inhibit the free development of art . . . It is probably a truism that an artist’s freedom is a sine qua non of true artistic achievements.184 He defined totalitarianism in culture as the “desire to maintain and support, on a path of greater or lesser coercion, only those values that can become the property of the entire society, nation, or class.”185 That statement seems perilously close to describing a system in which only certain artistic values would be appreciated and, by extension, allowed to blossom within existing institutions and support mechanisms. As had been explained in a 1937 issue of Muzyka Polska, totalitarianism already existed in Germany, Italy, and Russia. According to an anonymous author, this system was characterized in part by the complete organization of cultural life, embracing the areas of popularizing cultural values, strengthening the intensity of artistic life, and subordinating culture and art to specific ideological assumptions, which in Russia were related to class and in Germany to nation.186

183 “Piotr Perkowski: Dookoła projektu Izby Muzycznej,” Muzyka 12, nos. 3–4 (1935): 75. 184 Regamey, “Muzyka nowoczesna a totalizm,” 182–183. 185 Ibid., 184. 186 “Ankieta ‘Muzyki Polskiej’,” Muzyka Polska 4, no. 1 (1937): 12–13.

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The editors of Muzyka Polska went on to ask musicians if such a system was needed in Poland and if so, what its guidelines should be. Witold Maliszewski, a composer who had studied with Nikolai RimskyKorsakov in Russia and had been in Poland since 1921, echoed Regamey in his response, asserting that although better organization of the country’s cultural life was needed, to do so within a “total” (totalny) system would prevent the development of art works of lasting importance. It could also, as he thought was occurring in Germany, result in a ban on the most modern compositions.187 In contrast, Stanisław Szpinalski, a world-class pianist, concurred with the need for a centralized organization that would oversee existing or new entities in the areas of concert planning, publishing, education, and stipends. In that way, the existing “chaos” in music might be resolved.188 Szpinalski, did not, however, explicitly assert that he favored a totalitarian system in Polish arts. Tadeusz Szeligowski claimed a “planned organization” was a “state necessity . . . not a policed, external [system], but a relevant internal one that even enemies are attracted to in admiration for the power of culture.”189 Zygmunt Mycielski, foreshadowing his concerns about the implementation of socialist realism in music in the late 1940s, opposed the idea of forcing musicians to perform certain tasks, whether organizational or otherwise, pointing specifically to the idea of assigning professors to specific schools.190 Such a plan for the centralization of musical life was never enacted in interwar Poland, in part due to fears among musicians that any potential leader of the new group (purported to be Stefan Śledziński) would act dictatorially, implementing his own plans rather than those of the constituent organizations. Concerns were also raised that such an increase in bureaucracy would hinder the organization of musical events. Certainly the negative connotations associated with recent events in Germany and elsewhere also played a role in abandoning this project.191 The conflicts surrounding the issues of nationalism, contemporary international influences, race and ethnicity, concert planning, and organization of cultural life discussed in this chapter were not unique, of course, to the interwar period in Poland. Neither were the paths taken by conductors and composers as 187 Witold Maliszewski, “Ankieta ‘Muzyki Polskiej’,” Muzyka Polska 4, no. 1 (1937): 13–17. 188 Stanisław Szpinalski, “Ankieta ‘Muzyki Polskiej’,” Muzyka Polska 4, no. 2 (1937): 63–65. 189 Tadeusz Szeligowski, “Conditio sine qua non (W odpowiedzi na ankietę),” Muzyka Polska 4, no. 9 (1937): 395. Italics are in the original. 190 Mycielski, “W odpowiedzi na ankietę.” 191 “Pod ostrym kątem: Impresje muzyczne,” Muzyka 4, no. 2 (1937): 51; “Pod ostrym kątem: Impresje muzyczne,” Muzyka 4, nos. 7–8 (1937): 230.

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they attempted to offer what they thought audiences should (but not necessarily wanted to) hear. However, just as many of these individuals participated in the development of musical life in an independent Poland, with its open struggles to define what that might be, many of these same personalities would work together in opposition to the hostile occupation of their country. At the same time, however, the concerns uplifted prior to the war were still in play; it was only their remedial actions that would differ in the future.

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World War II: Continuity And Disruption

A retelling of the horrors of World War II in Poland would seem to be unnecessary at this point, given the multitude of stories already recounted concerning the deprivations and murders that occurred at that time. In the midst of these tales of hatred and wrongdoing, however, come those that have a different angle, one in which many Polish musicians—individually and in groups—worked for a common cause. While they certainly could not overcome all of the inequities they faced, they were able to display a sense of patriotism, concern for their fellow citizens, and a desire for continuity with at least some aspects of their interwar life. The controversies that had consumed the musical community in recent decades did not disappear entirely, but in many cases the exigencies of the moment mitigated their severity. In many respects, the focus of musicians’ criticism shifted from the relatively genteel—in retrospect—ideological discourse between interwar musical compatriots to an active loathing of their occupiers from neighboring countries, with concomitant efforts to lessen the effects of the oppression that threatened the survival of all Polish citizens. If opinions about music were somewhat diverse prior to 1939, a more binary “us versus them” approach directed at the foreign invaders appeared by the end of that year. Such a narrative applies most appropriately to those ethnically Polish musicians in the central regions of Poland, in what was officially called the General Governorate of the Occupied Polish Region (Generalgouvernement für die besetzten polnischen Gebiete). For those in the eastern and western areas of interwar Poland—annexed respectively by the Soviets and Nazis—and especially for Polish Jews in all sectors of the country, experiences in the musical arena were different. Yet musicians throughout the geographical area of interwar Poland still endeavored to participate in the same kinds of activities that had occupied them earlier, even if undertaken clandestinely amid the myriad of disruptions and killings that accompanied brutal foreign occupation.

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The story of Kazimierz Wiłkomirski’s life during World War II offers one such chronicle. It embodies the passion and fortitude displayed by many Polish musicians as they struggled to maintain concert life and educational opportunities for their fellow citizens and, for those who were composers, to continue producing worthwhile new music while enduring often horrific experiences. Wiłkomirski, born in Moscow, arrived in Poland with his family in 1919. During the interwar years, he taught in Łódź and Gdańsk, performed as a cellist and conductor with the Warsaw Philharmonic, and composed nearly twenty works. Just as the Germans invaded Poland on September 1, 1939, he left by train from Gdynia, a city on the Baltic coast, and succeeded in reaching Warsaw, as did many other musicians from around the country.1 After a short period of internment by the Nazis, he became involved in Warsaw’s underground concert life and the occasional symphonic presentations organized by Polish musicians that were permitted by the German occupiers. Performing as a soloist as well as in a trio and a quartet during the war, Wiłkomirski participated in performances of the works of many of his contemporaries, including premieres of string quartets by Roman Padlewski, Roman Palester, and Zbigniew Turski (1908–1979) and quintets by Konstanty Regamey and Wawrzyniec Żuławski (1916–1957). He was also involved in wartime performances of quartets written during the interwar period by Witold Rudziński, Grażyna Bacewicz, and Piotr Perkowski and played in the orchestra sponsored by the Central Aid Council (Rada Główna Opiekuńcza, or RGO), which provided charitable assistance to Polish musicians. Conducting duties found him at the podium of a small ensemble at Warsaw’s Gastronomia café; he played cello for the orchestra at the Lardelli café before its conductor, Adam Dołżycki (1886–1972), was accused of collaboration with the Nazis in 1942, after which the concerts were boycotted by Poles. He also found time to write a textbook on fugues (Nauka o fudze) and to compose an Aria for cello and piano, a string quartet, and at least two songs. Although these particular compositions (but not the book) survived the war, many of the pieces he wrote before 1939 were lost in the 1944 Warsaw Uprising, which resulted in the Nazis’ retaliatory razing of nearly the entire city.2

Elżbieta Dziębowska, “Muzyka w Warszawie podczas okupacji hitlerowskiej,” in Warszawa lat wojny i okupacji 1939–1944, eds. Krzysztof Dunin-Wąsowicz, Halina Winnicka, and Janina Kaźmierska (Warsaw: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1972), vol. 2: 50; Wiłkomirski, Wspomnienia, 123–501. 2 Wiłkomirski. Wspomnienia, 502–557; Naliwajek-Mazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 169–174.

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This recitation of facts seems rather cut and dried, devoid of the cruelties of war. Such is the character of Wiłkomirski’s own memoirs. But even in his methodical recitation of events, it is clear that his life at that time was anything but straight-forward. Not long after arriving in 1939 on the outskirts of Warsaw, which was being bombed by the Nazis, German soldiers ordered Wiłkomirski and his family to leave their temporary home (in which they had heard artillery fire while hiding in the basement and which subsequently was hit with a hand grenade). Eventually, they were brought to a prison camp near the town of Skierniewice, southwest of Warsaw, where over the course of several days they were fed almost nothing. From there they were put on a crowded train and sent to Kalisz, a city near the western edge of interwar Poland. During the trip, the others in his compartment, which had only one tiny window, asked him to play his cello for them, longing to hear music in order to relieve, even temporarily, the terror induced by this journey to the unknown. He obliged by performing Schubert’s Ave Maria. After a short time in a prison camp, the Wiłkomirskis were released and made their way to Łódź, where his father had taught at the conservatory, now shuttered by the Germans. Finally, after a six-week ordeal, they returned to Warsaw, walking the final eighteen kilometers from Pruszków. Somehow, he managed to keep his cello with him the entire time.3 Fear of repeating these calamities did not keep Wiłkomirski from assisting others less fortunate than him during the ensuing war years, nor did it dissuade him from withstanding unwanted pressure from the occupying authorities. If he understandably chose not to speak out while held prisoner, he willingly resisted after he was released. He is known to have helped hide at least one Jewish person who escaped from a work team outside the Warsaw Ghetto. As a musician, he refused to take the position of lead cellist of the General Governorate Philharmonic in Kraków, which was created in 1940 by the occupying authorities and consisted of Polish performers led by German conductors. In early 1942, he rejected a demand to perform Haydn’s Cello Concerto no. 2 with an orchestra that was to present each program twice—once for Germans and once for Poles. The orchestra for the Polish audience was to be led by Adam Dołżycki, the already compromised conductor of the orchestra at the Lardelli café. Renowned violinist Eugenia Umińska (1910–1980), whom Dołżycki allegedly later reported to the Germans for being a member of the underground resistance movement, told Wiłkomirski that she and other musicians in their quartet would no longer perform with him if he went through with these concerts.

3 Wiłkomirski, Wspomnienia, 502–517.

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He did not. His excuse—his hands were frostbitten. (At the end of 1942, Umińska was forced to leave Warsaw and hide in the countryside after she refused to play in a concert organized by the Germans; during a subsequent concert at a café, she was given a false identity card hidden in a bouquet of flowers and left Warsaw almost immediately. She eventually returned and continued concertizing secretly.)4 These anecdotes describe at least some aspects of the typical life of a Polish musician in the central, Nazi-occupied zone of Poland. Continuing many of the same activities undertaken prior to the invasion, albeit under far harsher circumstances that carried with them the nearly constant threat of severe consequences, musicians persevered in finding ways to create music. What differed from the previous twenty years was the sense of community that existed among them. Gone (or at least not visible) were most conflicts among critics, composers, and audiences about the suitable aesthetic markers of musical style. Instead, patriotism—well-honed by their ancestors during the years of partition in the nineteenth-century—came to the foreground of their musical concerns, propelled by their desire to provide some sort of concert scene for their fellow citizens, one in which new and old compositions were welcomed regardless of their musical style. As Elżbieta Dziębowska notes, “never in the history of Polish music were the contacts between composers, performers, and their audiences so close, direct, and maintained on such a broad scale as precisely in those years of Hitler’s terror.”5 Antagonism toward Polish Jews, seemingly never widespread among composers, was replaced, at least in some cases, by compassion and assistance. At the same time, however, Erica Tucker reminds us that many residents of Polish ethnicity saw what they called the “occupation” as a conflict with Germany in which their country’s existence was at risk; the suffering of the Jewish population was not seen as an issue separate from Polish survival.6 The Jews, however, needed assistance from other Poles in order to survive. Tucker has estimated that only about two percent of Poles aided the Jewish people. This low percentage should not be interpreted as reflecting a widespread anti-Semitic attitude among Poles. The risk of helping Jews was high: anyone discovered to be assisting them would have been killed by the Germans. Although some Poles betrayed Jews to the

Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: 23, 136, 201–204; Wilkomirski, Wspomnienia, 551–553; Stanisław Lachowicz, Muzyka w okupowanym Krakowie 1939–1945 (Kraków: Wydawnictwo Literackie, 1988), 21. 5 Dziębowska, “Muzyka w Warszawie,” 71. 6 Tucker, Remembering Occupied Warsaw, 19–20, 142–144. 4

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Nazis, others tried to assist them in various ways even as they dealt with their own severe deprivations.7 In most cases, it was not possible to provide much assistance, since Jews were segregated and enclosed in ghettos beginning in 1940. Due to this ghettoization and the subsequent near annihilation of Poland’s Jewish population, we must remember that many of the extant stories concerning Polish musicians involve only ethnic Poles helping each other; several known exceptions will be mentioned below. Many other voices that could provide more information about this time were silenced as a result of the Holocaust.

Wartime Deprivations and Concentration Camps With the 1939 invasions by both German and Soviet military forces completing a secretly planned division of Poland, the country once again ceased to exist.8 The Polish government went into exile, operating initially in France and from mid-1940 in London. The eastern areas of interwar Poland, including the cities of Lwów and Wilno, were annexed into Soviet territory, only to be taken over by the Germans from 1941–1944. Under Soviet occupation, many Poles in this region were denied citizenship and jobs and were deported, often to Siberia and the Central Asian republics of the Soviet Union. Some who were arrested were either murdered or sent to one of the many Soviet forced labor camps known collectively as the Gulag. The execution of thousands of Polish military officers in the forests near Katyń in the Soviet Union is one well known example of such killings. Some Jewish residents initially welcomed the Soviets, believing they would fare better than under a Nazi regime, but after 1941, Jewish ghettos were created in both cities and some musicians (and others) fled the area.9

7 For one collection of remembrances of non-Jewish Poles either providing or hampering assistance to those who were Jewish, see Bill Tammeus and Jacques Cukierkorn, They Were Just People: Stories of Rescue in Poland During the Holocaust (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 2009); Dabrowski, Poland, 420–421. Brian Porter-Szűcs has estimated that in the General Governorate, about 700 Poles were killed for having Jews in their homes. In Warsaw, 3,000–4,000 Warsaw residents told the Nazis where Jews were hiding, while about 70,000 people there assisted Jews. “The remaining 825,000 non-Jews in the city were just trying to stay alive”: Porter-Szűcs, Poland in the Modern World, 176–177. 8 The agreement to divide Poland is known as the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact or the Nazi-Soviet Pact. Porter-Szűcs, Poland in the Modern World, 150–154. 9 The experiences of musicians in the Soviet zone will be described below. Porter-Szűcs, Poland in the Modern World, 154–157; Dabrowski, 410–411; Andrzej Paczkowski, The Spring Will Be Ours: Poland and the Poles from Occupation to Freedom, trans. Jane Cave (University Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2003), 43–48.

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The western areas of interwar Poland, including Łódź, which was renamed Litzmannstadt, and Poznań (Posen), were incorporated directly into Germany. Many Poles there were sent forcibly back to central Poland, where the Nazi occupiers controlled the area known as the General Governorate. This territory included the major cities of Warsaw, Kraków, and Lublin.10 Polish citizens in that area were subjected to ongoing terror, shootings, and deprivations of food, income, and housing. Jews were crowded into ghettos; many were eventually sent to concentration camps, where the vast majority were murdered; those of Polish ethnicity also lost their lives at the same places. Musicians were not immune from these horrific experiences. Some found themselves in prisons and concentration camps. The Kraków musicologist Zdzisław Jachimecki (1882–1953) was arrested in November 1939 along with many other professors at Jagiellonian University and sent to the Sachsenhausen concentration camp; he was able to return to Kraków in March 1940. Among composers, Roman Palester was arrested by the Gestapo in May 1940 during one of its frequent street roundups. He was released six weeks later, thanks to the efforts of his future wife, Barbara Podoska. In May 1943, Bolesław Woytowicz and his secretary were interrogated by what he called civilians sent by the Nazis to question them about spying. Eventually they were taken to the secretary’s apartment. Thanks to others’ efforts, the radio (a forbidden possession) normally kept there was removed before they arrived. Woytowicz was arrested a few days later and imprisoned for a month; he never learned the precise reasons for his detention.11 Tadeusz Baird (1928–1981), a composer and pianist, was deported to Germany during the 1944 Warsaw Uprising, where he was forced to work on a farm. Later he was sent to build fortifications on the German border; after escaping, he was caught and sent to a concentration camp, where he became seriously ill. Left behind when the Germans abandoned the camp, he was hospitalized for six months after being rescued by the Americans. Andrzej Markowski (1924– 1986) found himself in a prison camp, while Tomasz Kiesewetter (1911–1992) was sent to the Sachenshausen and Mauthausen-Gusen concentration camps

10 Porter-Szűcs, Poland in the Modern World, 157–162. 11 “Kronika muzykologii w Uniwersytecie Jagiellońskim: 1911–2011,” in Małgorzata WoźnaStankiewicz, Zofia Dobrzańska-Fabiańska, and Andrzej Sitarz, eds., Almanach muzykologii krakowskiej 1911–2011 (Kraków: Musica Iagellonica, 2016): 35–37; Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: 107–108, 237.

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after the Uprising.12 Zygmunt Mycielski escaped to France after Poland fell to the Nazis in 1939; there he enlisted in the Polish Armed Forces in the West, which fought against the Nazis and their allies. Taken prisoner by the Germans, he was held until May 1945.13 Jerzy Młodziejowski (1909–1985), a composer, conductor, and teacher in interwar Poznań, participated in the September 1939 battles, then was interned in the Woldenburg prison camp, where he led a prisoner’s orchestra and men’s choir and composed several pieces.14 As the Nazis sought to shutter everything related to Polish culture, musical institutions, including orchestras and opera houses, were forced to close their doors. Conservatories were also prevented from operating, although eventually some functioned secretly, as will be discussed below. As a result, everyone lost their previous sources of income, for there were no commissions or performances offered by interwar organizations and no salaries provided by educational institutions. By the end of the war, a substantial part of the music collections from Polish Radio, the Kraków Music Society’s conservatory, the Warsaw Music Society, the Warsaw Philharmonic, the Warsaw Conservatory, and the National Library had been either confiscated or burned, although thanks to the efforts of Olgierd Straszyński (1903–1971, a violinist and conductor), Tadeusz Ochlewski, Konstanty Regamey, and others, many manuscript scores were saved; these became the basis for wartime and postwar performances.15 Many composers—Bolesław Woytowicz, Stefan Kisielewski, and Piotr Perkowski among them—lost all of their compositional manuscripts, primarily as a result of the failed 1944 Warsaw Uprising. Others, including Witold Lutosławski

12 Barbara Literska, “The War Years,” http://baird.polmic.pl/index.php/en/biography/thewar-years; Katarzyna Naliwajek-Mazurek, “Polish Composers in Occupied Poland,” http:// orelfoundation.org/journal/journalArticle/polish_composers_in_occupied_poland; Marta Szoka, “Kiesewetter, Tomasz,” Kompozytorzy Polscy 1918–2000, ed. Marek Podhajski, vol. 2, Biogramy (Gdańsk: Wydawnictwo Akademii Muzycznej im. Stanisława Moniuszki and Warsaw: Akademia Muzyczna im. Frederyka Chopina, 2005), 379–380. Markowski and Kiesewetter were composers and conductors, primarily after the war. 13 Beata Bolesławska-Lewandowska, ed., Zygmunt Mycielski—Andrzej Panufnik: Korespondencja, Część 1, Lata 1949–1969 (Warsaw: Instytut Sztuki Polskiej Akademii Nauk, 2016), xi. 14 Naliwajek-Mazurek, “Polish Composers in Occupied Poland.” 15 Regamey, who held Swiss citizenship, was able to maneuver more freely than others through the wartime Polish society. He took advantage of this to work closely with conspiratorial organizations. He also hid works of his fellow composers; some of Palester’s music, for example, was saved through Regamey’s efforts. Naliwajek-Mazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 38, 253; Wiłkomirski, Wspomnienia, 534; Marek Andrzejewski, Polski Szwajcar Konstanty Regamey: Przyczynek do polsko-szwajcarskich stosunków kulturalnych i naukowych (Gdańsk: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Gdańskiego, 2016), 41–46.

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and Grażyna Bacewicz, managed to save a few of their own musical scores.16 Ochlewski also preserved several contemporary works by arranging to send copies of them to the London-based Polish government. Among these pieces were Roman Palester’s Sonata for two violins and piano, Roman Padlewski’s String Quartet no. 2, and Stanisław Wiechowicz’s Harvest Cantata (Kantata żniwna).17 Pure luck allowed other scores to survive. For example, Ochlewski had made two copies of Palester’s wartime Violin Concerto and hid them in different places. Although the original manuscript was burned, one of the copies was found in the trash after the war.18 Ochlewski also saved several copies of Palester’s Symphony no. 2 and Regamey’s Quintet for clarinet, bassoon, violin, cello, and piano, although the circumstances surrounding their rescue are unclear.19

Concert Life Officially, symphonic and chamber concerts occurred in wartime Poland, not under the aegis of the interwar philharmonics and music societies, but under the eyes of the occupying government. In reality, however, both public and secret events were held. Outside of the Jewish ghettos, a variety of unofficial music activities throughout the General Governorate took place under the umbrella of the Government Delegation for Poland (Delegatura Rządu na Kraj) and the Office of Information and Propaganda (Biuro Informacji i Propagandy), both underground organizations inside Poland that operated as agencies of the government in exile. Bronisław Rutkowski, who had worked with the Organization for Musical Activity (ORMUZ) during much of the 1930s, was the head of the

16 Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: 88; NaliwajekMazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 259; Gwizdalanka and Meyer, Lutosławski, 2: 130–137; Alina Żórawska-Witkowska, “Straty wojenne,” Ruch Muzyczny 25, no. 14 (1981): 7; Stefan Kisielewski, Grażyna Bacewicz i jej czasy (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1964), 25. 17 Helman, Roman Palester, 89; Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: 235. 18 Roman Palester, Słuch absolutny: Niedokończona autobiografia i listy z lat wojny, ed. Zofia Helman (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 2017), 290. 19 Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: 238–239; “Kronika,” Ruch Muzyczny 2, no. 4 (1946): 31.

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Propaganda Office’s Music Section. He was aided by Edmund Rudnicki (1894– 1969), Piotr Perkowski (who had come to Warsaw from Toruń, which had been annexed by the Germans), and others. Rudnicki, who before the war was the head of Polish Radio’s music department, served as a contact between musicians and the Polish government in exile. Among other things, these men helped to organized a Secret Musicians’ Union.20 Performing Polish music became an important focus of their concert-making activities, which were designed to lift the spirits of the country’s citizens, serve as acts of rebellion against the occupiers, and offer a means of financial and moral support, even if limited, to Polish musicians. Many concerts and recitals were organized in local cafés, private apartments, theaters, and churches in Warsaw, Kraków, and other cities. As Katarzyna Naliwajek has explained, German authorities in the General Governorate permitted café concerts to occur because they considered them to be easier to control than private functions. She also points out that “the role of music censorship in the General Government [Governorate] . . . was to secure a suitably low artistic level of the repertoire played by Poles and for Poland and to reinforce its compliance to the rules of the day divesting music of grand ideas and links to any Polish identity. This censorship was a potent tool of manipulation . . . [and] part of a ‘cultural politics’, which aimed at proving the traditional superiority of truly German art and at effecting the extinction of Polish and Polish-Jewish culture.”21 German authorities in the General Governorate required all concert programs organized by Poles to be submitted for approval.22 This edict, of course, was ignored by the organizers of events held in private apartments. For public concerts, compositions by Jewish composers were forbidden, along with anything regarded as being a symbol of the Polish nation, such as Frédéric Chopin’s music

20 This union was led by Rudnicki, Perkowski, Ochlewski, Jan Ekier, and Eugeniusz Morawski. Dziębowska, “Muzyka w Warszawie,” 51–52; Stanisław Lorentz, “W Muzeum i gdzie indziej,” in Walka o dobra kultury: Warszawa 1939–1945, ed. Stanisław Lorentz (Warsaw: Państwowy Instytut Wydawniczy, 1970), 1: 34–37; Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: 235; Naliwajek-Mazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 253. 21 Naliwajek-Mazurek, “Nazi Censorship in Music, Warsaw 1941,” 155–157. 22 One such written request for approval can be seen in Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: 200. See also Naliwajek-Mazurek, “The Use of Polish Musical Traditions in the Nazi Propaganda,” Musicology Today 7 (2010): 251–252.

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and other Polish compositions considered patriotic in nature. For a time, many Polish pieces disappeared from programs, although as Konstanty Regamey explained, the names of Polish composers were sometimes Russified in order to fool the censors. Those with non-Polish sounding names (for example, Jan Ekier and Stanisław Kazuro) also passed muster with the authorities.23 Russian pieces were also banned as of early 1941, in anticipation of the planned German invasion of the Soviet Union. At about the same time, Chopin’s music was again permitted without fear of censorship, although Naliwajek has suggested that musicians in “non-collaborationist cafés” refrained from performing these compositions. In practice, fictitious programs were sometimes submitted, while forbidden music was actually performed.24 In Kraków, the Visual Artists’ Café (Kawiarnia Plastyków) seems to have been the city’s most popular site for concertizing, although interest in it diminished following the arrest of about 200 men there in April 1940. Most of these detainees were transported to Auschwitz and killed. Among the numerous performers who appeared in Kraków’s cafés were those who were also active after the war: pianists Jan Ekier (1913–2014, also a composer) and Tadeusz Żmudziński (1924–1992) and violinists Eugenia Umińska and Irena Dubiska. Musicians who refused to register as required with the Nazi government in Poland are known to have performed secretly in Kraków homes.25 Among the many musicians who participated in Warsaw’s café performances were Bolesław Woytowicz, who convened daily performances at the House of Art (Dom Sztuki) café that were so popular seats were often reserved up to six

23 Konstanty Regamey, “Muzyka polska pod okupacją niemiecką,” Horyzonty 1, no. 1 (1946): 18. 24 Naliwajek-Mazurek has discussed the Nazification of Chopin’s music. Naliwajek-Mazurek, “The Use of Polish Musical Traditions in the Nazi Propaganda,” 253–256; NaliwajekMazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 38; Krystyna Kopeczek-Michalska, “Jawne i tajne życie koncertowe w Warszawie w latach okupacji hitlerowskiej,” Muzyka 15, no. 3 (1970): 50; Dziębowska, “Muzyka w Warszawie,” 54. 25 All Poles were required to obtain a Kennkarte from the Nazis, which served as an identification card that typically indicated the holder’s profession, religion, and ethnicity. In practice, these were sometimes forged, which allowed Jews and others to operate under a false identity. An example of this card can be seen at https://polona.pl/item/generalgouvernementkennkarte-generalne-gubernatorstwo-karta-rozpoznawcza,ODAwMTkxOTM/1/#info: metadata; Lachowicz, Muzyka w okupowanym Krakowie, 101–109, 124–130; NaliwajekMazurek, “Polish Composers in Occupied Poland.”

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weeks in advance, and Piotr Perkowski, who initiated the idea of such presentations at the behest of unemployed musicians in Warsaw; he also worked with the aforementioned RGO to provide financial assistance to artists as well as to prisoners’ families. Audiences were almost exclusively Polish, although occasionally Germans also attended.26 Jewish musicians rarely participated in these events, for they were officially forbidden from taking part in cultural activities. Few Jewish musicians performed in cafés or orchestras, even though they had done so prior to the war. Nearly all of them attempted to hide from the Nazi occupiers. Most eventually found themselves in the ghettos.27 At one time or another, nearly all of Warsaw’s cafés provided music. Two stand out in the memories of participants: Art and Fashion (Sztuka i Moda, or SiM), where 1,300 concerts are said to have been presented over the course of the war, and At the Actresses (U Aktorek).28 In the At the Actresses café, Polish patriotic songs (presumably not submitted to the censor) were sung between politically acceptable classical pieces.29 Numerous works by living Polish composers were offered alongside those by Ludwig van Beethoven, Franz Schubert, Claude Debussy, Karol Szymanowski, and many others. Among the Polish pieces performed were Roman Palester’s Sonata for two violins and piano, Stefan Kisielewski’s Trio for oboe, clarinet, and bassoon, quartets by Feliks Rybicki (1899–1978) and Kazimierz Wiłkomirski, and the premiere of Grażyna Bacewicz’s String Quartet no. 2 and Witold Lutosławski’s songs The Water Nymph (Wodnica) and July Lullaby (Kołysanka lipcowa).30

26 Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, eds. Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: 19, 94–98; NaliwajekMazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 36; Kopeczek-Michalska, “Jawne i tajne życie koncertowe w Warszawie,” 49–50, 55–62. 27 Władysław Szpilman performed openly prior to the opening of the Warsaw Ghetto. Elżbieta Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, eds. Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: 136, 256, 290; Lachowicz, Muzyka w okupowanym Krakowie, 132; Naliwajek-Mazurek, “Music in NaziOccupied Poland between 1939 and 1945,” 64. 28 Szarota provides perhaps the most extensive list of Warsaw cafés offering musical performances. Tomasz Szarota, Okupowanej Warszawy dzień powszedni: Studium historyczne, 3rd ed. (Warsaw: Czytelnik, 1988), 349–352; Dziębowska, “Muzyka w Warszawie,” 57. 29 Naliwajek-Mazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 69. 30 The two volumes of Okupacyjne losy muzyków include many examples of concert programs. Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, eds. Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: 234; NaliwajekMazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 175, 178, 183, 252. Małgorzata Gąsiorowska, Bacewicz (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1999), 454; Gwizdalanka and Meyer, Lutosławski, 2: 473.

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The now famous piano duo of Witold Lutosławski and Andrzej Panufnik (who were also composers) played most frequently at the Art and Fashion café, where their virtuosic performances became one of its main attractions. (Figure 3 is a poster advertising a November 1942 performance.) They created more than 200 arrangements of classical pieces by composers ranging from Johann Sebastian Bach to Maurice Ravel, Igor Stravinsky, and Karol Szymanowski, all of which were destroyed by war’s end. Panufnik recalled later that they also occasionally dabbled in jazz arrangements and even George Gershwin’s music.31 One program they presented in the city of Lublin, southeast of Warsaw, illustrates the diversity of pieces offered on their performances. This event included their arrangement of themes from Bizet’s opera Carmen, another of a waltz by Johann Strauss, and a jazz rendition of Liszt’s Liebestraum. Also on the program were short works by Mozart, Brahms, Schubert, Ravel, Isaac Albeniz, and Manuel de Falla.32 Such a blend of pieces offered something to satisfy the musical tastes of all listeners, including those more attuned to popular music. As Katarzyna Naliwajek has suggested, Lutosławski and Panufnik probably traveled to Lublin to perform because a café there offered them the opportunity to earn badly needed money.33 On a different program, time was reserved for audience requests, which attests to the technical accomplishments of these two pianist-composers as well as their willingness to invest in satisfying the desires of those in attendance, who risked being caught in the random roundups and arrests carried out by the Nazi occupiers.34 If forbidden pieces were requested, they may have been performed, especially if no Germans were in attendance. According to one anecdote, Lutosławski had composed his Variations on a Theme by Paganini (Wariacje na temat Paganiniego) for two pianos in 1941 at the urging of one of the Arria café’s waiters, who before the war had performed with the Warsaw Philharmonic.35 Such shifts of employment were typical; café staff had often been musicians and actors before September 1939.

31 Presumably, jazz works and pieces by Gershwin, a Jewish composer, were omitted from programs submitted to the Germans for approval, although this cannot be determined for sure. 32 The program is printed in Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, eds. Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: 49. 33 Correspondence with Katarzyna Naliwajek, December 2021. 34 Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: 79. 35 Gwizdalanka and Meyer, Lutosławski, 1: 115.

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Figure 3.  Poster for performances at Warsaw’s Art and Fashion café, 1942. Public domain36

Cafés where concerts were held were sometimes the sites of conspiratorial meetings and hiding places for weapons controlled by the underground opposition. As Andrzej Markowski recounted later, when performing at a café at which members of the “conspiracy” were present, he knew he needed to play loudly in order to “drown out” conversations.37 These café concerts were also inherently risky in other ways. Raids could occur at any time. In one such instance, everyone was arrested one day in December 1940 at a café located in the ruins of the Warsaw Philharmonic building.38 Witold Lutosławski later recalled the time when shots were fired at Warsaw’s Art and Fashion café while he and Andrzej Panufnik were performing. German soldiers entered with machine guns and ordered the men to stand against the wall; the women were told to leave. Nearly all of the men were arrested and imprisoned for several weeks. Panufnik and Lutosławski were lucky: Panufnik, who spoke German, insisted he needed to go the kitchen to get his coat. Inexplicably, he was allowed to do so. There, the café’s owners, who were 36 https://polona.pl/item/afisz-inc-24-xi-wtorek-w-niemczyk,ODQ2MDk0Nzk/0/. 37 Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: 91; Naliwajek-Mazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 59. 38 Naliwajek-Mazurek, “Polish Composers in Occupied Poland.”

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providing the names of their employees to the soldiers, saw him and decided to include the two musicians in their list. Thus, these composer-performers avoided being taken to prison.39 Among the composers who ended up in Auschwitz during the war were Henryk Gadomski (1907–1941), Bronisław Onufry Kopczyński (1916–1943), Adam Kopyciński (1907–1982), and Szymon Laks, who was of Jewish background. Gadomski died at Auschwitz; Kopczyński lost this life at the Majdanek concentration camp. Both Kopyciński and Laks conducted the Auschwitz camp orchestra.40 As mentioned above, between 1942 and 1944 the Central Aid Council (RGO) sponsored occasional symphony concerts at the Warsaw Conservatory building as well as some chamber concerts at cafés. These were organized with the assistance of Jerzy Waldorff, Stanisław Kazuro, Piotr Perkowski, and others. Such events were held in Kraków as well.41 Katarzyna Naliwajek has suggested that the Germans tolerated these concerts as a means of obtaining the good will of the public for its fight with the Soviets.42 In 1943, as public executions on the streets of Warsaw were increasing, Waldorff and others met to decide whether to continue these concerts, given their inherent risks. They decided to continue, believing that they provided a calming effect for local citizens.43 Panufnik conducted the premieres of his Tragic Overture (Uwertura tragiczna) and Symphony no. 2 at two of these concerts. The musicians reportedly applauded his overture, which, despite the composer’s stated intentions, included onomatopoeic sounds of bombs, airplanes, and machine guns that recalled wartime experiences.44 His manuscript score, the final portion of which is shown in Figure 4, was innovative for that time; staves are present only if a particular instrument has something to play.45 39 Naliwajek-Mazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 36. 40 Naliwajek-Mazurek, “Polish Composers in Occupied Poland.” Arrested by the Germans in 1941, Laks was sent to concentration camps in Auschwitz and Dachau. Following the war, he returned to France and took French citizenship. For his account of his camp experiences, see Szymon Laks, Music of Another World, trans. Chester A. Kisiel (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1989). 41 Lachowicz, Muzyka w okupowanym Krakowie, 21–49. 42 Naliwajek-Mazurek, “Polish Composers in Occupied Poland.” 43 Dziębowska, “Muzyka w Warszawie,” 53–55. 44 Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: 55; Andrzej Panufnik, Composing Myself (London: Methuen, 1987), 119–120. 45 Lady Camilla Panufnik, the composer’s widow, has suggested that the faint vertical lines visible in the last nine measures of Figure 4 may have been added by whomever was conducting the piece from this manuscript (which may have been her husband). It is also possible that the composer inserted them to indicate possible changes he wished to make in

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Figure 4.  Andrzej Panufnik, Tragic Overture, the final twenty-eight measures. Manuscript excerpt courtesy of Jagiellonian University. Date unknown (c. 1942). Courtesy of Lady Camilla Panufnik

Figure 4.  continued

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Other recently written Polish works presented at these events included Witold Rudziński’s Divertimento for string orchestra, Ludomir Różycki’s Polish Dances (Tańce polskie) for piano, Antoni Szałowski’s Overture, and Roman Statkowski’s Overture to his opera Maria. Older Polish works by Stanisław Moniuszko, Karol Szymanowski, and Mieczysław Karłowicz (1876–1909) were also programmed, as were pieces by Ludwig van Beethoven, Robert Schumann, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and others.46 Other orchestras performed at the European Hotel and the Gastronomia café in Warsaw; the latter ensemble was conducted by Zygmunt Latoszewski (1902– 1995). Olgierd Straszyński directed an underground orchestra associated with Polish Radio, which offered concerts and broadcasts (even though possession of radios was forbidden).47 Warsaw’s Lardelli café hosted orchestral concerts conducted by Adam Dołżycki, using musicians from the city’s interwar philharmonic. These audiences initially included both Germans and Poles. However, Dołżycki was discredited by Poles after he spoke in German to the attendees and declared himself a Ukrainian rather than a Polish citizen. Perhaps most damaging, he purportedly provided information on Polish conspiratorial activities to the Nazis, as mentioned above with respect to Umińska. The underground Musicians’ Union retaliated by banning musicians from performing with him. At other times, however, the union made exceptions about where Poles could perform, ostensibly to preserve an illusion of cooperating with the Germans, which in turn helped to conceal conspiratorial activities and assist Polish musicians who needed proof of employment or perhaps had Jewish family members.48 Numerous clandestine concerts at private homes were held for Polish audiences. Tadeusz Ochlewski, Piotr Perkowski, and many others provided space for these gatherings. Although it is impossible to determine the total number of such concerts, Elżbieta Dziębowska has reported that in 1942 alone there were several hundred such events in Warsaw involving about 150 musicians.49 At these sites of illegal music-making, Polish music could be performed without fear of censorship; indeed, the compositions of Frédéric Chopin and Karol

46 47 48 49

these measures. Correspondence with Lady Camilla Panufnik, December 2021. For more information on this manuscript, see Adrian Thomas, “Panufnik Revised: Tragic Overture,” https://onpolishmusic.com/articles/%e2%80%a2-panufnik-articles/%e2%80%a2-panufnikrevised-tragic-overture-2015/. Dziębowska, “Muzyka w Warszawie,” 54; Naliwajek-Mazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 268. Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: 13–14, 19; NaliwajekMazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 226. Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: 136. Dziębowska, “Muzyka w Warszawie,” 61.

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Szymanowski occupied places of honor. Such events also provided another space in which many living composers could receive premieres of their works.50 At both cafés and homes, the finest soloists performed, including violinists Eugenia Umińska and Grażyna Bacewicz, cellist Kazimierz Wiłkomirski, vocalist Ewa Bandrowska-Turska (1894–1979), and pianists Bolesław Woytowicz, Zbigniew Drzewiecki, Jan Ekier, Władysław Kędra (1918–1968), and Jerzy Lefeld (1898–1980).51 Musicians were paid for their contributions, as they were for Central Aid Council (RGO) concerts and other events. As always, participants were constantly vigilant, hoping to avoid arrest, imprisonment, torture, transportation to a concentration camp, or just capture and execution on the streets. Audiences remained silent instead of applauding; everyone arrived and left in small groups or alone over an extended period of time in order to avoid drawing attention to themselves.52 Perhaps most surprisingly, and certainly appreciated by Warsaw’s residents, in January 1940 Stefan Śledziński (1897–1986), a musicologist and conductor, organized an ad hoc street ensemble from former members of a military orchestra. Approved by the occupying authorities, this approximately twentyfive member group ostensibly performed opera arias and symphonic music, but in reality, its repertoire included as much Polish music as possible. Under the sounds of its performances, which occurred in mid-town Warsaw, members of conspiracy organizations exchanged information. Due to the danger of unexpected roundups by German soldiers, the ensemble existed less than three months. A different street orchestra with a similar repertoire played a few blocks away. During the Warsaw Uprising, which began on August 1, 1944, Śledziński put together a wind ensemble that presented a daily series called “A Moment of Serious Music” at the Warsaw Conservatory.53 These ensembles served not only as street entertainment for pedestrians, but as patriotic links between society and culture in solidarity against the Nazis. The Germans were not reluctant to create musical events in Poland. In Kraków, the capital of the General Governorate, music intended to be heard only by Germans (for information was provided in German) was heard frequently in the form of chamber music, solo recitals, and choirs. Opera productions 50 Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, eds. Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: passim; NaliwajekMazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: passim; “Polska twórczość muzyczna pod okupacją,” Ruch Muzyczny 1, no. 1 (1945): 14. 51 Bacewicz, Wiłkomirski, Ekier, and Woytowicz were also composers. 52 Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, eds. Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: 204; NaliwajekMazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 63–64. 53 Kopeczek-Michalska, “Jawne i tajne życie koncertowe,” 52, 64.

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featuring Polish musicians were presented, although the underground authorities called for these to be boycotted. In Kraków, as alluded to earlier, the General Governorate Philharmonic offered performances for German audiences (again, indicated by the language of the publicity materials) and, less often, for Polish audiences (during the 1941–1942 season, eight of the thirty-seven concerts were for Poles). Not surprisingly, German repertoire dominated its programs. Polish compositions were apparently unheard, with the exception of a handful of encores, an all-Chopin concert for Poles in 1941, and performances of Frédéric Chopin’s two piano concertos during the 1943–1944 season.54 Similarly, the occupying authorities formed an orchestra of Polish musicians at Warsaw’s Polish Theater. Walerian Bierdiajew (1885–1956) was permitted by the Secret Musicians’ Union to conduct there in order to avoid retaliation against his Jewish spouse. Bolesław Woytowicz refused to participate, saying he performed as a pianist only in his own salon. He claimed to have never played for the Germans.55 In the regions incorporated into Germany, where all elements of Polish culture were to be eliminated, residents were not permitted to enter cafés or organize any kind of cultural event. Nevertheless, in Łódź, some musical activity occurred even though many musicians had been forced to leave the area; the remaining Polish members of that city’s interwar orchestra reportedly offered programs in factory halls and at the YMCA.56 In Soviet-occupied portions of what had been Polish lands between the wars, musical life initially continued openly, with symphonic and chamber concerts occurring, for example, in Lviv (Lwów) and Vilnius (Wilno), much as they had prior to September 1939. The new authorities subsidized these initiatives financially, perhaps as a propaganda tool to gain the loyalty of the local populace. (Musicians there were not supported financially or otherwise by the Polish government in exile based in London.) As J. Mackenzie Pierce has reported, concert repertoire included pieces by composers such as Ludwig van Beethoven and Claude Debussy along with an increased emphasis on Soviet repertoire. Polish compositions were not ignored; works by Józef Koffler (Joyful Overture

54 The audience for the all-Chopin concert reportedly did not applaud at all, apparently not wanting to praise the Nazi occupiers who had established the orchestra. Lachowicz, Muzyka w okupowanym Krakowie, 21–49, 76–81, 85–95. 55 Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, eds. Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: 104; NaliwajekMazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 137. 56 Ryszard Bonisławski, “Miejsca rozbrzmiewające muzyką,” 90 lat Filharmonii Łódzkiej, ed. Krystyna Juszyńska (Łódź: Akademia Muzyczna im. Grażyny i Kiejstuta Bacewiczów, 2006), 35; Naliwajek-Mazurek, “Polish Composers in Occupied Poland.”

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[Uwertura radosna]), Kazimierz Sikorski, and Piotr Perkowski were among those programmed.57 In Lviv, an orchestra consisting mostly of Jewish musicians was active until the German takeover of that city.58 At the same time, however, the new Soviet-installed regime in the former Polish borderlands required its citizens to show allegiance to its ideology and policies. As mentioned earlier, multiple rounds of deportations to the interior of the Soviet Union occurred and living conditions worsened considerably, even as Jews flooded the area to escape the Nazi takeover of the rest of Poland.59 After the 1941 invasion of these same regions by German forces, public concert life ceased and musical performances were driven underground, as had already occurred elsewhere in the General Governorate. Among the Polish composers who remained in the area, Tadeusz Machl (1922–2003), a composer and organist, participated in these clandestine concerts.60 Witold Rudziński taught and was a church organist in Vilnius while it remained in Soviet hands. In 1942 he and his family moved to the small town of Niemenczyn (today, Nemenčinė, Lithuania) northeast of Vilnius; after several months, they arrived in Warsaw, where he took a job as a fumigation specialist but maintained ties with his fellow musicians.61 Tadeusz Szeligowski remained in Vilnius, working as a church organist after his position at the conservatory was eliminated with the German takeover of the city.

Camaraderie in the Midst of War One positive aspect of these wartime concerts (notwithstanding those organized by the occupiers for their own citizens) was the public’s deeper appreciation for classical music and musicians. The indifference of potential audience members to professional composers and musicians that had been apparent during the interwar period gradually dissipated, according to available accounts. The mix of popular and more serious music on café concerts may have enticed

57 Koffler’s overture was performed on January 15, 1941 in Lviv. His Händeliana was also presented there in 1940. Pierce, “Life and Death,” 183–184; Gołąb, Józef Koffler, 262–263. 58 Gwizdalanka, 100 lat z dziejów polskiej muzyki, 54. 59 Porter-Szűcs, Poland in the Modern World, 154–157. 60 Gwizdalanka, 100 lat z dziejów polskiej muzyki, 54; “Tadeusz Machl,” https://polmic.pl/ index.php?option=com_mwosoby&id=89&litera=15&view=czlowiek&Itemid=5&lang =en. 61 Teresa Bochwic, Kalendarium życia Witolda Rudzińskiego, unpublished. My thanks to Ms. Bochwic for providing this material.

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many to attend these events; audiences included those who would not have attended a classical music event prior to the occupation. The sheer number of classical compositions on these programs, however, demonstrates that the popularization of such music, widely discussed before the war (and at least partly achieved through amateur choral concerts and the activities of the Organization for Musical Activity [ORMUZ]), came to partial fruition for at least a few years. As Regamey explained immediately following the war, “Even people who had never attended concerts before the war considered it a point of honor to go regularly to all café performances.”62 He continued, “. . . Never in prewar [interwar] times did we meet a public so absorbed and full of enthusiasm as at these modest private meetings [the home concerts] . . . Numerous ‘lay’ people, initially drawn only through a social obligation, quickly succumbed to the atmosphere of veneration for art that reigned at these concerts and became persistent lovers of music.”63 Through these performances and frequent contacts with other musicians, young composers and performers were also able to enhance their musical education. Jan Krenz (1926–2020), a conductor and composer, has noted that at the House of Art (Dom Sztuki) café, whose musical programs were managed by Bolesław Woytowicz, he heard a version of Szymanowski’s Symphony No. 4 arranged for two pianos. As he said, the café “was my school for practical music during the occupation.”64 He also mentioned that Roman Padlewski had shown him scores of works by Béla Bartók, Igor Stravinsky, and Anton Webern, although works by these composers were rarely, if ever performed in Poland either before or during the occupation.65 Many composers found themselves in Warsaw during the war, having relocated from Gdańsk, Poznań, Katowice, Vilnius (Wilno), and other cities. Able to work together more closely than had been the case in previous decades, they cooperated in organizing the activities described above and also made plans to rebuild musical life after the war. To this end, several committees were created that were intended to develop strategies for restarting opera and philharmonic presentations, reconstructing cultural institutions, and re-opening music schools. Piotr Perkowski led these efforts. Among those who agreed to assist him were many of the now familiar names from the interwar and wartime eras:

62 63 64 65

Regamey, “Muzyka polska pod okupacją niemiecką,” Horyzonty 1, no. 1 (1946): 17. Regamey, “Muzyka polska pod okupacją niemiecką,” Horyzonty 1, no. 2 (1946): 25. Naliwajek-Mazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 90. Ibid., 2: 89.

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Konstanty Regamey, Zbigniew Turski, Bolesław Woytowicz, Jerzy Waldorff, Stanisław Kazuro, Stefan Śledziński, Roman Padlewski, and others.66

Composing New Music in Occupied Poland As mentioned earlier, musicians were usually paid by the underground authorities for their activities in cafés, churches, theaters, and private homes. Composers, many of whom also performed at these events, also received commissions, at least for some of their new compositions. About 200,000 zlotys were dispersed to composers in the form of commissions and general aid during the war.67 By doing so, the future of Polish music could be enriched with new offerings. Tadeusz Ochlewski, working through the Office of Information and Propaganda and the Secret Musicians’ Union, offered commissions for songs composed by Witold Lutosławski, Jan Ekier, and Andrzej Panufnik; these were published after the war as Underground Battle Songs (Pieśni Walki Podziemnej). During the war, as Panufnik has recounted, these songs were printed on underground presses and distributed by the Home Army, the underground Polish military resistance organization.68 One of Panufnik’s contributions, Warsaw Children (Warszawskie dzieci, Figure 5) was perhaps the most popular song of that era.69 With its catchy, march-like tune and inspirational text (written by the poet Stanisław Ryszard Dobrowolski) that promises a strenuous battle to save the city, it was recorded by Poland’s underground radio station and quickly gained popularity during the Warsaw Uprising. Still well-known in contemporary Poland, it is sung every August 1, the date the Warsaw Uprising began in 1944.70

66 Lorentz, “W Muzeum i gdzie indziej,” 37; Naliwajek-Mazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 62. 67 Piotr Perkowski noted in 1945 that the accounting of the financial situation during the occupation was reconstructed from memory since all relevant documents had been lost. ZKP, 12/1 (Walny Zjazd ZKP 29.XVIII–1.IX.1945), Sprawozdanie finansowe Z. K. P. 68 Naliwajek-Mazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 40, 254; Bolesławska, The Life and Works of Andrzej Panufnik (1914–1991), trans. Richard J. Reisner (Farnham: Ashgate, 2015), 60; Witold Lutosławski, Pieśni walki podziemnej, vol. 1 (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1948). The back cover to this latter publication lists the contents of the three volumes of these Underground Battle Songs by Lutosławski, Ekier, and Panufnik. 69 “Warszawskie dzieci (wyk. Zespół wokalny Polskiego Radia),” https://ninateka.pl/vod/ kolekcje/warszawskie-dzieci-wyk-zespol-wokalny-polskiego-radia/. 70 Filip Lech, “Singing After the Uprising: Contemporary Warsaw Uprising Music,” https:// culture.pl/en/article/singing-after-the-uprising-contemporary-warsaw-uprising-music.

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71

Figure 5.  Andrzej Panufnik, Warsaw Children, 1944. AKP, Andrzej Panufnik Collection.71 Courtesy of Lady Camilla Panufnik

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71 This version of Warsaw Children was found at Panufnik’s Twickenham, England home and donated to the Archive of Polish Composers (AKP). It is a photo of a 1944 original manuscript, which was notated by hand on small, individual pages. How it came to be in Panufnik’s possession in England is unknown. I am grateful to Beata Bolesławska-Lewandowska, Piotr Maculewicz, and Magdalena Borowiec for their assistance in identifying and providing this image.

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Composers were also able to earn money by participating in a 1942 song competition organized by Bronisław Rutkowski in conjunction with other underground agencies. The winning songs, which included Jan Ekier’s Song for the Attack (Szturmówka) and Jan Adam Maklakiewicz’s To Arms, Poles (Do broni, Polacy), were published secretly in April 1943 by the Office of Information and Propaganda in a collection titled Military Songs (Pieśni zbrojne, whose front page showed an intentionally deceptive publication year of 1938).72 As with nearly all activities involving underground activities, the composers of these songs were identified only by pseudonyms in these publications. Although the vast majority of compositions performed during the war in Poland were of the chamber variety, suitable for presentation in the small performing spaces available to musicians, composers did not limit themselves to that genre. Orchestral works have already been mentioned above in reference to the Central Aid Council (RGO) concerts. Several composers also spent precious time writing pieces they almost certainly knew would not be performed until the war’s end. Indeed, an impressive number and variety of compositions came to life during the war, testimony to the enduring belief that music was an important part of life even in the appalling conditions that confronted Polish residents. To mention just a few examples, Roman Palester’s wartime catalog included a Concertino for piano and orchestra, his String Quartet no. 3, Symphony no. 2, Violin Concerto, and Wedding Cake (Kołacze) for women’s choir and chamber orchestra. Andrzej Panufnik completed his aforementioned Tragic Overture and the now lost Symphony no. 1 and Symphony no. 2. Witold Lutosławski, in addition to his almost daily café performances and composition of the underground battle songs, completed Two Etudes for piano, Ten Interludes for oboe and bassoon, two sets of canons for multiple clarinets, and other miniatures. He also started sketching what would become his Symphony no. 1. Sacred music was not neglected, for Kazimierz Sikorski’s Stabat Mater for four voices, choir, and orchestra and Bolesław Szabelski’s Magnificat for soprano, choir, and orchestra emerged during this time. Piotr Rytel managed to write a three-act opera, The Crusaders (Krzyżowcy), which apparently was never performed. Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, who initially participated in the musical life of Warsaw’s cafés and for which he composed several chamber pieces, also completed a ballet, a

72 “Do broni, Polacy,” https://bibliotekapiosenki.pl/utwory/Do_broni_Polacy; https:// polona.pl/item/piesni-zbrojne,NzQyNTQ0NTE/4/; Naliwajek-Mazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 254–255.

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symphonic poem, and three Masses.73 He left Warsaw to avoid being arrested as part of a German retaliatory measure and spent the last half of the war in a small village.74 A listing of some of the premieres known to have occurred at concerts in private homes provides further insight into composers’ determination not only to feed their own creative juices but also to provide music for their compatriots. Among the works receiving first performances were Grażyna Bacewicz’s Sonata for solo violin, Piano Sonata no. 3, and Suite for two violins, Stefan Kisielewski’s Suite for violin and piano, Six Preludes and Fugues for piano, and Clarinet Sonata, Jan Krenz’s String Quartet no. 1, Artur Malawski’s Burlesque (Burleska) for violin and piano, Roman Padlewski’s String Quartet no. 2 and Sonata for solo violin, Roman Palester’s Sonata for two violins and piano and Sonatina for piano four-hands, Andrzej Panufnik’s Symphony no. 2, Konstanty Regamey’s Persian Songs (Pieśni perskie) and Quintet, and quartets by Witold Rudziński, Zbigniew Turski, and Stanisław Wiechowicz.75 Although this recounting of wartime compositions is far from complete, it hopefully indicates that composers did not let the war completely sever their passion for creating music of substantial size and difficulty, despite continual deprivations and fears. Many of the compositions written during this period retained the neoclassic or romantic qualities that had characterized those originating in the interwar period. This does not mean that originality was lacking, however. Grażyna Bacewicz, in her Sonata for solo violin, continued her previous line of reaching for baroque and classical forms but imbued them with unceasing motoric rhythms, melodic sequences, and chromatic complexities that often obscured tonal structures.76 In a similar vein, Roman Padlewski’s String Quartet no. 2 is replete with expressionist qualities. According to Adrian Thomas, this composer’s Sonata for solo violin is “an exploration of free atonality

73 Lech Dzierżanowski, “Roman Palester: Chronological List,” http://palester.polmic.pl/ index.php/en/works/chronological-list; Bolesławska, The Life and Works of Andrzej Panufnik, 315–316; Gwizdalanka and Meyer, Lutosławski, 2: 475–478; Walcholc, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, 65–71; Leon Markiewicz, Bolesław Szabelski: Życie i twórczość (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1995), 33; Dziębowska, “Muzyka w Warszawie,” 68. 74 This incident was related to the fact that the Germans sent more than 200 people to Auschwitz in retaliation for the execution of Karol Julian Sym, a Pole who spied for the Nazi occupiers. This killing had been ordered by the Polish underground authorities. Wacholc, Jan Adam Maklakiewiecz, 67. 75 “Polska twórczość muzyczna pod okupacją,” Ruch Muzyczny 1, no. 1 (1945): 14; NaliwajekMazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 90; Gąsiorowska, Bacewicz, 453. 76 Grażyna Bacewicz, Utwory na skrzypce solo (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1985).

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within modified classical structures.”77 Konstanty Regamey’s Quintet for for clarinet, bassoon, violin, cello, and piano was probably the most innovative of those performed during the war, at least among surviving works. The Quintet, which utilizes a forty-six-note atonal melody, represents Regamey’s attempt to synthesize dodecaphony with neoclassicism and romanticism.78 Its premiere in Warsaw in June 1944 was met by audiences who were amazed by its ingenuity and virtuosity. As Witold Lutosławski noted, it was “the first example of dodecaphony . . . that acquired such a vivid resonance among Warsaw’s musical world. Even the most conservative musicians were extremely excited about it.”79 Whether Lutosławski had Piotr Rytel and other devotees of more traditional musical styles in mind is not known, although we know that Rytel was in Warsaw at the time.

Jewish Musicians and Musical Life As discussed in the preceding chapter, some Jewish musicians in Poland had taken note of the anti-Semitic rhetoric and actions surrounding them and left the country prior to the Nazi invasion. Others departed soon thereafter. Among them, Mateusz Gliński, the editor of the interwar periodical Muzyka and, as alluded to previously, the subject of a defamation campaign in the mid-1930s, stayed abroad, where he had been in September 1939. Grzegorz Fitelberg, realizing that his life as a Jewish conductor under German occupation would be difficult at best, accepted an invitation to work in Italy and left Poland, returning only after the war.80 At least one composer of Jewish background, Tadeusz Zygfryd Kassern, managed to hide to avoid ending up in a ghetto; the fact that he now professed a Christian faith was not important to the occupiers. Just before the start of the war, he had gone to Lwów from Poznań (which would be incorporated into Germany proper), but he relocated to Kraków in 1940. Fearing arrest there after 77 Thomas, Polish Music, 20. 78 Alicja Jarzębska, “Synteza neoklasycznego i dodekafonicznego idiomu kompozytorskiego w ‘Kwintecie’ Konstantego Regameya,” in Oblicza polistylizmu: Materiały sympozjum poświęconego twórczości Konstantego Regameya, Warszawa, 29–30 maja 1987, ed. Krystyna Tarnawska-Kaczorowska (Warsaw: Sekcja Muzykologów Związku Kompozytorów Polskich, 1988), 112–136. 79 Naliwajek-Mazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 38. 80 Redakcja i Administracja, [no title], Muzyka 13, nos. 1–6 (1936): [separate insert]; Drzewiecki, Wspomnienia, 97–98; Naliwajek-Mazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 258.

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someone told the Gestapo about his Jewish heritage, he went to Warsaw, where he hid under an alias for the duration of the occupation.81 Józef Koffler, also Jewish, taught at the Lviv State Conservatory that was created by the Soviet authorities in 1940 from a merger of pre-existing schools.82 As mentioned earlier, Lviv (as Lwów was called from the start of the war until 1941) was transformed into a Sovietized city, complete with the assumption that its residents would conform to its new ideological conditions. Polish citizens were expected to support the government.83 Koffler’s compositional style seems to have changed to align with that desired by the Soviet government. This was, in effect, a socialist realist style that demanded simplicity of means, not the dodecaphony for which he had been known in interwar Poland. Given that in 1935, he had criticized the Soviet works submitted to that year’s International Society for Contemporary Music (ISCM) festival for employing “obsolete and sometimes incompetent technique,”84 his stylistic shift most likely reflected a conscious attempt to adapt his work to his new situation. Given the substance of these 1935 remarks and his comments a year later in support of Alban Berg, his statements published in 194085 in which he denounced the interwar musical culture of Lwów and welcomed the arrival of the Soviets, with their alleged support for creative works of all kinds, would seem to be of dubious sincerity. As Koffler’s biographer Maciej Gołąb has discussed, the composer’s Symphony no. 4, completed in 1940 but begun prior to the war, still reflected his interest in dodecaphony, now intertwined with late Romantic harmonies. Such a shift had also characterized other Koffler works from the late 1930s. Yet Koffler probably recognized that this piece would not appeal to concert organizers in Lviv; the symphony is not known to have been performed during the war. His last compositions, Joyful Overture (commemorating the first anniversary of the Soviet invasion of Poland), and Ukrainian Sketches (Szkice ukraińskie) more definitively indicated the new reality of working under a Soviet-imposed regime. According to Gołąb, these pieces should not be considered “as fully representative of the socialist realist transformations in Koffler’s style,”86 since they retain some 81 Kassern obtained documents identifying him as Teodor Sroczyński, who had died at the start of the war. Kostka, Tadeusz Zygfryd Kassern, 131–132. 82 Michał Piekarski, “Prof. Adolf Chybiński (1880–1952)—Founder of Polish Musicology,” Musicology Today 9 (2012): 58. 83 The existence of public musical events in the Soviet-occupied areas of interwar Poland meant that conspiratorial activities such as those in the General Governorate were unnecessary. 84 Józef Koffler, “Muzyka awangardowa z lotu ptaka,” Muzyka 12, nos. 1–2 (1935): 20. 85 Józef Koffler, “Ryk nyevtomnoy roboty,” Radianska Muzyka 5 (1940): 9–10, quoted in Gołąb, Józef Koffler, 233–234. 86 Gołąb, Józef Koffler, 169.

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distinctive characteristics of his earlier compositions. They do, however, “point to the essence of Koffler’s potential late style that remained undeveloped and was destroyed for political reasons.”87 Koffler’s life ended tragically. Although some details are still debated, it appears that he and his family left Lviv after the German invasion in 1941 and hid near Kraków, then probably moved further into the countryside. After his wife was arrested, he came out of hiding and was murdered, most likely in 1944.88 The Jewish musicologist Zofia Lissa also remained active in Lviv, at least for a time. From 1939–1941, she was the dean of music theory at Lviv State Conservatory, a position she was unlikely to have attained in interwar Poland due to her religious background. She had joined the underground Communist Party of Poland in the 1930s, at least in part due to her discomfort with the conservative and at times anti-Semitic views of her colleagues in interwar Lwów. This membership likely played a role in her being named a conservatory dean. As did Józef Koffler, she participated in activities of the Ukrainian Composers’ Union, which legitimized her allegiance to the Soviet authorities.89 Lissa left for the interior of the Soviet Union before the German forces invaded. She thus did not take the path typical of musicians of ethnic Polish descent, which was to return to the General Governorate, most often to Warsaw. Other Polish-Jewish composers, including Edward Olearczyk (1915–1994) and Mieczysław Weinberg (1919–1996), also moved to the Soviet Union during the war. Weinberg remained there for the rest of his life.90 For the remainder of the occupation, Lissa was involved in teaching and publicizing (primarily Polish) music in the Soviet Union and also observing how the regional music of that country interacted with Western cultural precepts. From 1943 until the war’s end, she worked in Moscow with the music division of the Union of Polish Patriots, which ostensibly represented Poles in Russia but was actually a front for the Communists in their aim to control eastern Europe. As J. Mackenzie Pierce has noted, half of the Union’s members were ethnic Polish, while more than forty percent were Polish Jews.91 This division of ethnicities complicated the union’s task of appearing to speak for all Poles, especially considering that just prior to the war, as discussed earlier, Jews had been treated rather crudely by 87 Ibid. 88 Ibid., 88–104, 176–184, 235–238. 89 Anna Czekanowska, Ku niedalekiej przeszłości (1947–2002): Z doświadczeń badacza i nauczyciela (Poznań: Poznańskie Towarzystwo Przyjaciół Nauk, 2015), 41–44. 90 Błaszczyk, Żydzi w kulturze muzycznej ziem polskich, 186. 91 For more information on Lissa’s thinking and activities during this time, see Pierce, “Life and Death,” 192–216; ZKP, Zofia Lissa folder, “Lissa Zofia” [unpublished biography].

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some Polish citizens. Moreover, Poles in general had not been enamored with Polish Communists during the interwar period.92 The pianist Zbigniew Drzewiecki had come face to face with the Gestapo over his alleged Jewish leanings. During the interwar period, as the chair of the Polish section of the International Society for Contemporary Music (ISCM), he had helped organize the 1939 festival held in Warsaw. The Nazis believed the ISCM represented Bolshevist and Jewish influences, which they detested. Accused of hiding ISCM-related materials in the Warsaw Philharmonic building, Drzewiecki was forced to accompany the Gestapo to the Philharmonic and ordered to show them these items. He was interrogated almost daily; his apartment was searched and documents and photographs taken. In effect, he had to prove he was not Jewish, since someone had claimed he had Jewish lineage. He was questioned repeatedly about other musicians, particularly Mateusz Gliński, who was already in Italy. Asked about Roman Palester, who was also active in the ISCM (and as mentioned earlier was of Jewish descent, though he was a baptized Christian), Drzewiecki claimed he did not know his whereabouts, although that is likely untrue, since both were in Warsaw.93 Palester, after hearing of these incidents, spent much of the remainder of the war outside of Warsaw.94 One of the activities of Poland’s underground music organizers was to assist Jewish musicians. A few stories are known about individual Polish musicians who helped their Jewish colleagues. Piotr Perkowski and Edmund Rudnicki provided aid to Zdzisław Górzyński (1895–1977), a conductor of Jewish background who lived under the alias of Jan Zbigniew Michalczyk. In Warsaw, he taught music lessons surreptitiously and participated in underground music life. Witold Lutosławski and Eugenia Umińska gave a benefit concert for pianist and composer Władysław Szpilman (1911–2000), who had escaped the Warsaw Ghetto in 1943; Piotr Perkowski is also known to have assisted him. Stefania

92 Poles at this time were aware of the Soviets’ heinous treatment of the Polish populace from 1939–1941 in what during the interwar period had been eastern Poland. Regarding education, musicologist Adolf Chybiński has related that he narrowly avoided being deported from Lviv to one of the Central Asian republics of the Soviet Union because he refused to attend meetings on Marxism and Leninism and avoided cooperating with Soviet colleagues. John Connelly, Captive University: The Sovietization of East German, Czech, and Polish Higher Education, 1945–1956 (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 2000), 91; Andrzej Tuchowski, “The Impact of Communist Dictatorship and Its Transformations on the Identity of Polish Music in the Years 1945–1989,” in Roberto Illiano and Massimiliano Sala, eds., Music and Dictatorship in Europe and Latin America (Turnhout: Brepols, 2009), 334–335. 93 Palester, Słuch absolutny, 290. 94 Helman, Roman Palester, 82–87.

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Łobaczewska, while living in Lviv (Lwów), housed several Jewish students. After this activity was discovered, she retreated to the General Governorate, eventually reaching Warsaw.95 Others met far worse fates. The composer Ludomir Marczak (1907–1943), was arrested and killed in prison along with his family for hiding approximately thirty Jews in a dugout in the garden of his home.96 Musical life among the Jewish population in the ghettos included activities similar to those transpiring outside the ghetto walls, although of course, life experienced in forced detention under abhorrent conditions was also totally different from what was possible elsewhere. The living situation of Jews in the ghetto was horrendous. Among other barbarities, they were given extremely low rations. According to Brian Porter-Szűcs, they were allotted 503 calories daily in 1940 and an astoundingly low 198 calories in the summer of 1941.97 Nonetheless, music could be heard in synagogues, concerts were held in ghetto cafés, and in Warsaw a Jewish Symphony Orchestra formed in 1940 was led by Marian Neuteich (1890–1943), a cellist who had studied conducting with Grzegorz Fitelberg and composition with Kazimierz Sikorski. Prior to the war he had played in the Warsaw Philharmonic and was involved with both the Polish section of the International Society for Contemporary Music (ISCM) and the Professional Musicians’ Union. The orchestra he led was of sufficiently high quality to perform Stravinsky’s Fireworks; not surprisingly, some of its musicians had played professionally prior to the war. Similar ensembles existed in Litzmannstadt (Łódź) and Vilnius (Wilno).98 Officially, ghetto musicians in Poland were forbidden to perform music of Aryan composers, but in practice these orchestras performed pieces from the standard classical repertoire.

95 Lorentz, “W Muzeum i gdzie indziej,” 34; Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: 21; Gwizdalanka and Meyer, Lutosławski, 1: 125; Zofia Lissa, “Wspomnienie o Stefanii Łobaczewskiej,” Ruch Muzyczny 7, no. 5 (1963): 3; NaliwajekMazurek, “Polish Composers in Occupied Poland.” 96 Stefan Korboński, “Poles and Jews: A Common Bond,” Congressional Record—Senate, February 25, 1970, page 4809, https://www.govinfo.gov/content/pkg/GPO-CRECB1970-pt4/pdf/GPO-CRECB-1970-pt4-4-2.pdf. This detailed accounting of wartime cooperation between Poles and Jews in Poland was inserted into this section of the Congressional Record, pages 4806–4810. Korboński held several top positions in the civilian resistance organizations active in Poland during the war. 97 Porter-Szűcs, Poland in the Modern World, 161. 98 Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, eds. Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: 25; Dziębowska, “Muzyka w Warszawie,” 59; “Music, The Holocaust In,” https://www.yadvashem.org/odot_ pdf/Microsoft%20Word%20-%206476.pdf; “Warsaw,” http://holocaustmusic.ort.org/ places/ghettos/warsaw/; Anna Kuligowska-Korzeniewska, “Łódzka orkiestra symfoniczna w Litzmannstadt Ghetto,” in 90 lat Filharmonii Łódzkiej, 37–52; Lachowicz, Muzyka w okupowanym Krakowie, 112–119.

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Polish works were usually omitted in order to avoid accusations of misdirected patriotism cast at them by the Germans, although such pieces were occasionally played as encores. Chamber musicians did not feel the same reservations; they frequently played Polish works.99 Neuteich’s orchestra ceased activity in 1942, when the Nazis began liquidating the Warsaw Ghetto, sending most of its inhabitants to the Treblinka concentration camp. Similar expulsions took place in the Kraków and Łódź ghettos in 1943 and 1944, respectively. Between 1941 and 1944, many ghetto residents in Vilnius were murdered by the Nazis in Ponary, an area that is now part of that larger city; the remaining inhabitants were sent to concentration camps.100

Educating Musicians Although all music schools and conservatories were officially closed in 1939, music education did not end in the Polish lands. Just as some concert life continued, albeit in different locations and under dangerous conditions, so did music education. In this area of musical life, however, elements of controversy existed that in part can be traced back to interwar differences of opinion between Karol Szymanowski, Eugeniusz Morawski, and their respective supporters. Throughout Poland, musicians continued to teach either at underground schools, whose classes frequently took place in homes, or conducted private lessons with individual students. In Kraków, for example, wartime music education consisted mostly of unofficial private sessions. Those who passed graduation exams were given diplomas after the war.101 As mentioned earlier, in Sovietoccupied Vilnius the conservatory continued to operate openly for a time, although the university there was closed. In Warsaw, the Chopin Higher School of Music, which operated in affiliation with the Warsaw Music Society, operated legally until 1942 and thereafter clandestinely in private homes. Similarly, the prewar Karol Kurpiński music school, although not a university-level institution, remained open until July 1944 despite attempts by the Germans to close it. Private music schools and teachers

99 Marian Fuks, “W dzielnicy zamkniętej,” Ruch Muzyczny 25, no. 16 (1981): 16–18. 100 “Deportations To and From the Warsaw Ghetto,” https://encyclopedia.ushmm.org/ content/en/article/deportations-to-and-from-the-warsaw-ghetto; Lachowicz, Muzyka w okupowanym Krakowie, 119; “Lodz,” https://encyclopedia.ushmm.org/content/en/article/ lodz; “Vilna,” https://encyclopedia.ushmm.org/content/en/article/vilna. 101 Lachowicz, Muzyka w okupowanym Krakowie, 119–124.

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also functioned at various times. Roman Padlewski’s mother, for example, ran such a school in Warsaw during much of the war.102 Soon after the war began, despite the official closing of the Warsaw Conser­ vatory, discussions about its future began among Polish musicians. They believed that both students and professors needed such activities, partly to give them official documentation proving employment in case they were questioned by the Nazi occupiers and partly to maintain some level of music education for Polish students.103 If young musicians could be educated, they would be ready to continue their music careers without hesitation once the war ended. The official successor to Warsaw’s interwar Conservatory was one that operated secretly within the Staatliche Musikschule, a secondary school (the highest level permitted) approved by the Germans that began in January 1940. At the request of Bronisław Rutkowski, musicologist Julian Pulikowski (1908–1944) persuaded the Germans to endorse opening such a school, which was attended primarily by Polish students but was not allowed to provide all of the typical classes (composition and conducting were not offered, at least openly).104 Officially, Albert Hösl was the Staatliche Musikschule’s dean and Polish composer Kazimierz Sikorski his assistant. From available information, it seems that Hösl allowed Sikorski considerable leeway in hiring teachers, which sometimes prompted the employment of instructors based on their financial need rather than their usefulness in leading desired classes. Sikorski, endorsed by the Polish underground to lead the Polish side of this school, hired a slate of mostly former professors, including several of those who had supported Karol Szymanowski during the previous decade.105 Polish musicians soon recognized that unofficial activities could also be attempted, including those on a more advanced level than what was allowed by the Germans. Under this guise, the full program of 102 The Chopin Higher School of Music, which had originated as a private music school in 1884, was renamed and classified as a state institution in 1919. Spóz, Warszawskie Towarzystwo Muzyczne 1871–1971, 72; Dziębowska, “Muzyka w Warszawie,” 66; Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, eds. Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: 165; 2: 289. 103 Naliwajek-Mazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 96. 104 Ibid., 2: 98; Dziębowska, “Muzyka w Warszawie,” 63–64. A musicologist who spoke German, Pulikowski worked at Warsaw’s State Library (Staatsbibliothek Warschau) during the war. Although he was perceived as a collaborationist by some, he also contributed to saving at least some of the collections at the University of Warsaw and the National Library. He was killed during the Warsaw Uprising. Piotr Dahlig, “Julian Pulikowski (1908–1944)—The Polish Leader in Comparative Musicology and Enthusiast of Folk Song Research,” Musicology Today 9 (2012): 70–71. 105 More than thirty of the approximately forty-three professors were from Warsaw’s interwar conservatory, with the remaining coming from Poznań, Łódź, and the Chopin Higher School of Music in Warsaw. Dziadek, Od Szkoły Dramatycznej, 536–541.

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the interwar conservatory was provided, with classes taught to about 400 students during the war years. Among them were composers Kazimierz Serocki (1922–1981), Jan Krenz, Tadeusz Paciorkiewicz (1916–1998), and others who became active in postwar musical life.106 Despite the approval of both German and underground Polish officials for the establishment of the Staatliche Musikschule (and, from the Polish side, its underground equivalent), several musicians from the more conservative strain of interwar musical life refused to cooperate with either the Germans (in the form of the Staatliche Musikschule) or with Sikorski at the clandestine school. In Sikorski’s version of this episode, Stanisław Kazuro, Piotr Rytel, and Eugeniusz Morawski (the Warsaw Conservatory’s dean just prior to the start of the war) had been denied permission from the German authorities to reopen that school, which then led to the creation of the Musikschule through Pulikowski’s efforts.107 Kazuro then received a subsidy from the Central Aid Council (RGO) to establish a series of private music lessons in the fall of 1940, which grew into a second “secret conservatory.”108 Morawski was the de facto head of this school, at which Rytel, Kazuro, and other faculty members from the prewar Conservatory also taught.109 As Magdalena Dziadek has explained, post-World War II discussions of the merits of these two underground music schools in Warsaw were inconclusive, since many musicians preferred to speak only vaguely, if at all, about the situation.110 The conservative faction’s antipathy toward working with the German enemy also referred back to their interwar preferences for a type of musical nationalism that emphasized Polish, not foreign elements (at least not those from the current century). As such, these episodes concerning educational institutions form one of the only known instances in which interwar animosities, political attitudes, or aesthetic inclinations adversely affected the documented cohesiveness among musicians during the war.

106 Krenz and Serocki were also pianists. Paciorkiewicz was an organist. Dziębowska, “Muzyka w Warszawie,” 62–66; Dziadek, Od Szkoły Dramatycznej, 536–541; Naliwajek-Mazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 96–99. 107 Naliwajek-Mazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 96. 108 Dziadek, Od Szkoły Dramatycznej, 542. 109 Ibid.; Dziębowska, “Muzyka w Warszawie,” 65–66. 110 One topic of controversy centered on Sikorski’s purported collaboration with the Germans at the Staatliche Musikschule. Dziadek, Od Szkoły Dramatycznej, 534–536; Naliwajek-Mazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 40.

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Critiques of Musical Life For a country once again under foreign occupation after only twenty years of independence, its musical life during the war was surprisingly robust and, at the same time, fraught with risks. One aspect yet to be discussed concerns the lack of independent music criticism of performances and compositions. Interwar journals such as Kwartalnik Muzyczny (Musical Quarterly) and Muzyka Polska had ceased publishing with the start of the war. In Lviv (Lwów), occupied by the Soviets from 1939–1941, the Polish-language Czerwony Sztandar (Red Banner) was published by the newly imposed Communist government. Polish musicians were highlighted occasionally, according to J. Mackenzie Pierce, but these discussions were sometimes slanted toward their hypothetical Russian or Soviet connections.111 Although wartime Polish-language newspapers existed in the major cities of the General Governorate, for example, Nowy Kurier Warszawski (New Warsaw Courier), Goniec Krakowski (Kraków Messenger), and Nowy Głos Lubelski (New Lublin Voice), these were published by the German occupiers. Poles who purchased these publications were seen as financially aiding the enemy. Understandably, these papers contained no references to underground concerts. Few other events were mentioned, either. Lachowski reports that in the Kraków newspaper, such notices were generally limited to publicity and other types of information; critical commentary was avoided. The Polish underground published informational bulletins in several cities weekly (and sometimes daily), although few if any announcements of cultural events were provided.112 Postwar recollections of the war largely omitted mention of any controversies among musicians (and audiences). Indeed, from all available accounts, the degree of cooperation among musicians in the General Governorate was exceptional. No one, however, should gloss over any disputes within the music communities inside and outside of the Jewish ghettos that may have occurred during the years in question. That discussion of these situations may have been intentionally avoided by publishers and/or authors who preferred to depict Polish musical life during the war as being filled with demonstrations of dramatic heroism and selfless patriotism rather than disagreements or recriminations of a personal or racist nature is certainly a plausible theory and one that warrants further research. As Katarzyna Naliwajek has stated recently, moreover, for many years 111 Pierce, “Life and Death,” 183–184. 112 Naliwajek-Mazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 16; Lachowicz, Muzyka w okupowanym Krakowie, 110.

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after the war most musicians refrained from discussing wartime events in order to avoid potential retaliation by the secret police force in Communist Poland, which was known for persecuting citizens suspected of being threats to the new regime.113 Furthermore, for more personal reasons related to their traumatic experiences, many people who lived through the war in Poland could not bring themselves to talk about it even decades later.114 What is known, at least approximately, is the extent of lives lost as a result of the war. More than 300 people associated with Poland’s music community, one-third of whom were Jewish, did not survive. The Warsaw Philharmonic lost more than thirty of its musicians, while twenty from the interwar Polish Radio and Warsaw Opera orchestras were killed. Of the musicians mentioned above, Marian Neuteich, Józef Koffler, Roman Padlewski, and Julian Pulikowski did not survive.115 Although some cities emerged relatively undamaged following the departure of the German army, Warsaw was almost totally razed to the ground after the 1944 Uprising, during which approximately 220,000 residents had been killed; most of the city’s remaining residents were escorted to various prisoner camps.116 Change came slowly, over a period of months beginning in 1944, as individual cities, towns, and rural areas were emptied of Nazi occupiers (and their inhabitants confronted by the military and other officials from the Soviet Union instead). Would the plans arranged by the underground music committees come to fruition in such a situation? Would the apparent solidarity among wartime musicians be enough to overcome the controversies of the interwar period? That would not be the case.

113 Among those considered threats were the Home Army resistance fighters active during World War II. Since underground musicians coordinated activities with the London government in exile, they were also theoretically at risk. Naliwajek has described several incidents of retaliation or unwanted surveillance by the Communist authorities that occurred after the war. As examples of musicians who were subjected to monitoring of their postwar activities, she has mentioned Stefan Kisielewski, Andrzej Markowski, Piotr Perkowski, Konstanty Regamey, Władysław Szpilman, Eugenia Umińska, and Kazimierz Wiłkomirski. Umińska noted that in the years immediately following the war, people hesitated even to write down names of those involved in wartime events for fear of exposing them to the Communists. Naliwajek-Mazurek and Spóz, eds., Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 2: 10. 114 Katarzyna Naliwajek-Mazurek, “Music in Nazi-Occupied Poland between 1939 and 1945,” Musicology Today 13 (2016): 54; Tammeus and Cukierkorn, They Were Just People, 123. 115 Padlewski, who hid under an alias, fought during the Warsaw Uprising; he was shot and did not survive. Żórawska-Witkowska, “Straty wojenne,” 4–5; Dziębowska, “Muzyka w Warszawie,” 35–36; Markowska and Naliwajek-Mazurek, eds. Okupacyjne losy muzyków, 1: 187. 116 Dabrowski, Poland, 420.

CHAPTER 3

From War to Socialism: Elitism versus Accessibility 1944–1948

On July 22, 1944 the Polish Committee of National Liberation (PKWN) signed a manifesto in Lublin, officially installing a Soviet-backed government on Polish lands. Quickly transformed into the Provisional Government of the Republic of Poland, the leaders and supporters of this regime were determined to take political control of the entire country. Although other political parties existed during the immediate postwar years, their members endured harassment and violence so severe that some individuals emigrated for their own safety. After the government falsified the results of a referendum in June 1946 to favor the Polish Workers’ Party (PPR), which was Communist in all but name, it was only a matter of time before this group took control of the political apparatus, wresting all control from its coalition partners, the Polish People’s Party (PSL) and the Polish Socialist Party (PPS). This occurred in December 1948 with the merger of the PPR and PPS to form the Polish United Workers’ Party (PZPR, for Polska Zjednoczona Partia Robotnicza), headed by Bolesław Bierut (1892–1956), a member of the interwar Polish Communist Party who had spent part of the war years in the Soviet Union.1 This political party would rule Poland until 1989. The cities of Lviv (Lwów) and Vilnius (Wilno), situated in the eastern regions of interwar Poland, remained in territories recognized as part of the Soviet Union, respectively the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic and the Lithuanian

1

The Polish People’s Party (PSL), with its members subjected to arrests and other forms of harassment, played no significant role in Polish politics after the referendum. Krystyna Kersten, The Establishment of Communist Rule in Poland (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 38, 62–65; Porter-Szűcs, Poland in the Modern World, 202–206; Anne Applebaum, Iron Curtain: The Crushing of Eastern Europe 1944–1956 (New York: Anchor Books, 2013), 90–104, 196–206.

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Soviet Socialist Republic. Poland gained what during the interwar period had been German lands. This region, which extended west to the so-called OderNeisse line, included the cities of Wrocław (Breslau in German) and Szczecin (Stettin). From 1945–1947, population exchanges, often in the form of forced migrations, affected millions of people. Ethnic Germans were moved or escaped to Germany. Poles from the former eastern territories of interwar Poland relocated to be within the new borders of the country.2 Roughly 3 million Jews (or ninety percent of the Jewish population in interwar Poland) had lost their lives; approximately 2.5 million non-Jewish Poles were also killed.3 Following pogroms in 1945 and 1946, the worst of which took place in Kielce, many of the remaining Jews left the country. Some of those who stayed joined Poland’s Communist party, in part for the possibility of protection.4 These immediate postwar years, characterized by this population upheaval, a scarcity of basic supplies, and the pressing need to rebuild nearly all of Warsaw and portions of many other cities, also offered opportunities. For those who wanted to improve upon the conditions extant in the field of music prior to September 1939, this period offered a chance to introduce desired changes. Many of the same individuals who had been active in musical life in previous decades continued to play important roles in restoring institutions and guiding or implementing artistic policies. This chapter explores how interwar and wartime aesthetic and personal allegiances were forged by new and old playmakers into revamped cultural strategies that would affect all contemporary composers. For both financial and ideological reasons, rebuilding international ties and domestic cultural institutions proved to be a monumental task. Disagreements related to interwar issues such as nationalism in contemporary music and appropriate concert programming continued to surface. As the patronage of the national government supplanted the more local efforts of interwar musical life, the ramifications of depending on support provided by Soviet-backed authorities soon became clear. By the end of 1948, composers would be tasked with fulfilling mandates that displeased many of them, even as these directives ostensibly were related to their interwar visions for the popularization of music throughout society. These new prescriptions regarding composition and concert life revolved around the concepts of inclusion and exclusion. Efforts to include all of society in the world of classical music led to discussions about the meaning of accessibility 2 Porter-Szűcs, Poland in the Modern World, 197–199. 3 Ibid., 166; Dabrowski, Poland, 421. 4 Dabrowski, Poland, 424.

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in music (that is, the ability to understand any given composition) and an impetus to create new musical genres, along with the organization of competitions and commissions focused on these outreach exercises. At the same time, other musical styles were targeted for exclusion, labeled as inadequate means of supporting popularization efforts or as undesirable elitist models that few could comprehend. Although these measures for the most part were not brought to fruition by the end of 1948, they became the topic of conversations and the goal of at least some organized activities during these early postwar years. Furthermore, Poland’s new centralized cultural patronage brought an official expectation that composers and performers would agree to and participate in any endeavors planned to accomplish governmental goals. This top-down attitude generated dissent from those individuals who disagreed with these initiatives. Yet the difficulties and time involved in resurrecting musical life meant that spirited discussion and compositional freedom were still encouraged in Poland during these immediate postwar years.

Maklakiewicz’s Grunwald: Reawakening Interwar Controversies In postwar Poland, resurrecting public concert life might have seemed to be a low priority. Yet as early as the autumn of 1944, plans were being made to bring music to the stage. Early attempts were concentrated in the city of Lublin, part of the first area free of Nazi occupation. Mieczysław Drobner (1912–1986), a composer and musicologist who led the new government’s music department, assisted with the initial organizational efforts. He and his small staff, working from one room, sponsored concerts and established music schools and ensembles. A few musical events were held, with Szpinalski’s piano recitals at the top of the highlight list. This all started while the Warsaw Uprising was taking place in August and September 1944.5 In early 1945, activities began in Łódź and Kraków, which were relatively unscathed in terms of war damage. Given that the former General Governorate Philharmonic had been based in Kraków, many of the first postwar orchestral concerts occurred there. One of the first such events, offered in May by the newly reconstituted Kraków Philharmonic, featured the premiere of Grunwald, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz’s recently completed symphonic poem that 5

Mieczysław Drobner, Wspomnienia o początkach życia muzycznego w Polsce Ludowej 1944– 1946 (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1985), 7–14.

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commemorated a fifteenth-century battle often portrayed as a victory of Polish and Lithuanian forces over the Teutonic Knights.6 The same piece was presented again less than two months later, at Kraków’s Wawel Royal Castle at a concert in remembrance of that historic military event. It was also performed in Sopot, Łódź, Lublin, Katowice, Warsaw, and Wrocław over the next three years, making it Maklakiewicz’s most-performed composition immediately following the war.7 One could surmise that this piece was performed in 1945 in part because it had survived the Nazi occupation and was thus available for performance. However, its moral and cultural significance was also noteworthy, reminding Poles through music that victory had been achieved in the past and could be again (at the time of its composition from 1939–1944, the country was enduring Nazi and Soviet occupation). Moreover, Maklakiewicz was a promising young composer whom Szymanowski and others had put forth as a candidate for the 1937 state music prize.8 Honoring him with performances of his newest composition would seem to be an appropriate gesture that exemplified the rebuilding of culture in postwar Poland. This one-movement composition, approximately eighteen minutes long, bears obvious hints of victorious battle, with march motives, Poland’s treasured Bogurodzica melody, and an Easter hymn interwoven within a bold setting reminiscent of the music of Richard Strauss and Karol Szymanowski. Given that Poland had only recently been freed of German occupiers, one might suspect that its citizens would welcome a piece intended to celebrate the vanquishing of an enemy. Certainly, concert promoters thought so. The program note for the Wawel event described the historical Grunwald battle as a significant victory 6 Among the other compositions heard at the same May 1945 concert were Mieczysław Karłowicz’s Violin Concerto, Zygmunt Noskowski’s The Steppe (Step) and Piotr Perkowski’s “Church of the Virgin Mary” (Kościół Panny Marii) from his Toruń Sketches (Szkice toruńskie) Stefan Kisielewski, “Koncerty,” Tygodnik Powszechny 1, no. 12 (1945): 4. 7 National Library of Poland (hereafter, BN) Collection, 1945 programs, Kraków Philharmonic, July 15, 1945; BN Collection, 1947 L–Z programs, Polish Composers’ Union concert, March 26, 1947, and Baltic Philharmonic, June 29, 1947; BN Collection, 1948 programs, Wrocław Philharmonic, July 30, 1948; Zygmunt Mycielski, “Koncert eliminacyjny, zakończenie sezonu Filharmonii Warszawskiej,” Odrodzenie 5, no. 27 (1948): 7; Jerzy Kołasiński, “Życie muzyczne: Lublin,” Ruch Muzyczny 5, no. 2 (1949): 15; AAN, MKiS, 366/I 264 (Departament Muzyki, Filharmonia Śląska 1945–48 r.), Memorandum w sprawie organizacji Państwowej Filharmonii w Katowicach, Letter from Państwowa Filharmonia w Katowicach to Ministerstwo Kultury i Sztuki, July 16, 1947. 8 Maklakiewicz had also won a state prize in 1931 for his Concerto on Gregorian Themes for cello and orchestra. Zygmunt Mycielski, “Kompromitujący anonim,” Kurier Poranny, no. 298 (October 27, 1937): 8, trans. William Hughes, “Compromising Anonym,” http:// drwilliamhughes.blogspot.com/2020/12/zygmunt-mycielski-compromising-anonym. html; “Po orzeczeniu jury Państwowej Nagrody Muzycznej,” Muzyka 9, nos. 3–4 (1932): 90.

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that was successfully celebrated in Maklakiewicz’s symphonic poem. According to the anonymous writer, listeners would be transported to the time of the Jagiellonian dynasty (the fourteenth–sixteenth centuries), when the country had flourished. Moreover, this ancient victory still resonated in contemporary life, as demonstrated by the recent Slavic victory over the Germans.9 One critic, Stefan Kisielewski, was not so enamored of the composition or the commotion surrounding its performances. He questioned whether the abundant publicity given the work’s historical connotations “did the piece a disservice, disturbing and distorting the public’s reaction”10 to such an extent that anyone who dared questioned the work’s value (as he did) might be accused of lacking patriotism. Kisielewski emphasized that the quality of any composition should be based on its purely musical parameters—such as harmony, form, and texture—regardless of its adherence to any supposed extramusical program. He claimed that Maklakiewicz had wanted to create a modern, national musical language, but that for Grunwald, he had instead borrowed tricks from earlier programmatic pieces. Kisielewski also noted that Maklakiewicz had declined to connect Grunwald’s music to the Polish style that had been nurtured in the folkinspired interwar works of composers such as Stanisław Wiechowicz and Karol Szymanowski. In the end, he declared that the narrative Maklakiewicz had chosen for Grunwald did not yield sufficient opportunities to produce a musically inventive composition.11 These critiques should not be taken lightly, as an example of unpatriotic reasoning or a dislike of program music. Rather, they can be interpreted as echoing interwar disagreements regarding music and music criticism. As noted earlier, prior to the outbreak of World War II, Kisielewski had favored the autonomy of music and compositions that were well-written regardless of their target audiences. Here, Kisielewski continued to commend only compositions of the highest quality, considering any musical allusions to patriotism as potentially negative references that could hinder a composer’s ability to produce a superior work. Issues of patriotism, musical autonomy, nationalism, and appropriate influences for Polish compositions were thus invoked almost immediately in the postwar era. They continued to be debated seemingly unceasingly not only for the first postwar decade but also in later decades. Kisielewski was not the only commentator on these matters, as strands of interwar discussions about the 9 BN Collection, 1945 programs, Kraków Philharmonic, July 15, 1945 . 10 Kisielewski, “Koncerty,” 4. 11 Ibid.

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appropriate goals of Polish composition were picked up again almost immediately following the departure of the Nazi occupiers.

Rebuilding Lives and Musical Institutions The massive postwar migrations of citizens in Polish lands also affected the lives of many musicians. Maklakiewicz’s biography mimics that of many of his colleagues. He lost his home in Warsaw when the city, as mentioned above, was razed by the Nazis. One of the fortunate few, he did not lose all of his prewar and wartime compositions. He made his way to Kraków, where other leading musicians also gathered. Also arriving in that city from the ravages of Warsaw were composers Andrzej Panufnik, Roman Palester, and Stefan Kisielewski, as well as publishers and concert organizers Bronisław Rutkowski and Tadeusz Ochlewski. Those who found themselves in Łódź included Kazimierz Sikorski, Grażyna Bacewicz, and Kazimierz Wiłkomirski, while Bolesław Woytowicz and Ludomir Różycki began their postwar activities in Katowice. Among the few who remained in or quickly returned to Warsaw were Witold Lutosławski, Piotr Rytel, and Piotr Perkowski. Some musicians left the former eastern areas of interwar Poland, preferring to avoid living in what was now the Soviet Union. Witold Rudziński, who had been in Wilno (Vilnius) at the start of the war, moved to Warsaw in 1943. He left the capital city after the 1944 Uprising, but returned at the start of the new year before moving to Łódź several months later.12 Tadeusz Szeligowski moved from Vilnius to Lublin along with Arnold Rezler (1909–2000), a cellist and conductor.13 Among musicologists, Stefania Łobaczewska, who had been in Lwów (Lviv) prior to the war before eventually going to Warsaw, reached Kraków in 1944. Adolf Chybiński, who had stayed in Lwów and helped arrange the transport of music collections from that city to Kraków, went to Poznań to direct the musicology department at that city’s university. Zofia Lissa remained in Moscow, where she accepted a position as cultural attaché at the Polish Embassy. Hieronim Feicht (1894–1967), a musicologist and priest who spent the war years near

12 Teresa Bochwic, Kalendarium życia Witolda Rudzińskiego. 13 Szeligowski became the head of the State Higher School of Opera in Poznań in 1947. Rezler relocated from Vilnius to Lublin in 1944 and from there to Bydgoszcz in 1945 to direct an orchestra at the local Polish Radio station; in 1946 he took the helm of the newly created Pomeranian Symphony Orchestra. Rzepa, “Arnold Rezler,” 513–518.

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Zakopane in the Tatra mountains, went on to develop the musicology department at Wrocław University, which in some respects was the continuation of the heavily destroyed University of Breslau. During the postwar years, this institution depended heavily on professors arriving from Lwów and other eastern lands.14 Other musicians chose to remain abroad. Mateusz Gliński settled in Italy. Michał Spisak and Antoni Szałowski stayed in France, where they had been since studying with Nadia Boulanger in the 1930s. Michał Kondracki, who had been abroad when the war started, found himself in New York at war’s end, having traveled there from Brazil. These composers would be accepted as an integral part of Poland’s musical community for the first few postwar years. As with musicologists, pedagogical duties were frequently part of a composer’s roster of duties. Kazimierz Wiłkomirski, for instance, was asked to lead the music conservatory in Łódź in 1945, which became a state-funded institution rather than the private enterprise it had been during the interwar period. Several composers agreed to teach there, including Grażyna Bacewicz (as a violin instructor), Kazimierz Sikorski, and Witold Rudziński. Other conservatorylevel schools soon existed in Warsaw, Kraków, and other major cities. Some composers worked at Polish Radio; Witold Lutosławski did so beginning in 1945 and continued to do so at least part-time until 1958, when his success as a composer provided more financial independence. Among other compositional activities, he wrote music for theater and radio plays.15 Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, Piotr Perkowski, Zbigniew Turski, and others did likewise. Andrzej Panufnik wrote music for film in addition to working as a conductor.16 14 The musicology department at Wrocław was closed in 1952. Its collections had been transferred to the University of Warsaw to be used by the new musicology department headed by Zofia Lissa, who had returned to Poland from Moscow in 1947. Adam Izdebski, “Powstanie warszawskiego ośrodka muzykologicznego,” in Trudny wiek XX: Jednostka, system, epoka. Studia, ed. Grzegorz P. Bąbiak and Joanna Nalewajko-Kulikov (Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Neriton and Instytut Historii PAN, 2010), 181–182; Maciej Gołąb, “Wprowadzenie,” in Muzykologia we Wrocławiu: Ludzie - historia - perspektywy, ed. Maciej Gołąb (Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Wrocławskiego, 2005), 40. 15 Leon Markiewicz, ed., Korespondencja Grzegorza Fitelberga z lat 1941–1953 (Katowice: Fundacja Muzyczna Międzynarodowego Konkursu Dyrygentów im. Grzegorza Fitelberga, 2003): 133; Gwizdalanka and Meyer, Lutosławski, 1: 140–142; Adrian Thomas, “The Hidden Composer: Witold Lutosławski and Polish Radio,” https://onpolishmusic.com/ articles/%e2%80%a2-lutoslawski-articles/%e2%80%a2-the-hidden-composer-exhibition1997/%e2%80%a2-panel-2-1946-49-music-for-radio/; Wioleta Muras, “Podążając śladami dźwiękowej wyobraźni: Muzyka Witolda Lutosławskiego w słuchowiskach Polskiego Radia,” Muzyka 61, no. 2 (2016): 57–58. 16 Witold Rudziński, for example, claimed he wrote about twenty pieces for the Polish Radio folk ensemble (Chór i Kapela Ludowa). At least sixty compositions (both songs and orchestral

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In 1945, the music department with which Mieczysław Drobner was associated relocated to Warsaw and was integrated into the Ministry of Culture and Art.17 This agency controlled and financed nearly all activities related to musical life in Poland. The existence of such a broad mandate in the guise of a governmental benefactor differed significantly from interwar practices, when the music community depended primarily on private individuals and enterprises for what in reality was limited financial support. According to Drobner, the wartime plans made by Perkowski and his committees had not included a state patronage component, but instead foresaw a national music society that assisted in coordinating various initiatives.18 Such an organization had, as mentioned earlier, been discussed in the 1930s; whether Drobner was recalling those deliberations or later conversations is unknown. Among other things, the music department quickly decided to create or reactivate several orchestras, appointing available musicians, including composers, to handle the minutiae of these tasks. In fact, those involved in reconstructing cultural institutions were often professional musicians, not government clerics lacking any knowledge of the field. These musicians, eager to help restart any musical endeavor that could exist in the public eye, had in many cases been actively involved in underground concerts during the war. Their tasks were not easily accomplished despite some level of national financial support. In fact, some of their difficulties appear to have resulted from governmental decisions. Zdzisław Górzyński, who during the war had lived in both Lviv and Warsaw, accepted the challenge of resurrecting the Łódź Philharmonic. Conductor and theater director Zygmunt Wojciechowski (1888–1968) organized the country’s first postwar opera company, located in Poznań. The opera’s orchestra also gave symphonic concerts until 1947, when composer and conductor Stanisław Wisłocki (1921–1998) helped to develop the Poznań Philharmonic.19 works) by Andrzej Panufnik, Witold Lutosławski, Stanisław Wiechowicz, Alfred Gradstein, Jan Krenz, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, and others are known to be Polish Radio commissions during the first postwar decade. ZKP, Witold Rudziński folder, Zestawienie ważniejszych utworów; TVP, 184/5 (Polish Radio Archives at TVP, Biuro Planowania 1948–1949), Ogólny zarys planu pracy Działu Muzycznego na rok 1949; Bolesławska, The Life and Works of Andrzej Panufnik, 69, 74–75. 17 Prior to this, the Music Department had been part of the Culture and Art Resort, which was another type of department. Drobner, Wspomnienia, 11–12. 18 Drobner, Wspomnienia, 34. 19 Małgorzata Kosińska, “Zdzisław Górzyński,” https://culture.pl/pl/tworca/zdzislaw-gorzynski; Małgorzata Komorowska, Kronika teatrów muzycznych PRL lipiec 1944–czerwiec 1989 (Poznań: Wydawnictwo Poznańskiego Towarzystwa Przyjaciół Nauk, 2003), 13; Tadeusz Deszkiewicz, “Stanisław Wisłocki,” http://maestro.net.pl/document/memory/Wislocki. pdf.

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In Wrocław, which became a Polish city in the spring of 1945 (after Germans destroyed much of it as they departed to the west), an orchestra began performing almost immediately thereafter. Kazimierz Wiłkomirski became its artistic director and principal conductor in 1947. He reluctantly accepted this position, having been offered it by the Ministry of Culture and Art, saying the city was basically rubble. He wanted to work in Warsaw (which was in even worse physical condition, but as the capital city, it was more prestigious), but realized that others were more qualified for positions there. His comments, published in 1980, also allude to the intrigues and conflicts that existed in the postwar musical world that, as he stated, no one to date had discussed in print. Unfortunately, Wiłkomirski did little to enlighten the world about these issues.20 In Katowice, which had been annexed by Germany during the war, Polish Radio created its own orchestra, which began concertizing in March 1945. Just two months later, a state-funded Silesian Philharmonic was created in the same city, even though Drobner disapproved, believing there were not enough qualified musicians to support two ensembles.21 Tales of this orchestra’s organizational problems likely were similar to what occurred throughout Poland. Although initial plans called for taking forty musicians from Kraków’s orchestra, in the end only four were hired for the Katowice ensemble; the radio orchestra had already employed twenty-two of Kraków’s best performers, while others had departed for other positions in Poland. Additional musicians were recruited from elsewhere in Poland and abroad, but several were then obliged to return to their home countries (France and Czechoslovakia) for military service, while some Polish musicians were arrested, presumably due to concerns related to their wartime activities. No concert hall or music was initially available, nor was there adequate housing; musicians were sent to barracks formerly used by the Germans.22 Warsaw had neither the buildings nor a sufficient number of musicians to warrant, in the government’s opinion, the reactivation of its Philharmonic. Yet an orchestra was organized as early as 1944 under the name of the Representative Philharmonic Orchestra of the Capital City of Warsaw (Reprezentacyjna Orkiestra Filharmoniczna m. st. Warszawy). Its first performances took place 20 “History,” https://www.nfm.wroclaw.pl/en/nfm/history; Kazimierz Wiłkomirski, Wspomnień ciąg dalszy (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1980), 102–103. 21 W[ładysława] Markiewiczówna, “Pierwsze półrocze w niepodległej Polsce: Katowice,” Ruch Muzyczny 1, no. 1 (1945): 21–22; “Historia,” https://filharmonia-slaska.eu/filharmoniaslaska/historia/; Drobner, Wspomnienia, 32–33. 22 AAN, MKiS, 366/I 264, Memorandum w sprawie organizacji Państwowej Filharmonii w Katowicach.

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in October in Praga, the eastern part of Warsaw on the right bank of the Vistula river.23 By mid-1946 the ensemble had received the moniker of the Warsaw Philharmonic, in the process acquiring regular funding from the government. The orchestra was combined with the existing opera company in autumn 1948 to become the State Philharmonic and Opera, under the direction of Teodor Zalewski (1897–1985) and Witold Rudziński. In 1950, the two ensembles were divided into separate entities again.24 The Warsaw Philharmonic’s history provides a good example of the continual shifting of conductors and artistic directors of ensembles that occurred throughout the country after the war. According to available information, all of these shifts resulted from Ministry initiatives. During the first postwar decade, its artistic directors were Olgierd Straszyński, Andrzej Panufnik, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, Witold Rudziński, Władysław Raczkowski (1893–1959), and Witold Rowicki (1914–1989). Principal conductors included Straszyński, Panufnik, Mieczysław Mierzejewski (1905–1998), Zygmunt Latoszewski, Zdzisław Górzyński, Witold Rowicki, and Bohdan Wodiczko (1911–1985); several of these men were also composers and performers.25 The reasons behind these multiple moves are not entirely known. Panufnik went to Warsaw from a similar position with the Kraków Philharmonic, which he had taken so he could get an apartment in that southern Polish city. His work in Kraków had been widely praised, which led to his appointment in Warsaw. Interestingly, he had initially refused the Kraków job, wanting to adhere to the advice of the Polish government in exile to avoid cooperating with the Communist authorities; he eventually changed his mind.26 Latoszewski was often viewed as the best choice for rebuilding ensembles, which likely explains his frequent moves. Having directed the Poznań Opera before the war, he left his position as the first postwar conductor of the Kraków Philharmonic in late 1945 to return to that operatic institution. He departed for Warsaw when its orchestra

23 Józef Kański and Teresa Grabowska, “Filharmonia po II wojnie światowej,” in 100 lat Filharmonii w Warszawie, Maria Bychawska and Henryk Schiller, eds. (Warsaw: Fundacja Bankowa im. Leopolda Kronenberga and Filharmonia Narodowa, 2001), 142–143. The official date for the liberation of Warsaw from the Nazis is January 17, 1945, but cultural activities had begun prior to that in Praga, which had been freed from the Nazis by the Soviet military and the First Polish Army (formed in the Soviet Union) in the early summer of 1944 24 Ibid., 145. 25 Gołębiowski, Filharmonia w Warszawie 1901–1976, 274. 26 Panufnik also had been promised a position with the Polish Army Film Company. Bolesławska, The Life and Works of Andrzej Panufnik, 64, 68–69.

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and opera were combined, but stayed only briefly before moving to the Baltic Philharmonic in Gdańsk. He would return to the Warsaw Opera in 1952.27 Warsaw also hosted two orchestras under the aegis of Polish Radio as early as 1944. Light music was emphasized under the leadership of Stefan Rachoń (1906–2001), while Jan Cajmer (1911–1974) programmed dance music.28 A Polish Chamber Orchestra, created in 1945 by the Society for the Promotion of Polish Folk Music (Towarzystwo Krzewienia Polskiej Muzyki Ludowej) and led by Stanisław Wisłocki, also had its home in the same city. Having gathered musicians from the former Warsaw Philharmonic, Wisłocki’s goal—to perform folk music from different areas of Poland—was hindered by the lack of suitable musical arrangements. He commissioned various composers, but within just two years, complaints about the orchestra’s classically minded repertoire instead of a more popular style led to what Wisłocki described as a politically motivated campaign against its “cosmopolitan repertoire.”29 The Ministry of Culture and Art stopped subsidizing the orchestra in 1947 and soon thereafter both the orchestra and the Society ceased to exist.30 Kraków’s orchestral situation proved to be perhaps the most interesting case. After the General Governorate Philharmonic was legally dissolved, the Kraków State Philharmonic was born in its place. All of its musicians—indeed, all Polish musicians—were required to undergo a verification process to ensure that anyone who had collaborated with the Nazis was not employed as a musician in postwar Poland. However, many of those who had performed with the wartime Philharmonic were accepted, since they had received permission from underground authorities to join that ensemble. As the orchestra awaited approval for state funding in early 1945, some musicians left the city to join other orchestras being created, as alluded to above.31 A revolving door of executives and 27 Leszek Mazepa, “Latoszewski Zygmunt,” in Elżbieta Dziębowska, ed., Encyklopedia Muzyczna PWM (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1997), vol. klł, 296–297. 28 Rachoń was also a violinist, Cajmer a pianist. Roman Jasiński, Nowe życie: Wspomnienia 1945–1976 (Kraków: Wydawnictwo Literackie, 2019), 63–66. 29 Stanisław Wisłocki, Życie jednego muzyka (Warsaw: Oficyna Wydawnicza Rytm, 2000), 55. 30 This ensemble was sometimes known as the Polish Folk Orchestra (Polska Orkiestra Ludowa). Ibid., 49–55; https://polona.pl/item/afisz-inc-niedziela-17-listopada-godz12-kino-polonia-poranek-symfoniczny,OTI5NDYyNjg/0/. 31 Anna Woźniakowska, 60 lat Filharmonii im. Karola Szymanowskiego w Krakowie 1945– 2005 (Kraków: Filharmonia im. Karola Szymanowskiego, 2004), 38–39; Drzewiecki, Wspomnienia, 108–109. For more information on the verification process, see Janusz Bogdan Lewandowski, “Działalność Komisji Weryfikacyjnej przy Związku Zawodowym Muzyków RP – Oddział Olsztyn w latach 1945–49,” in Krzysztof D. Szatrawski, ed., Kultura muzyczna w perspektywie regionalnej i europejskiej (Barczewo: Stowarzyszenie Inicjatyw Obywatelskich, 2014), 125–151.

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conductors was also characteristic of this ensemble. Zygmunt Latoszewski, its first artistic director and conductor, was replaced by Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, who was appointed by the Minister of Culture and Art despite other suggestions from within that ministry. Maklakiewicz, however, was not a conductor. Andrzej Panufnik and Walerian Bierdiajew were brought on in that capacity, although Bierdiajew’s arrival was delayed due to accusations of wartime collaboration related to his work with a German theater. As mentioned above, Panufnik left in mid-1946 for the Warsaw Philharmonic. In 1949, Bierdiajew was succeeded as artistic director by Piotr Perkowski, then in 1951 by Tadeusz Krzemiński, whose title became simply Director. The same year, Bohdan Wodiczko was named the artistic director and principal conductor, replacing Witold Krzemieński (1909– 2001) in the latter position.32 In smaller cities, many of which had had little music life before the Nazi invasion of 1939 despite the efforts of the Organization for Musical Activity (ORMUZ), local orchestras were created, usually supported by municipal authorities rather than the national government.33 In some places, as in Olsztyn, amateur musicians joined the ranks of the local music society’s orchestra. This group, despite its financial and artistic challenges, reportedly was able to present an impressive list of works by Grażyna Bacewicz, Michał Kondracki, Tomasz Kiesewetter, Zygmunt Mycielski, Andrzej Panufnik, and Stanisław Wisłocki, all living composers.34 Jewish musical life still existed to a small degree; in the southwestern town of Wałbrzych, a Jewish Society of Culture and Art existed after the war. Its Jewish Salon Orchestra presented at least one concert in 1948, featuring works by Tchaikovsky, Leoncavallo, Brahms, and others.35 The area of chamber music was dominated by soloists, for only a few small ensembles in Poland existed at that time. In 1948 there were only two permanent string quartets—the Kraków Quartet and the Polish Radio Quartet. The Szymanowski Quartet existed only from 1945–1947, although it was

32 Krzemieński was also a composer. Woźniakowska, 60 lat Filharmonii im. Karola Szymanowskiego w Krakowie, 42–43, 55–57, 70, 250; Drobner, Wspomnienia, 65. 33 These cities included Bydgoszcz, Częstochowa, Gdańsk, Kielce, Lublin, Olsztyn, Opole, and Białystok. Maciej Łukasz Gołębiowski, “Polskie filharmonie w pigułce,” Hi-Fi i Muzyka, no.  4 (2010): https://hi-fi.com.pl/artyku%C5%82y/muzyka/historie/1064-polskiefilharmonie-w-pigu%C5%82ce.html; Jerzy Bartnicki, Zanim powstała Filharmonia w Bydgoszczy: Pomorska Orkiestra Symfoniczna w latach 1945–1952 (Bydgoszcz: Filharmonia Pomorska, 1982), 7. 34 Mirosław Dąbrowski, Olsztyńskie wspomnienia muzyczne z lat 1945–1948 (Olsztyn, Białystok: Wydawnictwo Pojezierze, 1980), 114–130. 35 BN Collection, 1948 programs, Inauguracyjny Koncert Żydowskiej Orkiestry Salonowej pod batutą H. Wohlfeilera: Program [in Wałbrzych], February 1948.

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comprised of some of the finest string players of that day (Irena Dubiska, Wanda Wiłkomirska [1929–2018], Mieczysław Szaleski ([1891–1958], and Kazimierz Wiłkomirski). On the surface, then, it appears that the government quickly took control of institutions that catered to classical music in postwar Poland. Witold Lutosławski officially expressed his displeasure with the emergence of so many ensembles, which he felt were of inferior quality and thus unable to play new compositions satisfactorily. An official from the Ministry of Culture and Art refuted these claims, pointing in mid-1946 to the needs of Polish society as justification for such a widespread emergence of new ensembles; this assertion anticipated the upcoming push toward providing music to as many citizens as possible, not just the so-called “elite” in major cities.36 This opinion also demonstrates the emphasis on top-down cultural planning that was desired by the government even before the creation of the Polish United Workers’ Party. At the same time, however, such a scenario contrasts with the difficulties of the interwar period, when all ensembles experienced financial hardships that forced cancellations of programs and even entire concert seasons. Perhaps, then, the postwar Polish government intentionally set out, even in the cultural arena, to prove that their activities and systems represented an improvement over those of the interwar decades.

Developing Concert Life Reigniting an active concert life was not as simple as assigning conductors and artistic directors to various cities, however. Financial woes and poor working conditions plagued all ensembles. Throughout these immediate postwar years, orchestral concerts sometime occurred weekly, as in Łódź, but more often they were sporadic. They frequently were held in rented theaters or cinemas, since many concert halls either had never existed, as in smaller cities, or had been destroyed during the war. Instruments and music were in short supply, as were items such as violin strings and also heat, electricity, and housing for musicians. In the capital city, the orchestra’s primary performing space, Roma hall, underwent renovation, which forced it to find other spaces, one of which was a sports supply house. The question of governmental priorities was raised by early 1947, 36 AAN, MKiS, 366/I 175 (Departament Muzyki, Komitet Doradczy 1946–47 r.), Protokół nr 5 z posiedzenia Komitetu Doradczego przy Min. Kultury i Sztuki, odbytego dnia 20.VI. 1946 r.

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when one writer alleged that more than 560 movie theaters already existed in Poland, but not one concert hall.37 Kraków and Silesian Philharmonic representatives complained of insufficient subsidies provided by the national government, evoking similar interwar issues.38 The Łódź Philharmonic was unable to start the 1947–1948 season until mid-December due to a lack of funds.39 In keeping with the government’s desire to centralize the organization of cultural life and to disseminate music in many cities, towns, and villages, a Central Concert Bureau was created as early as September 1945 and charged with planning and executing chamber concerts throughout the country as well as abroad.40 This agency had a less than stellar reputation for producing quality events. While it is true that it arranged for excellent foreign musicians, for example, Norman Dello Joio and Rafael Kubelik, to perform in Poland, at other times musicians complained about the poor organization of its concerts.41 As with orchestras, difficulties with transportation, instruments, and performance sites were a constant concern. Stories abound of musicians traveling from town to town in open wagons and military planes.42 Nevertheless, Poland’s leading soloists gave recitals in many cities and performed in ad hoc chamber ensembles. While a profit may have been made with name-brand soloists, other concerts organized by the Central Concert Bureau created budget deficits. According to one accounting in 1946, renting the Roma hall and a piano cost 28,000 zlotys while income from an average concert was only 10,000 zlotys. At other times, the bureau canceled events when it was unable to rent a suitable place. Stefan Kisielewski in 1948 claimed that chamber concerts in Kraków had come to a 37 Kański and Grabowska, “Filharmonia po II wojnie światowej,” 148; Piotr Kruszewski, “Propaganda i koncerty,” Odrodzenie 4, no. 2 (1947): 10; Drobner, Wspomnienia, 77. 38 Woźniakowska, 60 lat Filharmonii im. Karola Szymanowskiego w Krakowie, 44–45; AAN, MKiS, 366/I 264, Sprawozdanie za rok 1947. 39 B., “Tragiczna sytuacja Filharmonii Łódzkiej,” Nowiny Literackie 1, no. 32 (1947): 8; Łódź Philharmonic Collection, 1947–1948 programs, Program inauguracyjnego koncertu symfonicznego 12.XII.1947. 40 Iwona Miernik, “Państwowa organizacja imprez artystycznych ‘ARTOS’ w latach 1950– 1954 i jej funkcjonowanie,” Polska 1944–1989: Studia i Materiały 7 (2006): 124; AAN, MKiS, 366/I 281 (Departament Muzyki, Wymiana artystów z zagranicą, Instrukcje, korespondencje, 1947 r.), Letter from Centralne Biuro Koncertowe to Departament Muzyki, Ministerstwa Kultury i Sztuki, February 21, 1947. 41 AAN, MKiS, 366/XII 12 (Biuro Współpracy Kulturalnej z Zagranicą, Sprawozdania działalności Biura za okres 1945–1948 r.), Sprawozdanie z działalności Biura Współpracy z Zagranicą za grudzień r. 1946. 42 Drzewiecki, Wspomnienia, 111; AAN, MKiS, 366/I 264, Letter from Jan Niwiński, Dyrektor, Państwowa Filharmonia w Katowicach, to Ministerstwo Kultury i Sztuki, January 23, 1946; BN Collection, 1948 programs, Filharmonia Śląska 1947/48, Sprawozdanie za sezon 1947– 1948 (Katowice, 1948).

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standstill due to the Central Concert Bureau’s lack of action, caused primarily by rental costs that were so high that if musicians did not play for free (which was highly unlikely), orchestras and other ensembles would lose money. He contrasted this unfortunate situation with the continuing call for the popularization of music in society (to be discussed further below), which seemed impossible to achieve if musicians either lacked suitable conditions for concertizing or did not earn enough to make performing worthwhile.43 Concerts specifically intended for outreach purposes were part of every state philharmonic’s schedule. The Silesian Philharmonic went so far as to declare that participating in such activities was its main task, as set forth by the Ministry of Culture and Art, indicating one element of the top-down management of nationally funded entities. These performances took place as early as 1945 not only in an ensemble’s home city, but also in nearby towns in what were described as travel concerts. Orchestral musicians performed in typical public concert settings as well as at schools and work environments.44 Such events outside of the traditional concert hall had occurred under the Organization for Musical Activity (ORMUZ) during the interwar period and would become a prominent part of orchestral activities later in the first postwar decade. At that time, they would be considered a crucial component of implementing socialist realist principles in music, but in fact, they were already a well-established feature of orchestral and chamber ensemble planning. It was only the repertoire that would change, as will be discussed below. For the most part during these early postwar years, efforts to bring classical music to broader swaths of society were described as somewhat haphazard experiments in need of better planning and coordination. Virtually no one complained that they were useless. Outreach events, after all, are even today viewed as important tools for connecting with people who do not typically attend more formal concerts. In Poland, visits by musicians to schools, factories, and mines were common, as were trips by students and workers to special 43 Drobner, Wspomnienia, 76–80; Wanda Bacewiczówna, “Życie muzyczne w kraju: Warszawa,” Ruch Muzyczny 2, no. 3 (1946): 10–11; Piotr Kruszewski, “Obywatelu Ministrze, czy Pan wie . . .,” Ruch Muzyczny 2, nos. 20–21 (1946): 7; Stefan Kisielewski, “Życie muzyczne,” Tygodnik Powszechny 4, no. 7 (1948): 10. 44 BN Collection, 1948 Programy, Filharmonia Śląska 1947/48, Sprawozdanie za sezon 1947– 1948; BN Collection, 1947 A–L programs, Kraków programs, Sprawozdanie z działalności Filharmonii Krakowskiej w sezonie 1947/48; Michał Klubiński, Bohdan Wodiczko: Dyrygent wobec nowoczesnej kultury muzycznej (Kraków: Towarzystwo Autorów i Wydawców Prac Naukowych “Universitas,” 2017), 68; AAN, MKiS, 366/I 264, Protokół konferencji odbytej w związku z projektowaną inauguracją sezonu koncertowego Państwowej Filharmonii w Katowicach, dated April 26, 1945 r.

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events in performance halls. Orchestras and soloists also frequently played for municipal observances and presented so-called popular concerts (sometimes as part of a “Music for Everyone” series) and outdoor summer performances.45 Many orchestras offered Sunday morning concerts in their home cities in addition to their typical Friday evening performances. The programs for these outreach activities were sometimes modified to avoid offering pieces perceived as being too difficult for the less-musically educated audiences anticipated at such events. In one such example, Witold Lutosławski’s Symphonic Variations, which the Pomeranian Symphony Orchestra performed in Bydgoszcz in September 1948, were replaced the next day by Stanisław Moniuszko’s nineteenthcentury Overture to The Countess (Hrabina) on a concert presented by the same ensemble in Inowrocław; the remaining compositions on the Bydgoszcz program (Frédéric Chopin’s Piano Concerto no. 2 and Beethoven’s Symphony no. 5) were also heard in Inowrocław.46 Contemporary Polish music on these morning concerts and other outreach events was typically lighter or more wellknown fare from the interwar period, such as Stanisław Wiechowicz’s The Hop (Chmiel) or excerpts from Ludomir Różycki’s theatrical pieces. This seeming abundance of concerts presented by orchestras and the concert bureau did not prevent other organizations from organizing their own events. The Composers’ Union presented concerts from time to time, as did the Professional Musicians’ Union, the Łódź-based Folk Music Institute, and the state music publishing company (Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, hereafter Polish Music Publishers).47 By 1947, a lack of coordination between these and other groups meant that several classical music events sometimes occurred simultaneously in the same city. In Warsaw, for example, pianists Władysław Kędra and Jerzy Lefeld gave a recital at the Chopin Institute and at the same time a concert of Jerzy Sokorski’s songs was held in Roma hall. On a different day, Grażyna Bacewicz presented a violin recital at Warsaw’s YMCA while

45 Jerzy Jasieński, “Upowszechnienie muzyki,” Nowiny Literackie 2, no. 20 (1948): 7; AAN, MKiS 366/I 264, Letter from W. Krzemieński, Dyrektor Artystyczny, to Departament Muzyki, Ministerstwo Kultury i Sztuki, March 8, 1948. 46 Florian Dąbrowski, “Życie muzyczne w kraju: Bydgoszcz,” Ruch Muzyczny 4, no. 22 (1948): 17. 47 AAN, MKiS 366/I 292 (Departament Muzyki, Związek Zawodowy Muzyków [Statut, Korespondencja] 1945–47 r.), Letter from J. K. Lasocki, Dyrektor Muzyczny, Ludowy Instytut Muzyczny, to Departament Muzyki, Ministerstwo Kultury i Sztuki, June 30, 1947. A concert of religious music presented in Kraków in November 1946 was co-sponsored by the Professional Musicians’ Union, the Polish Composers’ Union, Polish Music Publishers, the Higher School of Music in Kraków, and the Kraków Philharmonic. BN Collection, 1946 programs, Koncert polskiej muzyki religijnej, November 9, 1946.

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Kędra performed a concert elsewhere. On still another day, Kędra and Lefeld performed again at the Chopin Institute at the same time as an orchestral concert was held at the Roma.48 The accomplishments of so many fine musicians would have been of great benefit to Warsaw’s concert goers if they could have attended all of these performances. On another occasion, complaints about a nearly empty performance venue were blamed on the concert bureau’s system of distributing tickets through school and professional unions rather than offering them to the general public. For the same event, there were not enough printed concert programs even for the few attendees and Jan Ekier was forced to withdraw from performing because his piano was not ready. Not surprisingly, a “popular” orchestral concert was also being held at the same time.49

Music Publishing and Political Pressures Crucial to the revival of concert and compositional life was the existence of publishing firms that could quickly produce music for both pedagogical purposes, concerts, and recitals, as well as for publicity efforts at home and abroad. To this end, in 1945 the new government asked Tadeusz Ochlewski, one of the founders of the interwar Polish Music Publishing Society (TWMP) and an active participant in underground musical life during the war, to organize a stateowned company, to be called Polish Music Publishers (Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, or PWM), in 1945.50 Demonstrating its intent to oversee publishing operations, officials at the Ministry of Culture and Art appointed the members of the new publisher’s advisory council, selecting experienced musicians who had been active in Poland’s musical life before and, to some extent, during the war.51 Within a year, Polish Music Publishers printed several pieces originally issued during the interwar period by TWMP, along with approximately twenty

48 Wanda Bacewiczówna, “Życie muzyczne w kraju: Warszawa,” Ruch Muzyczny 3, no. 11 (1947): 18–19. 49 Wanda Bacewiczówna, “Życie muzyczne w kraju: Warszawa,” Ruch Muzyczny 3, nos. 7–8 (1947): 26. 50 The Gieszczykiewicz bookstore-publisher in Kraków issued a catalog in May 1945 of some available TWMP publications. AAN, MKiS, 366/I 309 (Departament Muzyki, Wydawnictwa Muzyczne [Korespondencje] 1945–47 r.), Katalog Wydawnictw Towarzystwa Wydawniczego Muzyki Polskiej, V.1945; “Życie organizacyjne,” Ruch Muzyczny 1, no. 1 (1945): 27. 51 Among the composers named to the council were Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, Roman Palester, Piotr Rytel, Kazimierz Sikorski, Tadeusz Szeligowski, Kazimierz Wiłkomirski, and Bolesław Woytowicz. “Życie organizacyjne,” Ruch Muzyczny 1, no. 4 (1945): 21.

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additional compositions by living Polish composers; over the next few years it re-issued as many as thirty-two TWMP publications. It also created a library of scores and parts that enabled orchestras, choirs, and individual musicians to borrow music for performance. (Through 1946, orchestras were responsible for copying their own music parts, which presented an additional hindrance to the successful restart of concert life.) By the end of 1948, Polish Music Publishers had distributed more than 250 compositions by living composers. This signaled an impressive start by Ochlewski and his team as they attempted to assist in restarting public performances and music education. Although Ochlewski initially thought he could count on foreign publishers to assist his company’s efforts, this was not to be. As Ochlewski put it, “foreign publishers belong to the ‘victims of war’”52 and were not, he implied, to be relied on for any type of support. Foreign assistance, especially from the West, was not desired, even if it would have helped to improve Poland’s cultural life. Despite the branding of Polish Music Publishers as the only state music publisher, other enterprises in this area existed for at least several years. Czytelnik (Reader) was the largest of these, although its music publications, managed by Witold Rudziński, formed only a small portion of its operations. Its musical emphasis on producing scores and books for use by students and other amateurs resulted in more than 100 pieces being published by 1951, including compositions by Grażyna Bacewicz, Zygmunt Mycielski, Andrzej Panufnik, and the France-residing Michał Spisak.53 Other Polish institutions, including the Polish Army House (Dom Wojska Polskiego) and the Folk Music Institute, also published compositions and continued to do so alongside Czytelnik as stateapproved enterprises. Immediately following the war, other music publishers who had maintained an interwar presence in Poland were also permitted by the new government to function in order to compensate for the lack of a fully operational state-owned equivalent.54 Effectively, however, the gradual nationalization of the publishing industry resulted in the loss of enterprises producing scores and books 52 Jerzy Broszkiewicz, “Sprawa realnej decyzji (Rozmowa z Tadeuszem Ochlewskim),” Ruch Muzyczny 3, no. 9 (1947): 3. 53 A division for what it called stage works intended for professional performers but accessible for amateur listeners also existed. Although its music publishing operation merged with PWM in the mid-1950s, Czytelnik continues to function today. St[anisław] Wiechowicz, “Wydawnictwa ‘Czytelnika’,” Ruch Muzyczny 3, no. 9 (1947): 14; Andrzej Sitarz, “Music Publications of Czytelnik Press in the Years 1944–1954,” trans. Agnieszka Gaj, Musica Iagellonica 7 (2013): 141–150. 54 AAN, MKiS 366/I 309, Letter from Piotr Perkowski to Wydział Kwaterunkowy Zarządu Miejskiego m. st. Warszawy, May 18, 1945; AAN, MKiS, 366/I 312 (Departament Muzyki,

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about music that had originated as early as the nineteenth century. By the early 1950s, Gebethner and Wolff (Gebethner i Wolff, a Warsaw firm established in 1857), Arct Publishing (founded in Warsaw in the 1830s), the publishing concern in Poznań held by Kazimierz Tomasz Barwicki (1871–1931) and his son Mieczysław Ewaryst Barwicki (1898–1969), and the bookstore-publisher owned by Stefan Kamiński (1907–1974) in Kraków had all ceased operations due to governmental restrictions.55 These included the loss of private distribution networks and a requirement that publishing requests be approved by several organizations before being sent to the printers, which had also been nationalized.56 Although government agencies provided some support to private publishers during the immediate postwar years, they admitted that they sold paper to them at “stiff prices.”57 State-supported publishing houses also faced difficulties, however. Although Polish Music Publishers’ portfolio was comprised of all aspects of music publishing, its funding proved to be insufficient for such a monumental task. By early 1947, Ochlewski complained that it was forced to discontinue publishing and payment of honoraria to composers due to insufficient funds. Later the same year, the publisher sold some of its paper allotment and modified its business strategy in an attempt to stay afloat financially.58 In 1946, Mieczysław Drobner, in his position at the Ministry of Culture and Art, had inserted himself into Polish Music Publishers’ operational plans.

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Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne 1945–48 r.), Memoriał w sprawie utworzenia państwowej instytucji muzycznej wydawniczej. Krzysztof Jóźwiak, “Gebethner i spółka: Historia wielkiego wydawnictwa,” Rzeczpospolita, November 18, 2017, https://www.rp.pl/Rzecz-o-historii/311169886-Gebethner-ispolka-Historia-wielkiego-wydawnictwa.html; AAN, MKiS, 366/I 309, Letter from Wydawnictwo Muzyczne Arcta to Ministerstwo Kultury i Sztuki, Departament Muzyczny, November 12, 1945; Kazimierz Tomasz Barwicki, Z Wydawnictw im. K. T. Barwickiego w Poznaniu (Poznań: K. T. Barwicki, [c. 1947]); “Antykwariat Kamiński,” http://www.antykwariat-kaminski.pl/; Andrzej Sitarz, “In the Shadow of PWM (the Polish Music Publishing House): On Some Private Music Publishing Houses in Poland in the First Decade after the Second World War,” trans. Agnieszka Gaj, Musica Iagellonica 6 (2012): 225–246. For a sample of Barwicki’s catalog, see https://polona.pl/ item/z-wydawnictw-im-k-t-barwickiego-w-poznaniu,OTgwNzA3MTA/0/ These organizations included the Composers’ Union or music committees from other agencies, the Ministry of Culture and Art, and the censorship office (which bore the unwieldy name of Main Office of Press, Publication and Events Control [GUKPPiW, or Główny Urząd Kontroli Prasy, Publikacji i Widowisk]). AAN, MKiS, 366/I 312, Wydawnictwa muzyczne [undated but after January 1947]. ZKP, 12/139 (Korespondencja organizacyjna Zarz. Głównego 1947–61 r.), Letter from Ochlewski to Zarząd Główny, ZKP, February 24, 1947; AAN, MKiS, 366/I 312, Letter from MKiS, Departament Muzyki, to Departament Przedsiębiorstw, November 1, 1947.

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In a confidential letter to a government office, he questioned whether the Underground Battle Songs (see previous chapter) should be published, since some of the pieces had been associated with the Home Army, the wartime underground military force and an adversary of the Communist government in Poland.59 This was one of the earliest such interventions by the Ministry into the music community’s publishing activities. In the end, only twelve of the fifty-four proposed pieces were published. A series of internal communications between the Ministry of Culture and Art and the Soviet-aligned Polish Workers’ Party (PPR) in 1948 further exposed the oversight role these entities adopted with regard to Polish Music Publishers (PWM). These concerned the Ministry’s proposal to move PWM’s business operations from Kraków to Warsaw. Although one argument for this move was to improve coordination between PWM and its printing house in Warsaw, another rallying point was the Party’s wish to align PWM’s policies and activities with its own plans. As the Minister of Culture and Art, Stefan Dybowski (1903– 1970), wrote to PPR’s Council of Ministers, “transferring [PWM] to Warsaw will make possible direct control and active interference in PWM’s daily work.”60 That he added these words in his own handwriting to a printed draft of a letter that otherwise dealt with the financial and technical advantages of transferring PWM to the capital city strengthens the argument that by the end of 1948 the country’s principal music publisher would not be permitted to pursue an independent agenda.

The Polish Composers’ Union With the gradual opening of concert life in the country, accompanied by a more intentional patronage on the part of the government, came the popular belief that composers could benefit from similar avenues of support. While financial 59 AAN, MKiS, 366/I 309, Zbiór pieśni polskiej podziemnej, Letter from Drobner, Dyrektor Departamentu Muzyki, to Centralne Biuro Kontroli Prasy i Widowisk, February 14, 1946, Letter from Drobner to PWM, March 9, 1946. 60 AAN, MKiS, 366/I 312, Ministerstwo Kultury i Sztuki do Prezydium Rady Ministrów, Memoriał w sprawie przeniesienia Polskiego Wydawnictwa Muzycznego z Krakowa do Warszawy, October 27, 1948 and a draft dated October 1948, Letter from Zofia Lissa, Ministerstwo Kultury i Sztuki to Komitet Centralny Polskiej Partii Robotniczej, Wydział Kultury i Sztuki, September 16, 1948. Lissa signed this as the Director of the Department of Artistic Production (DTA), although in 1948 she was the vice director of the Music Department at the Ministry of Culture and Art. This contents of this letter demonstrate the active role she played in efforts to relocate PWM.

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assistance was undoubtedly welcomed given their experiences during the interwar years, composers were simultaneously forced to confront aesthetic issues that had also been discussed at length before the Nazi and Soviet invasions. The Polish Composers’ Union (Związek Kompozytorów Polskich), officially founded in late August 1945, was considered by its members to be a continuation of the interwar Polish Composers’ Association.61 It was more than that, however, for with governmental assistance, it became not the sole organization to aid composers, but certainly the most important one. Many professional composers became members (after proving their compositional skills merited such inclusion) and depended on it for commissions as well as assistance with housing, medical care, and other aspects of daily life. Piotr Perkowski, the first leader of the postwar union, and Roman Palester, one of its two vice-presidents, had been part of the interwar union’s management committee and so constituted a link between these two organizations, as did the presence of many of the same members in both groups.62 Two board members ( Jan Ekier and Witold Lutosławski) for the postwar union were younger than those who had been involved in the 1930s. Not surprisingly, many composers had also been active in Poland’s wartime musical life, further strengthening the continuity of personnel and experiences as the country emerged from foreign occupation. With its blending of new and former members, the new union had the opportunity to pursue solutions that had evaded its interwar predecessor as well as to introduce new plans that might address the demands of their postwar situation. Two avenues of pursuit can be seen in the union’s efforts throughout the first postwar decade: administrative, or material (assuring the funding and wellbeing of its members) and ideological, or philosophical (determining the future direction of Polish music). Both streams of activity were related; that is, who provided funding for contemporary composition and composers and what influence the union’s patrons would have on the content of musical works were of paramount importance to the organization and its individual members. These concerns were interwoven with what was happening in the publishing industry,

61 Mieczysław Drobner had created a Polish Composers’ Union in 1944 in Lublin, but with only four members: Drobner, Albert Harris (1916–2005), Aleksander Barchacz (dates unknown), and Edward Sienkiewicz (dates unknown). All but Harris were brought into the union organized in 1945. Drobner, Wspomnienia, 18; “Życie organizacyjne,” Ruch Muzyczny 1, no. 3 (1945): 17. 62 Palester had been a deputy (or substitute) member of the interwar board. “Kronika,” Muzyka 9, nos. 5–6 (1932): 173; Ludwik Erhardt, ed., 50 lat Związku Kompozytorów Polskich (Warsaw: Związek Kompozytorów Polskich, 1995), 17.

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including not only Polish Music Publishers, Czytelnik, and others, but also the reviews and essays found in the journal Ruch Muzyczny (Musical Movement) and such prominent weeklies as Nowiny Literackie (Literary News), Odrodzenie (Rebirth), and the Catholic Church-supported Tygodnik Powszechny (Universal Weekly). In turn, these texts were dependent at least in part on the course of concert life, particularly the selection of concert programs and suitable musicians as well as the viability of the country’s performing ensembles. In its first public statement, an official “Declaration” issued in 1945, the union professed its support for rebuilding Polish musical culture at home and abroad. Composers acknowledged that becoming seriously involved with the popularization, or dissemination of music in society, represented a new aspect of their work, even though it had been discussed during the interwar period, at least among individuals. The union stated that it would not differentiate between elite and popular music, but would instead concentrate on producing music of the highest quality. The union also condemned “the shameful excesses”63 of antiSemiticism, presumably in reference to the Holocaust. Although not explicitly stated, the desire for compositional freedom was implied through the union’s acceptance of all types and styles of music as well as its lack of discrimination regarding music suitable for outreach efforts. Stanisław Wiechowicz, in fact, emphasized that “the principle of complete freedom in the area of composition” was desired since “creating a separate art . . . specifically for the masses is flagrantly undemocratic and psychologically completely false.”64 Several statements, however, indicate critical shifts from the cultural policies of the interwar period. First, composers willingly accepted the central role that the Ministry of Culture and Art would now play in their profession. Undoubtedly remembering the insufficient aid provided by municipalities and the national government prior to 1939, composers now welcomed the opportunity to work with the Ministry to achieve their goals. We must realize, however, that composers had little choice in this matter, for the postwar government demanded such compliance.65 In turn, the Ministry would finance both the union’s operations (salaries and supplies, for example) and allot funds for commissions of new

63 “Deklaracja Zjazdu Kompozytorów Polskich w Krakowie (29 VIII–2 IX),” Ruch Muzyczny 1, no. 1 (1945): 11–12. 64 Stanisław Wiechowicz, “Kompozytor w dobie dzisiejszej (Refleksje w związku ze Zjazdem Kompozytorów Polskich),” Ruch Muzyczny 1, no. 1 (1945): 6–7. 65 Beata Bolesławska-Lewandowska, “The Musicological Section of the Polish Composers’ Union: Historical Background,” Polski Rocznik Muzykologiczny 17 (2019): 184–185.

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music, giving composers the hope that their profession would be suitably supported. The degree to which this cooperation between union and ministry was beneficial to either side will be explored further below. It is important to note, however, that the union did not consider itself to be a governmental agency. Instead, it thought of itself as more of a small family; while not everyone agreed with one another, there was a sense of comradely support, instilled in part by the mutual respect that had evolved during the war. Archival documentation consistently shows that the union’s primary concern was to protect composers and their livelihoods, with the expectation that the union’s leadership would work with the government to achieve that goal. Secondly, the acceptance of the popularization of music as one of the union’s primary aims indicated a heightened awareness of the need to bring music to a broader public. Whereas during the interwar period, the term “popularization”— at least as discussed among composers and music critics—referred to making classical music more available to the general populace, now composers seemed to consider so-called “popular music” as equally suitable, although perhaps tellingly, what genres that concept might encompass were not delineated. Stefania Łobaczewska, in her remarks about this Declaration, noted this distinction when she agreed that “musical composition cannot be divided into serious art intended for those in the know and lighter art ‘for the masses,’ which is specially created for their use.”66 Also of note is the fact that interwar issues such as nationalism and cosmopolitanism in music were not mentioned in the Declaration. The desire to focus on quality rather than musical content indicates, perhaps, that composers as a group wished to move past such controversies. For them, it seems, emerging from the war at least somewhat intact, together with their experiences working together during the occupation, compelled a greater tolerance of opinion and a respect for diversity. Stefan Kisielewski’s comments about Jan Adam Maklakiewicz’s Grunwald, made just a few months earlier, seemingly contradict that unity of purpose, however, although he was never an ardent advocate of musical nationalism. Regardless, any such consensus would be short-lived, as this issue would be a primary component of discussions regarding socialist realism in Polish composition.

66 Stefania Łobaczewska, “Zjazd Związku Kompozytorów Polskich,” Odrodzenie 2, no. 44 (1945): 6.

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How to Define Music for the Masses Indeed, the acceptance of a multiplicity of possibilities in musical composition would become strained rather quickly. Within the next few years, discussions about the popularization of music became increasingly more impassioned as they became intertwined with the impetus to bring music to broader sectors of society via the creation of new musical genres. With this came language that forecast the approach of socialist realism in music and its emphasis on reaching “the masses,” or in other words, industrial and agricultural workers, by producing compositions written by professional composers that these citizens could readily understand. Debates that involved issues of inclusion versus exclusion of genre and styles, elite versus accessible compositions, and serious versus popular music quickly emerged in both the musical press and in governmental decision-making. Although socialist realism has often been interpreted as a top-down imposition of cultural values, many of its principles regarding musical composition were closely related to issues supported by those at other levels of society, including composers. As early as 1946, the future Minister of Culture and Art, Włodzimierz Sokorski (1908–1999), a member of the Communist-style Polish Workers’ Party (PPR) who had spent the war years in the Soviet Union, told composers, using socialist realist rhetoric, that artists could not be separated, or “entirely alienated” from society. They were to contribute to a “new cultural outlook for the nation,”67 although Sokorski stopped short of offering any prescriptions for how composers should achieve this. By 1947, specifics were being proposed by the composers themselves. As Piotr Perkowski, then the president of the Composers’ Union, emphasized in a speech at the union’s congress that year, composers must accept the responsibility to “direct Polish music on a path toward the popularization of music.”68 To that end, new compositions were needed not only for professional symphonies, but also for amateur choirs as well as military, factory, and rural orchestras. Furthermore, “worthless”69 German music was to be eliminated

67 Włodzimierz Sokorski, “Społeczny aspekt twórczości artystycznej,” Ruch Muzyczny 2, nos. 20–21 (1946): 6–7. Sokorski had been a member of the Communist Party of Poland during the interwar period. While in the Soviet Union, he helped to establish the Union of Polish Patriots. He also belonged to the the Polish United Workers’ Party after it was created in late 1948. 68 ZKP, 12/3 (III Walny Zjazd ZKP 20, 21.X.1947), Protokół III Walnego Zjazdu członków Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 20 i 21 października 1947 r., day 1, page 4. 69 ZKP, 12/3, Protokół III Walnego Zjazdu członków Związku Kompozytorów Polskich, day 1, page 5.

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from pedagogical music literature, to be replaced by Polish compositions. For Perkowski, Polish composers had always dealt successfully with their responsibilities to society, but now new efforts were needed.70 Perkowski’s comments suggest several things. Although he did not state it explicitly, he implied that a different kind, or level of music was needed for amateurs (seemingly distinct from pedagogical music) and was to be written by his colleagues, not just non-union composers of presumably lesser talent. Compositional freedom would seem to be a questionable priority, if this meant that composers would be coerced either financially or otherwise into producing such pieces. Inclusivity toward society was encouraged, but at what price? There was also a lingering and somewhat understandable antipathy toward the presence of German music in this newly recovered land as well as the desire to hear as many Polish compositions as possible, since these had been forbidden from most public stages during the war. At the same time, unlike the rhetoric that would be heard in the near future (and had also been expressed during the interwar period), Perkowski did not see any need to negate the past accomplishments of his country’s composers. For him, the current issue was not one of compositional aesthetics but of directing music to as many listeners as possible. Katarzyna Dadak-Kozicka has argued that this speech by Perkowski was designed to appease the governmental representatives present at this meeting, which included the Minister of Culture and Art, Stefan Dybowski. In her opinion, Perkowski placated these authorities with his affirmation that the Composers’ Union recognized the tasks placed upon it by its new patron (the government) and would “treat them seriously.”71 During the interwar period, Perkowski had seemed to adhere to the more progressive flavor of musical aesthetics, supporting Karol Szymanowski and his international vision for Polish music. Throughout the war, he had handled many of the details of underground concert life and other types of assistance for composers. Although in this 1947 speech, Perkowski occasionally used language appropriate for a socialist realist conversation, such as “a Polish composer cannot in any case be counted among the creators ‘locked in an ivory tower’ having no contact with life” and “a Polish composer in our musical world is one who has put the greatest weight of social responsibilities on his shoulders,”72 he also supported his fellow composers by

70 Ibid. 71 Katarzyna Dadak-Kozicka, Obrońcy dobra powierzonego: Związek Kompozytorów Polskich 1945–48 (Warsaw: Fundacja na rzecz Warsztatów Analiz Socjologicznych, 2018), 221. 72 ZKP, 12/3, Protokół III Walnego Zjazdu członków Związku Kompozytorów Polskich, day 1, page 1.

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insisting that they needed the proper conditions for their work. These conditions were currently lacking, in his opinion. His concern for the practical aspects of compositional life would not wane in future years: in comments made during the 1950 Composers’ Union’s congress, he claimed that too few concerts of composers’ works were being organized and that “the hindrances of practical life” were “piling up.”73 At the same time, he pointed out that composers needed to write pieces of a “practical nature,” not just symphonic music, and expressed his support for those who had criticized the experimental nature of Andrzej Panufnik’s Sinfonia Rustica, although he also admitted that such musical inquiries were necessary.74 In this case, Perkowski could have remained silent, since these statements were not part of a formal speech, but were instead made during a period of open discussion. Given his predilection for handling the more pragmatic side of musical life and his prior acceptance of a wide variety of musical influences, it would seem that his statements made at the union’s congress in 1947 may have been an exaggeration, but not an outright denial of his opinions at that time. The most important polemic in play in the late 1940s concerned the direction of future composition: Did all new compositions have to be accessible to the general public or should educational efforts be made to bring society up to speed with what composers typically wrote? What kinds of music were to be used for this popularization effort and how would composers be encouraged to participate? Would there be some sort of “ghettoization” of music for the masses—would separate genres and/or levels of compositional difficulty be presented to society at large while other so-called elite compositions could be performed for the concert-going public in large cities? Some composers called for better directives about what music was needed for the musically illiterate (another implication that typical symphonic or chamber pieces were somehow inadequate for such people). Most supported the idea of addressing music to broader segments of society, but claimed they had little time for composing, since they spent much of their time dealing with other areas of musical life. Witold Rudziński (then the head of the music department at the Ministry of Culture and Art) pushed back, complaining that composers

73 ZKP, 12/5, Protokół z obrad . . . w dniach 16, 17, 18 i 19 czerwca 1950 r., page 11. 74 The reception of Sinfonia Rustica will be discussed in more detail below. ZKP, 12/5, Protokół z obrad . . . w dniach 16, 17, 18 i 19 czerwca 1950 r., pages 24, 44.

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were still “enclosing themselves in elite music”75 and acting indifferently toward music for the masses. In Stefan Kisielewski’s opinion (speaking in 1947), music could not be qualified as either elite or otherwise, but instead was either good or bad. Whether it was comprehensible to the masses or not was irrelevant for him.76 A year later, he and Zygmunt Mycielski argued that two tracks of composition should be established. They suggested that some composers specialize in writing new kinds of accessible music, which eventually would include mass songs, short cantatas, and pedagogical works, while others would concentrate on their preferred fields of symphonic and other concert music. Such a scheme would theoretically provide music for the masses that was of high quality and readily accessible to the general public. At the same time, longer, more complex works that would contribute to the ongoing development of classical music and the appreciation of typical urban concert audiences could continue to be created.77 Quality over quantity for both elite and accessible compositions—if adopted, this plan might ultimately allow society to appreciate good music of all levels of difficulty. In other words, Kisielewski and Mycielski were pushing to maintain some form of inclusivity and compositional freedom. They also wanted quality Polish compositions that could be presented on international stages. Pointedly, they did not advocate for any particular styles or techniques that would be appropriate for such music. Zofia Lissa had somewhat different ideas. By mid-1947, she had moved from the Soviet Union to Warsaw to work with Witold Rudziński at the Ministry of Culture and Art. This occurred after the Polish Workers’ Party’s Political Office decided to bring in more “politically proven”78 people to help lead various departments (Rudziński started as the director of the Ministry’s Music Department on May 1, 1947 and Lissa became the vice director on June 1 of the same year.)79 According to some accounts, she was charged with leading the Ministry’s efforts to expand musical popularization offerings in the country. As shown in her interwar work, her interests lay in the social context and psychological reception

75 ZKP, 12/3, Protokół III Walnego Zjazdu członków Związku Kompozytorów Polskich, day 1, page 7. 76 Stefan Kisielewski, “Jaką muzykę upowszechnić? (Artykuł dyskusyjny),” Ruch Muzyczny 3, nos 3–4 (1947): 1. 77 Zygmunt Mycielski, “Twórcy a masy,” Nowiny Literackie 2, no. 4 (1948): 4; [Stefan] Kisiel[ewski], “Dialog o muzyce,” Tygodnik Powszechny 4, no. 32 (1948): 12. 78 Izdebski, “Powstanie warszawskiego ośrodka muzykologicznego,” 174. 79 Ibid.; Bochwic, Kalendarium życia Witolda Rudzińskiego.

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of composition,80 while her wartime efforts had revolved around collecting and promoting Polish songs in the Soviet Union, followed by a stint with the Sovietinfluenced Union of Polish Patriots. Her thoughts about the popularization of music shifted in the immediate postwar years from talking about the need for the masses to be exposed to more high-quality music to affirming the obligation of composers to write pieces that reflected the reality of their Polish society. If in 1947 she urged composers to respond to their potential audiences by writing emotionally satisfying music,81 a year later she railed against the “crisis” that had characterized European music of recent decades, whose composers (she specifically mentioned Schoenberg, Berg, Webern) had offered only “technical experiments.”82 This marked a shift from her interwar views, when she had spoken positively of Berg and Schoenberg’s compositions. Now Polish composers should avoid compositional traits that had roots in the interwar period, although, to complicate matters, they were still to draw on musical traditions for inspiration.83 Perhaps realizing that she needed to mitigate the impact of her remarks for her compositional colleagues (for musicologists had just joined the Composers’ Union),84 she proposed a transitional period, when, echoing Kisielewski and Mycielski, some compositions could be written for the “prepared listener” and others for the “new listener.”85 But she dismissed the rationale espoused by Kisielewski, which was to evaluate compositions as either good or bad, saying

80 Zbigniew Skowron, “On Zofia Lissa’s (1908–1980) Musical and Aesthetic Explorations,” Musicology Today 9 (2012): 132–139. 81 Zofia Lissa, “O słuchaniu i rozumieniu utworów muzycznych,” Ruch Muzyczny 3, nos. 19–20 (1947): 2–3. 82 Zofia Lissa, “Czy muzyka jest sztuką asemantyczną?,” Myśl Współczesna, no. 10 (1948): 276. 83 Zofia Lissa; “Aspekt socjologiczny w polskiej muzyce współczesnej,” Kwartalnik Muzyczny, nos. 21–22 (1948): 135, 140. 84 The incorporation of musicologists into the Composers’ Union was proposed in mid-1947, beginning with discussions within the Polish Worker’s Party’s music committee, when Lissa was asked to contact the union about this matter. Beata Bolesławska-Lewandowska has further argued that bringing musicologists into the Polish Composers’ Union was a politicized initiative possibly instigated by officials in the Soviet Union. Katarzyna Dadak-Kozicka also claims that the Ministry of Culture and Art threatened to withdraw subsidies from the union if it refused to accept musicologists. The Ministry’s justification for this was that musicologists were to support composers in their efforts to produce compositions suitable for socialist-realist purposes, thus providing leverage within the union to support the ideological goals of both the Polish United Workers’ Party and the government. Izdebski, “Powstanie warszawskiego ośrodka muzykologicznego,” 173–174; Bolesławska-Lewandowska, “The Musicological Section of the Polish Composers’ Union,” 189–194; Dadak-Kozicka, Obrońcy dobra powierzonego, 237–238. 85 Lissa, “Aspekt socjologiczny w polskiej muzyce wspólczesnej,” 142.

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such an assessment would always be dependent on the context of the evaluator and the circumstances in which the piece was written.86 This opinion would face revision in coming years, when many new compositions were required to be reviewed before they could be premiered. Whether or not Lissa’s postwar emphases on avoiding radical experimentation in composition marked a shift in her thinking from earlier years, an extension of these thoughts, or a way to manage her musicological career is still being debated today. Certainly her wartime experiences in the interior of the Soviet Union impacted her understanding of how social groups who were less familiar with Western music could be introduced to classical music. Her experiences in the Polish embassy in Moscow allowed her to make connections with highranking, Communist-aligned diplomats. They also gave her a critical voice in cultural matters, which would be strengthened after her return to Poland. It is certainly possible that as a Jew, she felt that siding with Communist precepts would offer her some protection from any postwar anti-Semitism in Poland, although she had held views sympathetic to these political causes since at least the 1930s.87 Many composers welcomed the increased importance of music in the country’s overall cultural program, but cautioned against abandoning their previous compositional practices. In effect, they advocated leaving all or nearly all decisions regarding compositional forms and styles in the hands of composers rather than yielding to the demands of governmental authorities.88 They also pushed to maintain so-called elite music, although without commenting on any particular compositional technique. At the 1948 Composers’ Union congress, Perkowski, however—perhaps again seeking to appease his governmental patrons—described the new direction in cultural policies related to music composition as being rooted in what we would recognize as quasi-Marxist language: A composer was a producer of artistic goods. Brokers, or distributors of these goods, were musical institutions such as publishers and ensembles. The consumers were the audiences. But herein lay a problem: because consumers were often musically illiterate, Perkowski cautioned against rashly evaluating compositions on the basis of how they reacted to them.89 For Mycielski, however, the principle of popularization had already been acted upon many times through the works of 86 Ibid, 137. 87 Pierce, “Life and Death,” 186–187; Skowron, “On Zofia Lissa’s (1908–1980) Musical and Aesthetic Explorations,” 138–139. 88 Lisa Cooper Vest has made a similar argument. See Vest, Awangarda, 31–33. 89 It is possible that Perkowski’s 1948 speech was vetted by the government prior to the union’s meeting, which may have led to the inclusion of such terminology. ZKP, 12/4 (IV Walny Zjazd ZKP 20, 21, 22.XI.1948), Załącznik 1 (Piotr Perkowski, Przemówienie), 1–2.

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Stanisław Wiechowicz, Tadeusz Szeligowski, and others. He called for educating listeners to appreciate compositions that composers wanted to write instead of lowering the artistic level of new works to the current level of consumers.90 Wiechowicz agreed with Mycielski, warning against yielding to the “masses” and those who said that some compositions were “too difficult for them.”91 Thus, some level of agreement (although not unanimous) existed among many composers and musicologists that music of high quality should be disseminated, or popularized, throughout society, although there was no consensus about whether to introduce them to different types of pieces than those that had previously been considered standard concert fare. The overriding questions were: just how much compositional freedom would be accepted, for what purposes, and who was in charge of such decisions?

New Requirements for Composition: Formalism and Realism in Music The answer to these questions seems to have been given as early as 1947. It was likely not quite what most composers wanted to hear. Speaking in November of that year, Poland’s president, Bolesław Bierut, affirmed that the overarching goal of creative artists was to “raise and ennoble the mass’s level of living. Creativity separated from this goal, art for art’s sake, comes from asocial impulses.”92 From this point, it became a short step for government officials, musicians, and critics to begin scrutinizing and even censoring compositions and writings on music that advocates of socialist realism in music judged to be insufficiently in tune with their objectives. Bringing classical music to all of society would mean, at least theoretically, excluding certain compositional styles and influences. Włodzimierz Sokorski, then the Vice-Minister of Culture and Art, issued one of the first official explanations of formalist and realist characteristics in music in late 1948. In a speech before the Composers’ Union, he explained that composers were expected to change their compositional style to adhere to the government’s desires. This would mark the end of any sense of compositional freedom that composers had experienced since the end of the war. Lissa’s call

90 Zygmunt Mycielski, “Kłopoty i troski kolędników,” Odrodzenie 5, no. 2 (1948): 7. 91 Wiechowicz, “Wydawnictwa ‘Czytelnika’,” 14. 92 Bolesław Bierut, O upowszechnienie kultury: Przemówienie prezydenta Rzeczypospolitej Bolesława Bieruta na otwarciu radiostacji we Wrocławiu 16 listopada 1947 (Warsaw: Radiowy Instytut Wydawniczy, 1948), 13.

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for a transitional period in which composers could write more complex pieces for musically sophisticated audiences had been rejected by other cultural officials. Sokorski, like Bierut, lamented the isolation of composers from their fellow citizens. To overcome this, it was necessary to avoid the “epigonistic music of the decadent capitalist era with its clear traits of formalist degeneration.”93 He claimed that if an audience did not react positively to a particular composition, that piece was either not valuable or it did not reflect the “spirit” of the current era. Obviously contemporary Western influences were decidedly negative aspects of composition that would not appeal to workers94 (who, according to Polish governmental and political authorities, were often synonymous with society during the first postwar decade and even beyond that, whereas— evoking class distinctions—intellectuals and artists were somehow not authentic members of the Polish community). Composers’ interests in bringing music to a broader swath of society, which had been discussed since at least the interwar period and which they had accepted as one of their responsibilities in the postwar era, were now transformed into a point of contention and crisis. In order to promote inclusivity for audiences, composers were being told by government officials that certain compositional styles were forbidden. Immediate gratification was the order of the day, since at least theoretically, audience reactions would determine the success or failure of any given composition. “Consumers” were in charge and composers were expected to respond to them. Although conservative interwar critics such as Piotr Rytel had rejected much of twentieth-century music, claiming its foreign origins would contaminate Polish music, it is not clear that officials in the new postwar government drew on those same interwar sentiments as they formulated these new postulates. At first glance, it seems that these directives about formalism and realism in music came from the top echelons of Poland’s Communist government. Additional ammunition, however, came in the form of a mid-1948 visit from prominent Soviet musicians (Tikhon Khrennikov, Yuri Shaporin, and Boris Jarustovsky) and related publications in the Polish press, which strongly suggested that Soviet pressure was being brought to bear on Polish cultural authorities. The Soviets had been dealing with these same issues for more than a decade. As Khrennikov (1913–2007) bluntly put it, contemporary music appealed to musical snobs but was incomprehensible to others. In his opinion, composers had lost touch 93 Włodzimierz Sokorski, “Formalizm i realizm w muzyce,” Ruch Muzyczny 4, nos. 23–24 (1948): 2. 94 Ibid., 4–5.

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with their fellow citizens. Their formalist viewpoint was based on their “extreme individualism, which is characterized by an unnatural, frequently pathological feeling of the world [and] a lack of faith in the strength of progress, in the ideals of man.”95 Realism, on the other hand, represented a “progressive world view that enriches humanity.”96 If Zofia Lissa, in describing a crisis in contemporary music, had not named specific composers, the Soviets were not so reluctant. Igor Stravinsky, Arnold Schoenberg, Henry Cowell, Edgard Varèse, and Olivier Messiaen had gone astray, musically speaking. Many composers were only interested in novelty for the sake of novelty, but music should “serve the interests of the nation. It should bring lofty humanistic ideals to millions of listeners, not to a group of musicians isolated in a caste . . . Music should be true, realist, [and] beautiful.”97 In closing, Khrennikov endorsed the resolution issued at the 1948 Prague International Conference of Composers and Music Critics (attended by musicologists Zofia Lissa, Stefania Łobaczewska, and Józef Chomiński), which called in part for composers to associate their music with their own country’s culture, defend it against cosmopolitan tendencies, and educate the musically illiterate. These goals were to be achieved by promoting vocal genres such as opera, cantatas, and choral music.98 Despite the apparent unanimity of upper-level Polish cultural officials and their Soviet counterparts, not all Polish composers were ready to acquiesce to their demands. Instead, they were prepared to argue for their own convictions and in support of compositional freedom. Zygmunt Mycielski, elected chair of the Composers’ Union in November 1948, just as rhetoric about new demands for music was strengthening, noted that the government now required the union to deal with certain tasks, namely those giving “new life” to music. If the union did not acquiesce, he implied that its fate, controlled by the government, would be “wretched” (żałosny).99 Mycielski had accepted the position as head of the

95 Tichon Chrennikow [Tikhon Khrennikov], “O nowe drogi twórczości muzycznej,” Ruch Muzyczny 4, no. 18 (1948): 3. 96 Ibid. 97 Ibid., 5. 98 “Manifest,” Ruch Muzyczny 4, nos. 13–14 (1948), 26–27; “Kronika,” Ruch Muzyczny 4, no. 10 (1948): 23. For Zygmunt Mycielski’s rather unfavorable description of Khrennikov’s visit, see Beata Bolesławska–Lewandowska, “Kulisy działalności Zygmunta Mycielskiego w Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w latach 1947–50,” in Krzysztof Brzechczyn and Rafał Ciesielski, eds., Granice muzyki—granice wolności: Wokół konferencji kompozytorów i krytyków muzycznych w Łagowie Lubuskim w 1949 roku (Poznań-Warsaw: Instytut Pamięci Narodowej, 2021). My thanks to the author for sending me this article prior to its publication. 99 Zygmunt Mycielski, “Przemówienie na Walnym Zjeździe Kompozytorów Polskich,” Ruch Muzyczny 5, no. 1 (1949): 2.

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Composers’ Union only because no one else wanted it, an indication that most composers had little desire (or time) to guide their colleagues through what promised to be turbulent times. Elsewhere in his comments, Mycielski pushed back against some of Włodzimierz Sokorski’s ideas. He defended compositional freedom and high artistic quality, stating that compositions intended for use in community centers and theatrical plays (in other words, to be heard and perhaps performed by “the masses”) should not be treated to a lower standard of excellence than that planned for concert stages. He disagreed with Sokorki’s suggestion that the most valuable works would be those immediately accepted by most consumers. In his opinion, supporting this practice was equivalent to underestimating listeners or, even worse, treating them with contempt.100 Speaking in Sokorski’s presence at this congress, Mycielski may have been trying to protect his union members when he added that the government always understood composers’ needs. Whether Sokorski understood that Mycielski was attempting to meet him halfway by agreeing to help in the Ministry’s popularization efforts (which after all were supported at least in part by nearly all composers), is unknown. However, Mycielski’s speech served to stake a position in which the union would not simply acquiesce to all demands and expectations imposed by the Ministry and other governmental agencies, but would evaluate each for their appropriateness in the field of serious composition.

Nationalism and Patriotism in Music Although the discussions outlined above focused on issues connected to elitism, realism versus formalism, and popularization, all of which would resonate through the remainder of the first postwar decade, the 1948 Prague resolution also mentioned cosmopolitanism, a term that had carried negative connotations even in the interwar period. Some Polish musicians implied that rejecting cosmopolitanism would solve the current crisis in contemporary music. Pianist, music critic, and music administrator Jerzy Jasieński (1913–2008), for example, invoked the words of Andrei Zhdanov (a close adviser to Stalin) in claiming that cosmopolitan people failed to grasp the significance of their homeland. Composers needed to embed a deeper sense of their own nation in their pieces instead of concerning themselves with musical trends in other countries.

100 Mycielski, “Przemówienie na Walnym Zjeździe Kompozytorów Polskich,” 2–6.

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They should not be required to quote folk music directly, but, at the same time, musicologists should assist them by publishing collections of folk music.101 While the term cosmopolitanism was rarely invoked by postwar Polish speakers, what some would consider its antithesis—nationalism—became tightly embedded in debates concerning the practicalities of creating realist music in Poland, even if this issue had been ignored by the Composers’ Union in 1945. In just a few years, the situation had changed: the union’s official statement issued after their 1948 congress emphasized that composers were to reach new listeners with high-quality pieces linked to Polish musical traditions, especially those of Frédéric Chopin.102 These assertions, with all of their vagaries about what these traditions might be other than Chopin’s contributions were preceded by a series of articles in which composers and critics attacked Stefan Kisielewski for his allegedly unpatriotic opinions about Polish composers and musicians active in the decades prior to the most recent war. His now well-known comment that “national music composition is by no means national because it includes citations from folklore or patriotic songs or uses folk rhythms or is intended for and understandable by only one nation”103 was accompanied by his assertion that a truly great composer expressed, in an inexplicable way, the “temperament”104 of his nation and was recognized in other countries for the individuality of his music. For him, among twentieth-century Polish composers only Mieczysław Karłowicz and Karol Szymanowski fit that characterization. In contrast, Feliks Nowowiejski, Roman Statkowski (1859–1925), Władysław Żeleński (1837–1921), and Ignacy Jan Paderewski were neither great nor national composers.105 An uproar ensued in the press and elsewhere, with most commentators indignant that Kisielewski would impugn the reputation of any Polish composer, no matter the quality of that composer’s musical works. Some of the composers Kisielewski had singled out were respected for their patriotic acts earlier in the twentieth-century.106 Patriotism demonstrated in daily life was thus deemed an 101 Jerzy Jasieński, “Odpowiedzialność społeczna kompozytorów,” Nowiny Literackie 2, no. 50 (1948): 12. 102 “Deklaracja: Walne Zgromadzenie Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w Warszawie,” Ruch Muzyczny 5, no. 1 (1949): 13. 103 Stefan Kisielewski, “Muzyka narodowa i próby obrazoburstwa,” Tygodnik Powszechny 2, no. 50 (1946): 5. 104 Ibid. 105 Ibid. See also Stefan Kisielewski, “Życie muzyczne: Koncert twórczości Feliksa Nowowiejskiego,” Tygodnik Powszechny 2, no. 25 (1946): 7. 106 Nowowiejski, for example, in the immediate post–World War I years had assisted the Polish side in a plebiscite held in northern regions that asked citizens if they wanted to remain with

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acceptable ingredient for recognition as a composer. Yet one must remember that for at least a portion of these older composers’ careers, there had been no legitimate Polish state, so any act of patriotism would likely have been greatly admired by Poles before and after the recent wars. At the same time, any reluctance to objectively critique compositional quality in postwar Poland perhaps points to an inferiority complex on the part of those who opposed Kisielewski—an unwillingness to admit that musical quality matters when evaluating the worth of a composer’s output. Moreover, as Tadeusz Szeligowski pointed out, Frédéric Chopin, Karol Szymanowski, Artur Rubinstein, and Ignacy Jan Paderewski had left Poland at various times, partly to escape what he called the “provincialism of our musical life.”107 Yet these very composers and musicians who had lived and worked abroad were, paradoxically, those whom many Polish citizens considered to be the champions of Polish musical traditions. International influences did not seem to matter in these instances involving distant memories, but they sometimes did when it involved contemporary music in postwar Poland. Maintaining traditions was one way to promote Polish culture and Polish identity. Those who criticized composers of the past and—as Kisielewski did— supported more modern, international influences became subjects of concern. The discussion thus far has referenced only so-called “Polish” folk music, not that of other ethnic groups who might remain or used to reside within the boundaries of Poland. In fact, folk music from outside of Poland was not even part of the debate during these years, nor was the music of other ethnicities inside the country. The policy of excluding other nationalities and ethnic groups from being considered a legitimate part of the new postwar country, mentioned above in terms of forced migrations, meant that musicians were also discouraged from taking advantage of what were now considered to be foreign influences, even those, for example, of Ukrainians still living in Poland.108 Germany (Prussia) or join the Polish nation. In the end, the area joined Poland only after World War II. Paderewski, a world-renowned pianist, was also a politician who had publicly supported the call for Polish independence; he was the new country’s prime minister in 1919. Iwona Fokt, Feliks Nowowiejski: Biography, trans. Beata Brodniewicz (Poznań: Wydawnictwo Miejskie Posnania, Towarzystwo im. Feliksa Nowowiejskiego, and Akademia Muzyczna im. I. J. Paderewskiego, 2019), 144–155; Porter-Szűcs, Poland in the Modern World, 79. See also Piotr Perkowski, Witold Lutosławski, and Jan Ekier, “Do redakcji ‘Ruchu Muzycznego’,” Ruch Muzyczny 3, no. 10 (1947): 28; Zdzisław Jachimecki, “O muzyce narodowej,” Tygodnik Powszechny 3, no. 3 (1947): 7, 9. 107 Tadeusz Szeligowski, “Kartki z podróży,” Ruch Muzyczny 3, no. 17 (1947): 7. 108 Musicologist Józef Chomiński was allegedly disparaged (as he had been during the interwar period) because of his Ukrainian heritage, as well as his suspicious background of wartime activities. Lissa informed him about this in 1948, but it is unclear who had made the allegations. During World War II, massacres of Poles by the Ukrainian Uprising Army (also called

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Furthermore, other hints of prejudices emerged. The Jewish backgrounds of Grzegorz Fitelberg and Zofia Lissa did not seem to negatively affect their postwar careers in Poland and may have bolstered Lissa’s, as mentioned earlier. But for the remaining Jews who were not fluent in the Polish language, it was a different story and one characterized by exclusionary practices. At a 1947 meeting of artistic unions, for example, the question of whether to accept writers and actors from the interwar Jewish Actors’ Union into the postwar artistic associations arose. Concerned about the inability to determine these artists’ qualifications for the new organizations if they did not speak Polish, the decision was made to create a separate organization for these individuals.109 Musicians were not specifically mentioned, presumably due to the inherently non-vocal nature of much of their work (and assuming any texts set to music were not in Hebrew or Yiddish). Several Polish-Jewish composers were, in fact, active members of the Polish Composers’ Union during the first postwar decade.

Commissioning Compositions The process of rebuilding musical institutions and redirecting attention to the musical needs of the broader public raises additional questions about the lives of composers and other musicians during these years. We already know that composers were intimately involved with leading revitalized orchestras, teaching in newly emerging or reestablished music schools, and serving in governmental positions to assist in renewal efforts. But what did they do as composers? Were they paid to compose and if so, by whom and for what type of compositions? Did the compositions produced in the immediate postwar years reflect the emerging emphasis on popularization and/or the somewhat later discussions alleging a crisis in the music of capitalist countries? Furthermore, did performers and ensembles support contemporary Polish composers by presenting their new works on concerts? David Tompkins has previously broached the topic of the Ukrainian Insurgent Army) and its supporters took place in Volhynia, in what today is western Ukraine. An estimated 100,000 Poles were killed, while fewer than 20,000 people of Ukrainian heritage lost their lives. This massacre contributed to the considerable animosity that existed between Poles and Ukrainians after the war. Chomiński’s experiences were affected by this more general antagonism toward Ukrainians in Polish society. Sieradz, ed., Adolf Chybiński—Józef Michał Chomiński, 91; Porter-Szűcs, Poland in the Modern World, 170–172; Dabrowski, Poland, 421. 109 ZKP, 12/52 (Rada Związków Artystycznych, Protokóly z posiedzeń, 1948–51 r.), Protokół posiedzenia plenarnego Głównej Komisji Artystycznych Związków Zawodowych i Stowarzyszeń w dniu 25 października 1947 r.

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commissions, but now additional details and insights into composers’ personal experiences in this area can be offered.110 In reality, the procedures used to fund composers varied significantly over the first few postwar years due in part to the exigencies of reconstruction and the almost continual shifts of personnel and agencies inside and outside of the government. Moreover, internal debates within the Composers’ Union concerned the wisdom of commissioning new works from colleagues and friends and the appropriateness of evaluating these new creations. With differing compositional tastes and abilities among union members—an inevitable occurrence—the risks of antagonizing someone would seem to be high. Yet within such a small group of people (the union numbered around thirty composers in 1945 and about seventy, not including musicologists, in 1948) it seems equally plausible that collectively the membership would attempt to avoid rancor, at least when it affected the livelihoods of their fellow composers. Formal commissions, in the sense of providing funds for specific pieces, likely occurred by 1946, with unrestricted grants also provided to those in need. Although no specific commissions are known to have been provided for 1945, it seems that at least some union members received 5,000 zlotys as a grant for living expenses either in 1945 or 1946. Through the end of August 1946, the union’s presidium had dispensed loans or grants for 100,000 zlotys and approved 70,000 zlotys in commissions for new works or purchases of existing pieces from a dozen composers. By the end of 1946 commissions worth 200,000 zlotys had been made. Unfortunately, in most cases, we do not know which compositions were written as a result of these commissions.111 Commissions and other stipends were also directed to composers during these early postwar years by Polish Radio and other agencies. However, unlike during the interwar period, commissions were, according to available information, not formally provided by private individuals. Although details of these postwar commissions are not available, it seems that Polish Radio’s process for

110 Tompkins, Composing the Party Line, 131–165. 111 Artur Malawski’s Symphonic Etudes were commissioned by the Polish Composers’ Union in 1946. ZKP, 12/54 (Protokoły z posiedzeń Komisji Zamówień i Zakupów 1948–1957 r.), Protokól z V-tego posiedzenia Komisji Zamówień i Zakupów z dnia 6.VII.1948 r. See also ZKP, 12/28 (Protokoły z posiedzeń Prezydium ZG ZKP 1945–1950 r.), Sprawozdania finansowe za czas od 1.IX.45 r do 30.VIII.46 r.; ZKP, Zygmunt Mycielski folder, Letter from Mycielski to Związek Kompozytorów Polskich, October 1, 1947; AAN, MKiS, 366/I 173 (Departament Muzyki, Sprawozdania z działalności roczne, kwartalne i miesięczne departamentu 1945–47 r.), Sprawozdanie Departamentu Muzyki Ministerstwa Kultury i Sztuki na czas od 1.i do 31.xii.1945 r.

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funding composers was a bit haphazard, for in early 1948, Mycielski pointed to commissions being made only two weeks before a work’s scheduled premiere.112 The state-sponsored Polish Music Publishers, on the other hand, worked closely with the Composers’ Union to coordinate publishing and commissions. By 1948, these included discussions about compositions intended for the government’s popularization efforts. Polish Music Publishers itself provided some commissions (for example, for Grażyna Bacewicz’s String Quartet no. 3), although these appear to be relatively small in number. Czytelnik, the publishing house, also commissioned new compositions. Andrzej Panufnik’s Jaworzyna March (Marsz jarworzyński) for small orchestral ensemble is recognized as one such piece, while others surely were also given.113 By far the greatest source of commissioning funds was funneled to the Composers’ Union via the Ministry of Culture and Art. As part of the commissioning process, composers were asked to submit requests to the union for works they wished to write, although on many occasions, the union also made suggestions about whom to commission for certain types of compositions. Although these requests came in the form of official correspondence, both sender and recipient were often colleagues, if not close friends. Some union members complained about a biased allotting of monies to certain composers, but this accusation was rationalized by others as a reluctance to commission some colleagues due to a lack of knowledge about their previous work. By late 1947, however, at least some composers recognized the need to create a more independent committee for commissions than the union itself could be.114 This committee was created in early 1948. While officially independent of the Composers’ Union, all of the Commission Committee’s members were closely involved with Polish musical life as musicologists, performers, conductors, or administrators. Only one, Zygmunt Mycielski, was an active composer; he also represented the union’s executive board. Theoretically this was to be an unbiased group able to make equitable decisions while at the same time considering the Ministry’s overall cultural policies, including the call for music suitable

112 ZKP, 12/52, Protokół z posiedzenia przedstawicieli trzech związków artystycznych łącznie z prezydium R. Z. A. 10 lutego 1948 r. Artur Malawski received payment for music produced for the Polish Army Film Company in 1945: AKP, Artur Malawski Collection, Korespondencja, I. Listy do Artura Malawskiego - T–Z, September 8, 1945 (K-XL/42). 113 “Kronika,” Ruch Muzyczny 4, no. 4 (1948): 22; Bolesławska, The Life and Works of Andrzej Panufnik, 74. 114 ZKP, 12/3, Protokół III Walnego Zjazdu członków Związku Kompozytorów Polskich, day 1, page 12; ZKP, 12/4, Protokół z obrad Zwyczajnego Walnego Zgromadzenia członków Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 20, 21 i 22 listopada 1948 r., pages 7, 10–17.

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for dissemination to all of society.115 In reality, however, a truly dispassionate collection of musicians and music lovers would have been nearly impossible to assemble, given the close interpersonal relationships that existed within Poland’s music community. Moreover, the union’s presidium was still heavily involved in the committee’s work, negating its impartiality and, in effect, granting it only an advisory role. The presidium reviewed the committee’s decisions and either made changes or suggested new commissions. It also made its own decisions if the committee did not meet. For example, from April–June 1948, it commissioned major orchestral works from Jan Ekier, Roman Palester, and Michał Spisak, thus emphasizing its desire to nurture so-called elite repertoire.116 With the shift to this theoretically more independent committee came substantially increased funding from the Ministry. This larger amount enabled the union in 1948 to award eighty-six commissions to forty-eight composers, or about two-thirds of those active at that time.117 Another positive result of this procedural change was more transparency regarding selections, in the form of lists announcing commissioned works by composer, title (if known), and amount.118 The largest payouts, ranging from 100,000 to 300,000 zlotys, were provided for symphonies and concertos, due to their length, performing forces, and the amount of time needed for completion. Commissions for new symphonies were given to Tomasz Kiesewetter, Jan Krenz, Roman Palester, Andrzej Panufnik (for a Pastoral Symphony that was later titled Sinfonia Rustica), and Piotr Perkowski. Composers receiving funds for new concerti included Grażyna Bacewicz, Tadeusz Zygfryd Kassern, Stefan Kisielewski, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, Michał Spisak, Antoni Szałowski, Zbigniew Turski, and Kazimierz Wiłkomirski.119 Orchestras were featured in other commissions as well, for example, Grażyna Bacewicz’s Violin Concerto no. 3 and Zygmunt Mycielski’s Five Symphonic 115 The remaining members of the committee in 1948 were musicologists Józef Chomiński and Stefan Jarociński, conductors Jerzy Kołaczkowski (1907–1995) and Czesław Lewicki (1906–1979), pianist Jerzy Lefeld, musicologist and Ministry of Culture and Art representative Zofia Lissa, and Mieczysław Mierzejewski, a conductor, pianist, and composer. Jerzy Jasieński (Polish Radio) began attending in late 1949. ZKP, 12/5, Ogólne sprawozdanie z działalności Zarządu Głównego ZKP w okresie kadencji od listopada 1948 do czerwca 1950 roku. 116 ZKP, 12/54, Protokół z IV zebrania Komisji Zamówień i Zakupów przy Z.K.P. w dniu 12 czerwca 1948 r. 117 ZKP, 12/4, Sprawozdanie z działalności Zarządu Głównego Związku Kompozytorów Polskich za okres styczeń - październik 1948 r. 118 ZKP, 12/4, Protokół z obrad Zwyczajnego Walnego Zgromadzenia członków Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 20, 21 i 22 listopada 1948 r., pages 10–13, 16. 119 Most of my information on commissions comes from ZKP, 12/28 (Protokoły z posiedzeń Prezydium ZG ZKP 1945–1950 r.) and 12/54.

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Sketches (Pięć szkiców symfonicznych) and his Silesian Overture (Uwertura śląska).120 That the Commissions Committee and the Composers’ Union could assemble a sizable list of commissions for works that must have been anticipated to be at least somewhat complex and perhaps not easily understood by the average Polish citizen points to their desire to maintain what could have been perceived as an elite manner of composition, despite calls by officials and colleagues to do otherwise. This rendering of commissions also ensured that composers would be able to produce pieces that they were comfortable with writing, for all of them had composed orchestral pieces either before or during the war. Moreover, composers who resided abroad also received commissions. Michał Spisak and Antoni Szałowski, both of whom had lived in France since the 1930s, were still eligible to receive funds from their home country. The same was true for Roman Palester, who had moved to Paris in 1947, at least in part to work with Polish Music Publishers in promoting Polish music abroad. This largesse would not be the case for much longer. In the area of chamber music (omitting mass songs for the moment), the number of commissions in 1948 was approximately the same as for orchestral pieces. Here lesser known composers received funds: Kazimierz Jurdziński (1894– 1960), Stanisław Kazuro, Anna Maria Klechniowska (1888–1973), Andrzej Klon (dates unknown), Faustyn Kulczycki, and Wacław Lachman (1880–1963) all received money for keyboard works, songs, and dances with Polish themes.121 Some composers were troubled by the fact that nearly all of those receiving funds for chamber music (typically 10,000–80,000 zlotys per piece) were seemingly disregarded when funds for orchestral compositions were given out. Zofia Lissa and others reasoned, however, that although composers perceived to be more talented were given larger commission amounts for more complex compositions, these smaller works were precisely what was desired by the Ministry of Culture and Art.122 120 ZKP, 12/54, Protokół posiedzenia Komisji Zamówień i Zakupów przy Z. K. P. z dnia 8 września 1948 r., Protokól z V-tego posiedzenia Komisji Zamówień i Zakupów z dnia 6.VII.1948 r., Protokół z II zebrania Komisji Zamówień i Zakupów przy Z. K. P. w dniu 26.II.1948 r. 121 ZKP, 12/28, Protokół z zebrania Prezydium Zarządu Głównego Z.K.P. z dnia 4 czerwca 1948 r, Protokół z posiedzenia Prezydium Zarządu Głównego Z. K. P. w dniu 11 czerwca 1948 r. Jurdziński was also an organist; Kazuro was a composer, conductor, and music administrator. Klechniowska was a pianist, while Kulczycki and Lachman were conductors. 122 AKT 12/4, Protokół z obrad Zwyczajnego Walnego Zgromadzenia członków Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 20, 21 i 22 listopada 1948 r., pages 9–10, 17. In a private letter in 1948, Zygmunt Mycielski acknowledged that complaints had been made about an

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At the same time, those given funds for writing chamber pieces were accustomed to composing in such genres. While it is not correct to assert that orchestral composers specialized only in that area of composition, since virtually everyone wrote chamber works at one time or another, it is true that many of these lesser known composers had produced fewer works involving orchestras in their output than did others. It is fairly easy to claim that the commissioning process created this division by not providing orchestral commissions to all composers. Yet the same situation could be seen as an encouragement of composers to continue writing in their favorite genres. In some sense, this situation represented a “business as usual” attitude on the part of commissioning decision-makers despite the rhetorical emphases on the need for music for amateurs and for popularization activities. Of the pieces named above that were completed, many reflected a predominantly traditional stylistic approach in the vein of neoclassicism or neoromanticism, as had also been true during the interwar period. Among the exceptions in orchestral works were Roman Palester’s symphony (the commission was for either his Symphony no. 3 or Symphony no. 4, both of which were begun in 1948 and use twelve-tone rows to some degree) and Andrzej Panufnik’s Sinfonia Rustica, which incorporates melodies from Poland’s Kurpie region and utilizes a symmetrical layout of the orchestra, with two string ensembles on opposite sides, dialoguing with other and the wind section.123 Folk influences were also apparent in works for voice(s) and orchestra, as in Jan Adam Maklakiewicz’s Łowicz Suite (Suita łowicka) and Artur Malawski’s The Peaks (Wierchy, originally commissioned as Highlander Rhapsody). Grażyna Bacewicz’s Violin Concerto no. 3 was based in part on folk music from Podhale, or the Polish highlands.124 Folk themes were also planned for many commissioned choral works (for example, Stanisław Kazuro’s six songs on Kashubian and Silesian themes, Stanisław Popiel’s six folk songs, and Kazimierz Sikorski’s six pieces of folk character). While the information for these particular commissions does not indicate whether the pieces were to be for amateurs, others were so defined (for example, Szeligowski received funds to write six choral pieces for community center ensembles). unequal division of commission funds, with larger amounts going to more talented composers. Bolesławska-Lewandowska, “Kulisy działalności Zygmunta.” 123 Zofia Helman, “Works in detail: Symphony no. 3,” http://www.palester.polmic.pl/index. php/en/works/works-in-detail/31-iii-symfonia; Zofia Helman, “Works in detail: Symphony no. 4, version 1, http://www.palester.polmic.pl/index.php/en/works/works-in-detail/32iv-symfonia; Bolesławska, The Life and Works of Andrzej Panufnik, 97–98. 124 Gąsiorowska, Bacewicz, 175.

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Although the use of folk music in classical composition could be linked to the conversations described above about nationalism in Polish music, incorporating such elements had been a part of compositional practice by some of these same composers before and during the occupation. Blending folk music into art music was only one of many musical options that could be selected by Polish composers in these early postwar years. What remained to be seen was the extent to which demands for such music would limit the stylistic variety of compositions produced in the future.

Targeting New Audiences By the end of 1948, the Composers’ Union had done little to commission any composition that overtly reflected socialist realist ideals, other than a few folkmusic based pieces; in fact, its preferences were clearly to provide funds to as many composers as possible for as many different genres as possible. This was not the case with other agencies and political bodies. In late 1947, the Council of Ministers, a group of high-level political officials from the ruling coalition dominated by the Polish Workers’ Party (PPR), made its preferences clear, allocating 1,000,000 zlotys for compositions that could be used for purposes of popularization.125 Not only does this special disbursement indicate that political representatives sometimes acted separately from the actual government, which was structured into various Ministries, but also that they guided its activities.126 Through this one-time expenditure, the country’s highest political officials demonstrated their intent to direct compositional activity to suit its own policies. The Ministry of Culture and Art nominated the committee that would determine which composers received funds. Of its three members, Mycielski was a composer, while Zofia Lissa and and Stefan Jarociński (1912–1980) were musicologists. As the vice director of the Music Department at the Ministry, Lissa also formed a link between the Composers’ Union and the government.127 This committee’s charge was to commission solo and choral songs, pedagogical literature for violin, piano, or voice(s), and instrumental works for military 125 ZKP, AKT 12/4, Sprawozdanie z działalności Zarządu Głównego Związku Kompozytorów Polskich za okres styczeń–październik 1948 r. 126 See also Pierce, “Life and Death,” 328–331. 127 ZKP, 12/28, Protokół z zebrania Komisji Zamowień na utwory dla upowszechnienia muzyki. Dnia 22.XI.1947 r.; AKP Zofia Lissa Collection, Z. Lissa - Koresp. instytucje polskie II: (M–P), Letter from Witold Rudziński, Dyrektor Departamentu Muzyki to Lissa, August 1, 1947.

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bands and amateur ensembles.128 With only limited knowledge about what specific pieces had been commissioned from 1945–1947, it is difficult to be persuaded that these types of pieces represented a shift of focus for composers. In fact, the pieces created with these funds were the same types of compositions already in each composer’s repertoire. They also do not seem much different from what the Composers’ Union would commission in 1948 with its normal Ministry budget allotment (with the exception of that year’s orchestral pieces). In other words, the additional Council of Ministers’ funds served only to finance the continuation of composers’ activities, not the start of new explorations. In effect, this special dispensation did not deter the Composers’ Union’s efforts to practice “business as usual.” At least thirty composers completed pieces, often more than one, as a result of the Council’s effort. These ranged from pedagogical instrumental works by Grażyna Bacewicz, Jan Ekier, and Feliks Wróbel (1894–1954) to marches for wind instruments by Tomasz Kiesewetter and Anna Klechniowska, an orchestral dance (Różycki’s Festival Polonaise [Polonez uroczysty]), and songs for solo voice or choir by Witold Friemann, Łucja Drège-Schielowa (1883– 1962), Wacław Lachman, Zygmunt Mycielski, Tadeusz Szeligowski, Stanisław Wiechowicz, and others. Witold Lutosławski, Roman Palester, Andrzej Panufnik, and Artur Malawski were given monetary advances for works, but these pieces did not materialize, for unknown reasons.129 At least in Palester’s case, Mycielski personally intervened to request that he submit a piece appropriate for this effort, since funding was limited for other compositions. At the same time, Mycielski promised that additional money would be available later in 1948 for pieces that made “artistic sense,”130 an indication of the continued interest of both composers in compositional choice and musical quality and their dissatisfaction with the current situation. Mycielski’s efforts also demonstrated his

128 ZKP, 12/28, Protokół z zebrania Komisji Zamowień na utwory dla upowszechnienia muzyki. Dnia 22.XI.1947 r. 129 A later Composers’ Union document indicates fifty-nine works were completed for this effort. ZKP, 12/54, Akcja upowszechnienia muzyki, Utwory skomponowane przez członków Z.K.P. z zasiłku Prezydium Rady Ministrów przyznanego w październiku 1947 r.; ZKP, 12/4, Sprawozdanie z działalności Zarządu Głównego Związku Kompozytorów Polskich za okres styczeń–październik 1948 r. 130 Beata Bolesławska-Lewandowska, “Korespondencja Zygmunta Mycielskiego jako źródło do badań nad życiem kulturalno-politycznym Polski po 1945 r.,” in Anna Maria Adamus, Bartłomiej Noszczak, eds., Epistolografia w Polsce Ludowej (1945–1989): List i jego pochodne w systemie państwa komunistycznego. Studia i materiały (Warsaw: Instytut Pamięci Narodowej, 2020), 220. My thanks to the author for providing this article.

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willingness to assist as many composers as possible by invoking the resources of the Composers’ Union.131 In late 1948, the Ministry of Culture and Art took a different approach than that seen with the Council of Ministers in 1947. This time, politics took a more overt place in its planning. With the December establishment of the Polish United Workers’ Party already projected, arrangements were made for a song competition to honor the occasion. Texts submitted as part of this competition were to celebrate the working class, especially its patriotism and its role in rebuilding the country, and to express solidarity with the Soviet Union. These songs, intended for “the broad masses,”132 were to exhibit accessibility and communicativeness. This competition was the first such event to involve composers in an overtly political manner. Participants were required to set one of three texts selected by the Ministry: Stanisław Wygodzki’s “Song of Unity” (Pieśń jedności), Leopold Lewin’s “Song of the United Parties” (Pieśń Zjednoczonych Partii), and Leon Pasternak’s “Onward, Working People!” (Naprzód, ludu roboczy!). The refrains of these poems unquestionably demonstrate a patriotic zeal for the new political party: (Wygodzki) From our unity/ peace arises,/ from our unity/ cities arise,/ and our unity/ is the call of the unity of the world,/ the unity of the proletariat. (Lewin) The Party, conqueror of fascism,/ the Party, leader of the masses,/ leads us to socialism (variant: To happiness, to socialism,/ the Party leads us). (Pasternak) Onward working people/ develop fighting banners./ The class struggle unites us./ Go to battle for a new life!133 With such words, there could be no question about the purpose of this competition. Composers for the first time would be asked to do more than just write pieces that broad sectors of society could understand. Through a financial incentive of 25,000 zlotys for each submission, composers were now to

131 Ibid., 219–221. 132 AAN, MKiS, 366/I 499 (Konkurs na pieśń Zjednoczonych Partii 1948–1949), Konkurs na pieśń robotniczą /wytyczne/. 133 The texts are provided in MKiS 366/I 499.

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inspire their fellow citizens (especially the working class) to recognize the Party as their undisputed leader and as an agency that would create a socialist (read: Communist) world in Poland. To do this, the Ministry chose to invite specific composers to participate rather than merely asking for contributions. Of the twenty-four composers selected to take part, many were the same names who had received funds from the Council of Ministers almost a year earlier. These included Witold Lutosławski and Andrzej Panufnik, the leading composers of the day, who would bring a great deal of prestige to the competition if they participated and even more desirable publicity if they were among the winners. Only fifteen of the twenty-four invitees actually submitted compositions.134 Andrzej Panufnik, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, Andrzej Klon, Edward Olearczyk, Władysław Raczkowski, and Jerzy Sokorski (1916–2005) set all three texts.135 Why, one wonders? Certainly the prospect of receiving 75,000 zlotys was attractive; composing three short songs should have been relatively easy and the money would have helped anyone’s finances. Panufnik, however, was one of the highest funded commission recipients and presumably not as financially needy. As the composer later recounted, he felt pressured to participate in order to keep the Composers’ Union from losing the government’s financial support. The veracity of this tale is doubtful, however. David Tompkins and Adrian Thomas have pointed to plausible reasons to question Panufnik’s claim, in part because he submitted three pieces when one should have been sufficient to keep himself in the good graces of authorities.136 There are other aspects that can be mentioned to support this hypothesis. Although Panufnik was a respected composer, he was not yet part of the union’s executive board when the competition was announced and thus should not have been responsible for keeping the organization in the government’s favor. (The deadline for submissions was November 20, 1948, during the Composers’ Union’s congress at which Panufnik was elected vice-president). Although it is possible that others were similarly “encouraged” to participate, of the union’s leaders, only Grażyna 134 Of two lists of composers to be invited that are stored with Ministry of Culture and Art documents, one included Witold Rudziński instead of Panufnik. This change will be discussed further below. AAN, MKiS 366/I 499, Projekt regulaminu i konkursu na pieśń Zjednoczonych Partii, Wykaz kompozytorów zaproszonych do udziału w Konkursie na Pieśń Zjednoczonych Partii, Protokół z zebrania sądu konkursowego dla rozstrzygnięcia konkursu . . . dnia 21.XI. 1948 r. 135 MKiS 366/I 499, Pieśni nadesłane na Konkurs Pieśni Zjednoczonych Partii Robotniczych, Protokół z zebrania sądu konkursowego dla rozstrzygnięcia konkursu. 136 Adrian Thomas, “Panufnik’s 3 Songs for the PZPR” (2014),” https://onpolishmusic. com/articles/%e2%80%a2-panufnik-articles/%e2%80%a2-panufniks-3-songs-for-thePZPR-2014/; Tompkins, Composing the Party Line, 133–134.

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Bacewicz, Piotr Perkowski, and Tadeusz Szeligowski submitted pieces. The remaining executive board members, including Witold Lutosławski, Kazimierz Sikorski, and Bolesław Woytowicz, did not contribute.137 It was possible, then to decline invitations. Panufnik chose not to do so. As Adrian Thomas has pointed out, Andrzej Panufnik was not one of the fifteen composers originally selected to be invited to participate; his name was added later. Was there some degree of coercion, then, perhaps in return for Panufnik being deemed acceptable by the Ministry as the union’s vice-president? (The names of Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, Witold Rudziński and Edward Olearczyk were included in what appears to be the first list of possible participants, but were crossed out—and Panufnik’s added—on an archival copy housed with materials from the Polish United Workers’ Party—that is, separately from Ministry documents, possibly indicating Party influence over the composers to be invited. Maklakiewicz and Olearczyk did submit songs.)138 The winning piece was Panufnik’s Song of the United Parties, set to Lewin’s text. He received the substantial sum of 70,000 zlotys, which for his two-page setting would seem to be relatively easy earnings. Alfred Gradstein and Stanisław Wiechowicz were each awarded 40,000 zlotys, while several other composers (Tadeusz Szeligowski, Feliks Rybicki, Edward Olearczyk, Alfred Gradstein, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, and Mieczysław Drobner) were given honorable mentions and the promise of publication.139 These brief pieces, with their Party-friendly texts, march rhythms, and simple harmonies, fit the generally accepted description of a mass song, a term that

137 Zygmunt Mycielski, the union’s vice-president, was not invited to participate. Woytowicz was named a jury member, although he attended the Composers’ Union meeting instead of the jury deliberations held at the same time. AAN, MKiS, 366/I 499, Pieśni nadesłane na konkurs, Protokół z zebrania sądu konkursowego dla rozstrzygnięcia konkursu; Panufnik, Composing Myself, 183–184. 138 The document kept with Party materials, however, names only fifteen composers, not the twenty-four that constitute the (perhaps) later list kept with Ministry documents. The final nine names on the Ministry list, however, appear in a different typeset, indicating they were also added after the original fifteen (which included Rudziński but not Panufnik) were provided. PZPR 237/VIII 85 (Komitet Centralny, Wydział Kultury—Akcje masowe, imprezy 1948), Projekt regulaminu i konkursu na pieśń Zjednoczonych Partii; AAN, MKiS 366/ I 499, Projekt regulaminu i konkursu na pieśń Zjednoczonych Partii; Thomas, “Panufnik’s 3 Songs for the PZPR.” 139 The competition’s jury consisted of Zofia Lissa, Karol Kuryluk and Roman Jasiński (Polish Radio), Witold Rudziński (as artistic director of the Warsaw Philharmonic), Jerzy Jasieński (Ministry of Culture and Art), Jadwiga Siekierska and J. Królikowska from the Polish Workers’ Party. AAN, MKiS, 366/I 499, Protokół z zebrania sądu konkursowego dla rozstrzygnięcia konkursu.

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was new to Polish music in the postwar era.140 The decision to promote mass songs as a means of popularizing music came from the Polish Workers’ Party (PPR) in 1947. Its committee on music, then headed by Faustyn Kulczycki, also included Włodzmierz Sokorski and Zofia Lissa among its members. As Adam Izdebski has shown, at the committee’s request Lissa concentrated on writing about mass songs and participating in later public discussions about them.141 She fulfilled her task; she explained in a 1947 article that the texts for such songs would “move the hearts and thoughts of many” and “express universal moods with regard to current issues of our life.”142 As J. Mackenzie Pierce has pointed out, Lissa’s wartime experiences in the Soviet Union had convinced her that society could be enriched by songs that had texts related to the reality experienced by the masses. These would be easy to sing and memorize while also being musically artistic and, preferably, based on folk-like motives. Ideally, they would serve as a bridge to society’s grasp of more complicated music. Adrian Thomas has also suggested that wartime and other revolutionary songs were among the predecessors of mass songs in Poland.143 To support this initiative further, the Ministry of Culture and the Composers’ Union organized conferences for writers and composers to discuss mass song texts144 and, in 1948, the Ministry and Polish Radio organized a competition— soon to become a favorite form of enticing composers to produce the pieces wanted by governmental agencies. The jury rejected most of the more than 400 submitted works because they were harmonically complicated, hinted of jazz or sentimental waltzes (which provided a popular character once considered appropriate for musically uneducated listeners), or lacked appropriate musical quality. They also did not adhere to the requirements for clear rhythms and tonal melodies that could be sung by amateurs, specifically workers and military personnel. The winning songs, which earned 25,000 zlotys each, were by Tadeusz Szeligowski (My Girl [Dziewczyno moja], The Road from Rose Street

140 Adrian Thomas has lamented the poor quality of these pieces and noted that the winning song was apparently not performed during the Party congress in December 1948. Thomas, “Panufnik’s 3 Songs for the PZPR.” 141 Izdebski, “Powstanie warszawskiego ośrodka muzykologicznego,” 172–173. 142 Zofia Lissa, “O polską pieśń masową,” Odrodzenie 4, no. 29 (1947): 3. 143 J. Mackenzie Pierce, “Zofia Lissa, Wartime Trauma, and the Evolution of the Polish ‘Mass Song’,” Journal of Musicology 37, no. 3 (2020): 231–266; Adrian Thomas, Squaring the Triangle: Traditions and Tyrannies in Twentieth-Century Polish Music (London: University of London School of Slavonic and East European Studies, 2000), 9. 144 The conferences were held in November 1947 and March 1948. Zygmunt Mycielski, “O Departamencie Muzyki w Ministerstwie Kultury i Sztuki,” Ruch Muzyczny 4, no. 7 (1948): 13.

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[Od różana trakt], The Green Birch [Zielona brzózka]), Alfred Gradstein (The Road from Rose Street, Song about Warsaw [Piosenka o Warszawie]), Piotr Perkowski (The Rivers [Rzeki]), and Tadeusz Dobrzański (The Road from Rose Street). Szeligowski’s and Gradstein’s pieces were praised for not sacrificing melody and retaining “artistic simplicity.”145 These songs lacked the overt Partyoriented texts that would characterize the Polish United Workers’ Party’s competition later in 1948, but they still appealed to sentiments related to Warsaw and its surrounding nature (in the case of The Road from Rose Street) and patriotic pride for the city’s rebuilding efforts. J. Mackenzie Pierce has pointed out that this mass song competition, as well as Zofia Lissa’s 1947 discussions of mass songs, preceded the government’s adoption of socialist realist policies in music and its endorsement of mass songs in late 1948 as a vital part of its efforts to bring politically acceptable music to all layers of society.146 It is also apparent, however, that these competitions and published essays were designed to facilitate a formal move toward socialist realist principles in composition. As both cultural officials and composers in the immediate postwar years discussed the need to involve greater numbers of citizens in Poland’s classical music life, the government deliberately chose to organize competitions for pieces that could be characterized as mass songs even if (as with the 1948 Polish United Workers’ Party’s competition) that term was not explicitly used in publicity materials. The Polish Workers’ Party had also directed, in 1947, a large sum of money to popularization efforts in music and had asked Lissa to contribute an article about mass songs. Governmental and political officials thus co-opted composers’ desire to bring music to the general public by offering money to financially needy composers as part of its own plan for implementing socialist realism on a formal basis. This set up a tension between cultural authorities, who clearly desired a speedy move toward producing new compositions in praise of the nation (if not also the Party) and its working class, and the Composers’ Union, whose own commissioning efforts were more inclined toward maintaining the interwar status quo, but which also supported the organization of popularization activities without officially advocating the development of mass songs or other new genres.

145 Z[ofia] L[issa], “Sprawozdanie z konkursu na polską pieśń masową,” Ruch Muzyczny 4, no. 17 (1948): 13–14; “Wyniki konkursu muzycznego,” Radio i Świat 4, no. 31 (1948): 7. The information about the competition results given in Radio i Świat (Radio and the World) is partly incorrect; Szeligowski’s The Road from Rose Street is listed twice, and Dobrzański is cited as the composer of My Girl instead of Szeligowski. 146 Pierce, “Zofia Lissa, Wartime Trauma,” 252.

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Despite Lissa’s impassioned involvement with efforts supported by the government, of which she was a part during this period, she was, perhaps surprisingly, not supported by all of her compatriots in the Polish Workers’ Party (the Communist-aligned party in Poland that merged with the Polish Socialist Party to form the Polish United Workers’ Party in December 1948). She was castigated by her Party colleagues in October 1948, partly for supporting people considered “hostile”147 to the Party’s position, among them composers Kazimierz Sikorski, Tadeusz Szeligowski, Piotr Perkowski, and musicologist Józef Chomiński. Furthermore, she allegedly supported elitism in music (perhaps a reference to her work on the Commissions Committee) and disregarded mass songs submitted by Party members. Given this purported evidence, it was suggested that she leave her position at the Ministry of Culture.148 This onslaught of accusations continued in early 1949 when Sovietskaja Muzyka (the primary Soviet music journal) attacked Lissa, Stefania Łobaczewska, and Józef Chomiński for, as Chomiński put it, their “formalism and support of unhealthy tendencies in modern music,”149 even though Lissa had openly castigated Western modernist compositional trends. Lissa’s participation in the two 1948 song competitions had resulted in awards being given to Szeligowski and Perkowski (two of the “hostile” composers); Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, a PPR member, received only an honorable mention.150 Although she did leave the Ministry and become the head of the University of Warsaw’s new musicology department, she remained unswayed by the accusations made against her, as will be discussed further in the next chapter. These episodes show that disagreements in policy and goals existed everywhere—within the music community and within groups of policy makers. Lissa’s purported unwillingness to support her fellow Party members, presumably at the expense of upholding musical quality, was emblematic of the debate

147 AKP, Zofia Lissa Collection, Z. Lissa Dokumenty, Protokół Nr 5 z posiedzenia Komitetu Partyjnego P.P.R. m. stoł. Warszawy z dnia 13 października 1948 r. 148 Ibid. 149 Małgorzata Sieradz, ed., Adolf Chybiński - Józef Michał Chomiński: Korespondencja 1945–1952 (Warsaw: Instytut Sztuki, Polska Akademia Nauk, 2016), 122–123. 150 Of those who submitted pieces for the Polish United Workers’ Party’s competition, Drobner, Gradstein, Edward Olearczyk, and Jerzy Sokorski (the brother of Włodzimierz Sokorski) would become members of that party. Drobner was a PPS member. The pre-Polish United Workers’ Party affiliations of the others are not known to this author. A full list of composers who submitted pieces to the Ministry of Culture and Art/Polish Radio competition is unavailable. AAN, MKiS, 366/I 499, Protokół z zebrania sądu konkursowego dla rozstrzygnięcia konkursu.

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concerning the ideologically-supported drive toward disseminating music throughout Polish society.

Ad Hoc Concert Programming If millions of zlotys were allocated for new compositions, would those pieces be heard by audiences, as composers and governmental officials presumably wanted? What was programmed alongside these freshly created works? Questions about the need for a specific repertoire policy for concerts were never resolved during the early postwar years. Instead, ensembles and soloists devised their own programs based on what music they had available, who was available to perform, and the amenities at performing venues. Gradually, however, both music critics and governmental officials began to pay attention to what pieces were being offered and what was not being presented. What they saw did not necessarily please them. In many cases, it seems that minimal planning was undertaken with regard to repertoire, although officials made some attempts to help in this regard. In reference to concerts designed specifically for popularization purposes (travel concerts and Central Concert Bureau events, for instance), Jerzy Jasieński said that although the idea behind such efforts was excellent, the “question of repertoire . . . leaves much to be desired.”151 Describing efforts to date as “an experiment,”152 he called for qualified performers and better pre-concert talks. These comments, made in 1947, did not place blame on any specific people or institutions, but a year later one conductor cited the postwar model of hiring musicians for administrative positions, even though they lacked the requisite skills, and the lack of coordination among cultural organizations as being the sources of problems related to effectively developing music programs for the general public. For orchestral ensembles, the question of repertoire planning had arisen within the Ministry of Culture and Art as early as 1946. The Ministry’s Music Department proposed that it supervise or inspect (kontrolować) orchestral repertoire, reasoning that this was necessary to emphasize Polish music on concert programs. Few others were pleased with any governmental plan to regulate these events. At one meeting, Witold Lutosławski urged the Department to not think as the Nazis had, with their restrictions on concert selections in Poland 151 Jerzy Jasieński, “Upowszechnienie muzyki.” 152 Zbigniew Soja, “Z zagadnień działalności muzycznej,” Ruch Muzyczny 4, no. 12 (1948): 9–12.

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during their occupation of Poland. In his opinion, programs should feature a wide variety of styles and composers, which would especially benefit Poland’s younger generations, whose knowledge of repertoire had been limited due to the recent war.153 Many orchestras created advisory councils to assist with planning concerts. In 1947, Ministry representatives called for all state-subsidized ensembles to have such groups.154 Whether these committees were beneficial is highly debatable. One anonymous writer claimed that in one city, the group did little more than approve what the ensemble had already scheduled and for which it had signed contracts.155 Since 1945, philharmonics had submitted periodic summaries of repertoire, concert attendance, and the number and location of events to the government,156 but these apparently amounted to little more than busy work for some employees. Even Witold Rudziński, who headed the Ministry’s music department from 1947–1949, admitted that music institutions had no longterm plans for their concert offerings. He claimed that plans in 1947 were made at most three weeks in advance, although improvements had been made for the 1948–1949 season.157 Concert programs, as a result, were planned and executed not by governmental authorities or overseers but by each ensemble’s administrative personnel, often in conjunction with performers. This is typical in much of the world and it had not been unusual in Poland during the interwar period. As also occurred between the wars, there were complaints about the repertoire. With regard to twentiethcentury music by foreign composers, which had been reasonably well represented during the interwar years, Stefan Kisielewski noted in 1945 that Polish audiences were not aware of what Béla Bartók, Arnold Schoenberg, Arthur Honegger, Darius Milhaud, and other composers outside of Poland had recently written. While that is not surprising given that the last war had only recently ended, in 1948 Kisielewski was still unhappy, claiming that Igor Stravinsky’s Symphony of Psalms and Rite of Spring had not yet been performed in Poland and that Albert Roussel’s music was also unknown. Moreover, audiences had not heard 153 AAN, MKiS, 366/I 175, Protokół nr 10 z posiedzenia Komitetu doradczego przy Departamencie Muzyki Ministerstwa Kultury i Sztuki, odbytego w dniu 30.X.1946 r. 154 Jerzy Broszkiewicz, “Rozmowa z Witoldem Rudzińskim,” Ruch Muzyczny 3, nos. 13–14 (1947): 12; AAN, MKiS, 366/I 264, Sprawozdanie za rok 1945; BN Collection, 1947 L–Z programs, Filharmonia Warszawska, Program 3-ch pierwszych koncertów symfonicznych, [October 10, 17 and 24, 1947]. 155 “Kronika polemiczna,” Ruch Muzyczny 4, no. 2 (1948): 21. 156 For example, see AAN, MKiS, 366/I 264, passim; AAN, MKiS 366/I 261 (Departament Muzyki, Filharmonia Łódzka 1945–48 r.), passim. 157 Witold Rudziński, “Geografia koncertowa,” Odrodzenie 6, no. 46 (1949): 7.

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compositions by such important earlier composers as Gustav Mahler, Alexander Scriabin, Richard Wagner, and Richard Strauss. Kisielewski alluded to racist comments made about the participation of Strauss in the Nazis’ State Music Institute (Reichsmusikkammer), which had attempted to legitimize German culture by promoting the music of Ludwig van Beethoven, Richard Wagner, Anton Bruckner, and others, but suppressing performances of compositions of Gustav Mahler, Arnold Schoenberg, and Felix Mendelssohn, all of whom were Jewish. Kisielewski asserted that boycotting most of these composers in Poland was similar to what the Germans had done by restricting Polish compositions during the war.158 Instead, Polish audiences deserved to be exposed to a wide variety of compositional perspectives. However, while several of Mendelssohn’s works were performed between 1945 and 1948, those of the other composers mentioned by Kisielewski were rarely if ever included on concert programs. Beethoven and Pyotr Ilych Tchaikovsky were favored, along with Antonin Dvořák, Sergei Rachmaninov, and a smattering of other composers, including Claude Debussy, Maurice Ravel, Cesar Franck, and Bedřich Smetana.159 Dodecaphonic works and Igor Stravinsky’s ballets remained unperformed in Poland during these years; neither were the compositions of Olivier Messiaen, Pierre Boulez, and most living composers from other countries heard. Moreover, although Józef Koffler’s twelve-tone music had been heard in Poland during the interwar period, one suspects that conservatory teachers were either not interested in providing much instruction on the most innovative techniques found in compositions by Western European composers or not knowledgeable enough about this music to do so.

New Polish Music on Concert Stages As Poland emerged from the ravages of war, the opportunity to perform Polish music publicly without needing to obtain permission from foreign occupiers became possible for the first time since 1939. As expected, the compositions of Frédéric Chopin, Karol Szymanowski, and Mieczysław Karłowicz were audience favorites. Works by Chopin and Karłowicz were featured on the Kraków Philharmonic’s first concert, held in February 1945 in an unheated movie theater.

158 Stefan Kisielewski, “Życie muzyczne,” Tygodnik Powszechny 4, no. 7 (1948): 10. Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto was performed in Kraków in 1945, with Bacewicz as soloist. BN Collection, 1945 Programs, Państwowa Filharmonia w Krakowie, July 19, 1945. 159 BN Collection, 1945–1948 programs, passim.

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There could be no doubt about the patriotic nature of this event. As conductor Zygmunt Latoszewski later reminisced, such a program would have been impossible to perform during the war. The first piece by a living Polish composer was heard in mid-April, when Roman Palester’s M. K. Ogiński’s Polonaises (Polonezy M. K. Ogińskiego) were premiered alongside works by Chopin, Szymanowski, and Władysław Żeleński.160 Palester’s composition, commissioned during the war by Edmund Rudnicki and the underground musicians’ union, was a symphonic transformation of eight polonaises by Michał Ogiński (1765–1833). As Stefan Kisielewski described it, this piece represented the continuity of Polish culture, linking the old and the new.161 While not incorporating authentic folk music, its obvious references to Polish musical traditions made it ideal for concert organizers wishing to promote music from their own land. It was heard several more times that year in Kraków, Łódź, and Lublin and at least a dozen more performances were scheduled throughout Poland in cities large and small before the end of the 1940s. Understandably, nearly all of the music heard in 1945 had been written before or during the war. Kraków was the primary site for world premieres of Polish compositions that year, with no fewer than seven such performances. As mentioned earlier, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz’s Grunwald was among them. Andrzej Panufnik’s Symphony no. 1, Artur Malawski’s work of the same title, Roman Palester’s Symphony no. 2, Stefan Kisielewski’s String Quartet, and Grażyna Bacewicz’s Overture also enjoyed first performances in what was the most important city for Polish culture immediately following the war. Bacewicz’s Sonata da camera for violin and piano, a suite based freely on Baroque models, was performed by the composer and her brother Kiejstut in Łódź in the only other known premiere that year. Panufnik’s symphony, a reconstruction of a piece lost in the war, was deemed by most critics to be fascinating and original, but of uneven quality. The composer, believing the work was flawed, subsequently destroyed the piece.162 Malawski’s symphony, both praised and derided for its contemporary melody

160 Pyotr Ilych Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 6 was also on the inaugural program. Woźniakowska, 60 lat Filharmonii im. Karola Szymanowskiego w Krakowie 1945–2005, 36, 40. 161 Helman, Roman Palester, 85–86; Stefan Kisielewski, “Życie muzyczne Krakowa,” Tygodnik Powszechny, 1, no. 6 (1945): 4. 162 Zygmunt Mycielski, “I Symfonia Panufnika,” Ruch Muzyczny 1, no. 6 (1945): 7–8; Stefania Łobaczewska, “Z życia muzycznego Krakowa,” Odrodzenie 2, no. 54 (1945): 7; Stefan Kisielewski, “Życie muzyczne,” Tygodnik Powszechny 1, no. 38 (1945): 7; Bolesławska, The Life and Works of Andrzej Panufnik, 74.

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and harmony, was apparently the victim of insufficient preparation by the orchestra.163 Palester, whose Symphony no. 2 was described by Stefan Kisielewski as “his finest work,”164 was considered by many critics as one of the country’s best composers, at least at this early postwar stage. Just as competitions would become favored methods for producing desired new compositions, music festivals were the primary means of presenting new Polish music to the public. These and other performances of works by living Polish composers provide ample evidence attesting to the variety of styles and influences apparent in the country’s new (or relatively recent) music. At the same time, new Polish compositions seldom invoked any of the supposed musical novelties that would be condemned in 1948 by Zofia Lissa and Tikhon Khrennikov, making their comments more futuristic-sounding than a reflection of reality. Palester’s Symphony no. 2 had been premiered at a festival of Polish music held at the same time as the Composers’ Union congress in Kraków in 1945. Hailed as the most important music event since the end of the war, the festival offered an opportunity to hear compositions by ten living composers. As exhilarating as it was to hear new Polish music again in public, critics were divided about the value of the individual pieces. For musicologist Stefania Łobaczewska, each of the composers displayed “avant-garde ideology” and high technical achievements in music that reflected the stylistic variety of European music of recent decades.165 Stefan Kisielewski was more discerning, preferring to relegate most of the pieces to “the past.” For example, in his opinion, Bacewicz’s Overture, a short piece from 1943, was aligned with the interwar French school and so was not sufficiently shocking. The only “truly avant-garde”166 compositions were those by Palester and Malawski (mentioned above) and Witold Lutosławski’s Trio for oboe, clarinet, and bassoon, which displayed “new emotionality and grandeur (wielkość)”167 through the use of contemporary, but not experimental means. Kisielewski, always searching for quality and individuality in composition, labelled Andrzej Panufnik’s Five Folk Songs (Pięć pieśni ludowych) for 163 Stefan Kisielewski, “Życie muzyczne,” Tygodnik Powszechny 1, no. 26 (1945): 8; Stefania Łobaczewska, “Współczesna muzyka polska na festiwalu krakowskim,” Odrodzenie 2, no. 42 (1945): 7; Bogusław Schaeffer, “Portret kompozytora,” in Artur Malawski: Życie i twórczość, ed. Bogusław Schaeffer (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1969), 23. 164 Stefan Kisielewski, “Koncerty festiwalowe,” Tygodnik Powszechny 1, no. 25 (1945): 8. 165 Compositions by Tadeusz Zygfryd Kassern, Piotr Perkowski, Antoni Szałowski, and Tadeusz Szeligowski were also presented. Stefania Łobaczewska, “Współczesna muzyka polska na festiwalu krakowskim,” 7. 166 Stefan Kisielewski, “Festiwal polskiej muzyki współczesnej w Krakowie (1–4 IX 1945),” Ruch Muzyczny 1, no. 1 (1945): 24. 167 Ibid.

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women’s voices and five woodwind instruments (another reconstructed wartime composition) and Jan Ekier’s piano miniatures as having a contemporary palette but lacking greatness.168 Fortunately for Panufnik, not everyone shared Kisielewski’s assessment of his folk songs. Both Zygmunt Mycielski and Adolf Chybiński, Poland’s senior musicologist, agreed the work was highly original, even a masterpiece.169 Its arrangements of folk melodies from different regions of Poland were set against a sparkling background of instruments that produced numerous harmonic clashes yet a lightness of mood. This piece was heard again in 1946 at another Festival of Polish Music in Kraków and several other times in Poland before 1949.170 The remainder of the 1946 Kraków festival featured folk songs by Tadeusz Szeligowski, a choral ballad by Irena Pfeiffer (1912–1996), a ballet excerpt by Roman Palester, and a violin concerto by Piotr Perkowski. Kisielewski again lamented the lack of high-quality new pieces,171 as did the anonymous author who reviewed the symphonic portion of the event for the Ministry of Culture and Art. In this document, marked confidential, Perkowski’s concerto was deemed of relatively high quality,172 although it was a reconstruction of a piece from 1930 and thus not among the most recently written offerings. Czesław Marek’s Symphony (unknown composition date) was deemed “the most weighty position on the festival,”173 which

168 Ibid. Panufnik’s Five Folk Songs, published as such by PWM in 1946, is sometimes titled Five Polish Peasant Songs (Pięć polskich pieśni wiejskich). 169 Adolf Chybiński, “Festiwal muzyczny,” Dziennik Polski 1, no. 225 (1945), quoted in Bolesławska, The Life and Works of Andrzej Panufnik, 71; Zygmunt Mycielski, “Sprawozdania z nowych wydawnictw. Andrzej Panufnik: Pięć pieśni ludowych,” Ruch Muzyczny 2, nos. 17–18 (1946): 40–42. 170 Panufnik’s Tragic Overture was also performed frequently during these years. In addition to Adrian Thomas’s discovery of a January 10, 1946 performance, it was heard in Kraków on June 29, 1945 and in Łódź on March 15, 1946, both times conducted by the composer. In 1948, it was heard in Wrocław with Witold Rowicki conducting on August 27, in Warsaw on September 10, again led by Rowicki, and in Katowice on October 5, with Witold Krzemieński as conductor. Thomas, “Panufnik Revised: Tragic Overture”; Stefan Kisielewski, “Życie muzyczne,” Tygodnik Powszechny 1, no. 16 (1945): 6; Jadwiga Boniecka, “Życie muzyczne w kraju: Łódź,” Ruch Muzyczny 2, nos. 8–9 (1946): 36–37; Łódź Philharmonic Collection, 1945–1946 programs, 1946_03_15 Pr XVII Wlk Konc Symf; Zygmunt Mycielski, “Muzyka wrocławska,” Odrodzenie 5, no. 38 (1948): 7; “Audycje Polskiego Radia od 6.IX do 12.IX.1948 r.,” Radio i Świat 4, no. 36 (1948): 13; St. L., “Życie muzyczne w kraju: Katowice,” Ruch Muzyczny 4, no. 20 (1948): 18; W. Dzieduszycki, “Życie muzyczne w kraju: Wrocław,” Ruch Muzyczny 4, no. 20 (1948): 19. 171 Stefan Kisielewski, “Życie muzyczne: Festiwal muzyki polskiej,” Tygodnik Powszechny 2, no. 28 (1946): 7. 172 AAN, MKiS 366/I 273 (Departament Muzyki, Święto Muzyki Polskiej w Krakowie, Uwagi, 1946 r.), Święto Muzyki Polskiej w Krakowie 25–29/VI 1946. 173 Ibid.

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given the composer’s relatively marginal status among Polish composers, indicated the lack of other important works on the program. Among this festival’s attractions, at least for those wishing to promote music for amateurs, were the performances of nine choirs. At least one of them, the Akord choir led by Irena Pfeiffer, offered folk song arrangements, which Mycielski criticized for their presentation of “effects” that delighted listeners but lacked true musical value.174 That these performances were not mentioned by other reviewers is symptomatic of their lack of interest in pieces not considered to be of sufficiently high quality or of interest to professional musicians. In other words, the issue of elitism versus accessibility played a role in the critical reception of music, even as the topic of popularization was being promoted elsewhere. As discussed earlier, Kisielewski and Mycielski, the primary reviewers of this 1946 festival, supported the continuation of so-called serious music of high quality. They were able to push their agenda not only in the more theoretical settings discussed earlier, but in their ongoing commentaries on Poland’s musical scene. These festivals of Polish music took place each of the next two years, which permitted performances of Witold Lutosławski’s Symphony no. 1, Artur Malawski’s Symphonic Etudes (Etiudy symfoniczne), Michał Spisak’s Toccata for orchestra, the premiere of Kazimierz Sikorski’s Symphonic Allegro (Allegro symfoniczne), and several pieces written before the war by Ludomir Różycki and Czesław Marek (1891–1985). The only explicitly folk-inspired work was Marek’s, a song cycle titled In the Village (Na wsi).175 The newest work was Malawski’s Symphonic Etudes, a suite of six pieces for piano and orchestra that had been commissioned in 1946. Premiered in April 1948 as part of the Baltic Philharmonic’s “Music for Everyone” series, Jan Ekier praised the piece, saying it “confirms the thesis that the only path to the popularization of music is to give good music in its best performance.”176 Hailed as an important contribution to Polish music and acclaimed for its rich rhythms and bold instrumentation,177 its acerbic harmonies and aggressive tempos contributed to its atmosphere of brilliance and virtuosity. These attributes are demonstrated in Figure 6, an excerpt 174 Zygmunt Mycielski, “Święto Muzyki Polskiej 23–29 czerwca 1946,” Ruch Muzyczny 2, nos. 13–14 (1946): 34. 175 Sikorski was unhappy with the quality of performance given his piece, calling it “disastrous.” He had asked Grzegorz Fitelberg to conduct the premiere, but Zdzisław Górzyński had been assigned the task, apparently (according to Sikorski) by Polish Music Publishers, although that seems unlikely in reality. He refused to count the event as a real performance. Markiewicz, ed., Korespondencja Grzegorza Fitelberga, 138–139; BN Collection, 1947 and programs, passim. 176 Jan Ekier, “Nowa pozycja: Na marginesie prawykonania ‘Etiud Symfonicznych’ Artura Malawskiego w Filharmonii Bałtyckiej,” Ruch Muzyczny 4, no. 11 (1948): 14. 177 Roman Helsing, “Życie muzyczne. Wybrzeże,” Ruch Muzyczny 4, no. 11 (1948): 19–20.

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Figure 6.  Artur Malawski, Symphonic Etudes, page 10. Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1977. Courtesy of Jacek Wisłocki and Małgorzata Stadtmüller (heirs of Artur Malawski)

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from the Scherzino section of the first movement. The Etudes undoubtedly did not lend themselves to easy listening. Their hints of neoclassic style may have provided a frame of reference for some, but if audiences were expecting a piece they could readily appreciate, they were likely surprised by this offering. Similar comments were made about Lutosławski’s Symphony no. 1. This composition had already created quite a stir in Poland. Its April 1948 premiere in Katowice under Grzegorz Fitelberg’s direction had been heard by many both in person and via its live radio broadcast to Polish and Czechoslovakian audiences. Violinist Eugenia Umińska called it a masterpiece and one local critic, M. Józef Michałowski, was effusive in his comments, praising its symphonism, linking of themes to the character of individual instruments, and economic formal design. He envisaged its successful impact both at home and abroad. Zygmunt Mycielski was equally appreciative, claiming the piece vaulted Lutosławski to the forefront of Polish composers.178 For Stefan Kisielewski, on the other hand, Lutosławski had written many fascinating passages but failed to create a unified composition having a clear emotional plan.179 He clearly recognized Lutosławski’s talent and preferred to push the composer toward even greater achievements. While today Kisielewski’s opinion perhaps seems overly negative given Lutosławski’s eventual international fame, the composer himself later admitted that what he called the symphony’s “post-tonal idiom” was not a compositional direction he wished to pursue further.180 In 1947, the Kraków festival also featured contemporary music in a concert organized by Polish Music Publishers, which beginning in mid-1946 coordinated such events several times a year. Consisting primarily of chamber music, these concerts proved to be a reliable way of bringing new music before audiences who desired to hear the latest efforts of their compatriots. Through such performances, by the end of 1948 more than ninety compositions by living composers had been presented. These ranged from children’s songs (by Witold Lutosławski) to piano miniatures (Jan Ekier, Stefan Kisielewski, Artur Malawski), choral works (Stanisław Wiechowicz), and orchestral pieces (Michał Spisak’s Suite for string orchestra and Roman Palester’s Serenade for two flutes and string orchestra). Next to 178 Markiewicz, ed., Korespondencja Grzegorza Fitelberga, 115; M. Józef Michałowski, “Życie muzyczne w kraju: Katowice,” Ruch Muzyczny 4, no. 12 (1948): 16; Zygmunt Mycielski, “Najlepsza orkiestra w Polsce,” Odrodzenie 5, no. 15 (1948): 8. 179 Stefan Kisielewski, “Życie muzyczne,” Tygodnik Powszechny 4, no. 27 (1948): 11. 180 Bálint András Varga and Witold Lutosławski, Lutosławski Profile: Witold Lutosławski in Conversation with Bálint András Varga (London: Chester Music, 1976), 9. For analyses of the symphony, see Charles Bodman Rae, The Music of Lutosławski, expanded 3rd ed. (New York: Omnibus Press, 1999), 2530; Steven Stucky, Lutosławski and his Music (Cambridge UK: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 23–33.

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obviously folk-inspired pieces such as Tadeusz Zygfryd Kassern’s Ten Folk Songs from the Western Territories (Dziesięć pieśni ludowych z Ziem Zachodnich) and Tadeusz Szeligowski’s Four Wedding Songs from the Lublin Region (Cztery pieśni weselne z Lubelszczyzny) were classically-oriented works, for example, Grażyna Bacewicz’s String Quartet no. 3 and, for the more adventurous, Andrzej Panufnik’s Lullaby (Kołysanka) for twenty-nine string instruments and two harps. The latter composition, inspired by the composer’s vision of the night sky over the Thames River in London, incorporates quarter tones under a pentatonic Polish folk theme. Acclaimed at that time for its originality and sensory experience, it would become the target of criticism in later years and disappear from concert programs.181 These concerts thus became the scene of both pedagogically-oriented pieces and more complex works. They also provided opportunities for many composers whose works might not be programmed on other public concerts to hear their compositions. Among these were choral pieces by Kazimierz Jurdziński and Józef Lasocki (1907–1996) and a Slavic Suite (Suita słowiańska) for violin and piano by Irena Garztecka-Jarzębska (1913–1963), which were given their only known performances at these concerts. The majority of the orchestral works heard at concerts sponsored by Polish Music Publishers during these years were presented at a November 1947 concert that was also part of a Slavic Music Festival. Organized by Polish Radio, the Ministry of Culture and Art, and other cultural organizations, the festival’s intent, as stated by a Polish Radio official, was to demonstrate the common bond among Slavic nations that was palpable in the folk music of these lands. Perhaps more importantly, the “resilience and immortality” of the spirit of the Slavic people, which still survived despite “a thousand years of German violence,”182 would also be on display. Against this rhetorical backdrop of strength, superiority, and even a cultural elitism that was deemed best manifested through folk music came concerts presented by the country’s best orchestras. Contemporary works dominated the Polish portion of the festival. At the Polish Music Publishers-sponsored concert (see Figure 7), Andrzej Panufnik conducted the premiere of his own Lullaby and Divertimento after Trios by Feliks Janiewicz (Divertimento wg Triów na smyczki Feliksa Janiewicza), Zygmunt Mycielski’s Lamento di Tristano, and other pieces by Michał Spisak, Roman Palester, and Artur Malawski. At another concert, Grzegorz Fitelberg led performances of 181 Feliks Wróbel, “Z zagadnień muzyki ćwierćtonowej (Na marginesie ‘Kołysanki’ A. Panufnika),” Ruch Muzyczny 4, no. 18 (1948): 13–16; Zofia Lissa and Józef M. Chomiński, “Zagadnienie folkloru w twórczości współczesnych kompozytorów polskich,” Muzyka 2, nos. 5–6 (1951): 11, 20; Bolesławska, The Life and Works of Andrzej Panufnik, 89–91 182 Jerzy Pański, “Festiwal Muzyki Słowiańskiej,” Radio i Świat 3, no. 45 (1947): 1.

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Roman Palester’s Violin Concerto, Bolesław Woytowicz’s Symphony No. 2, and Bolesław Szabelski’s Suite for orchestra. Other events included more explicitedly folk-derived works, for example, Tadeusz Szeligowski’s Triptych (Tryptyk) for soprano and orchestra and two works for small (probably amateur) orchestra—Grażyna Bacewicz’s Under Thatched Roofs (Pod strzechą) and Kazimierz Sikorski’s Rural Pictures (Obrazki wiejskie).183

Figure 7.  Poster for a Slavic Music Festival concert sponsored by Polish Music Publishers, November 9, 1947. Public domain184 183 “Koncerty i audycje Radiowego Festiwalu Muzyki Słowiańskiej,” Radio i Świat 3, no. 45 (1947): 17–24. 184 https://polona.pl/item/afisz-inc-sala-teatru-starego-niedziela-9-xi-1947-godz-19-koncertpolskiego,OTQxMjI5MDY/0/.

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This festival, which featured concerts in several cities, radio broadcasts, and foreign performers (among others, the Czech Nonet, choirs from Yugoslavia and Bulgaria, and Soviet musicians) became the forerunner of similar events held over the next few years. The prestige of the festival was enhanced by the presence of Poland’s president, Bolesław Bierut, and other officials, as if to reinforce the government’s interest in advancing Poland’s cultural links to the so-called “common people,” as alluded to in Bierut’s 1947 radio speech (see above).185 According to Roman Jasiński (1900–1987), a pianist and journalist who worked for nearly fifty years at Polish Radio’s music department, putting together such an event was a heroic undertaking considering the primitive conditions at the organization’s operational centers at that time, especially with regard to equipment needs.186 Alfred Gradstein, however, regretted the pervasive coverage provided on the airwaves, stating that “listeners either had to largely give up listening to the radio . . . or be condemned to hear Slavic music for eight days, from morning to evening.”187 As a result, he went on, many people who stopped listening did not hear “even those broadcasts that were excellent and remarkably interesting  .  .  . so the effect of this record number of eighty-four festival broadcasts within a week was, as far as Polish listeners were concerned, rather adverse.”188 He appreciated the performance of Roman Palester’s Violin Concerto, but thought the program overall contained too much “modernist”189 music that was difficult for most people to grasp. The program was not overly modern by Western European standards, for nothing akin to Boulez’s Piano Sonata no. 1 (1946), Messiaen’s Vingt Regards su l’Enfant Jésus (1944), or anything by Schoenberg, Berg, and Webern was heard. The use of radio as a means of bringing music to the general public became increasingly important in postwar Poland. The number of radio broadcasts of music by living Polish composers increased dramatically over the years, from a mere handful of pieces in 1945 to approximately 180 in 1947 and over 200 the following year.190 While these may not seem like large numbers over the span of daily broadcasts, at the very least contemporary music by Poland’s own composers became an increasingly significant part of the organization’s planning.

185 “Radiowy Festiwal Muzyki Słowiańskiej,” Nowiny Literackie 1, no. 36 (1947): 6. 186 Jasiński, Nowe życie, 104–105. 187 Alfred Gradstein, “Po radiowym festiwalu muzyki słowiańskiej,” Kuźnica 3, nos. 51–52 (1947): 17. 188 Ibid. 189 Ibid. 190 These figures come from the 1945–1948 issues of Radio i Świat, which did not list all compositions broadcast.

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Although Polish Radio’s programming would become more ideologically onesided over the next few years as socialist realist aesthetics took precedence within that institution, its offerings in the immediate postwar period were quite eclectic. In addition to periodic programs dedicated to the works of a single composer (Bolesław Woytowicz, Roman Palester, Konstanty Regamey, Witold Rudziński, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, and others), there were also opportunities to hear broadcasts from both Polish and foreign orchestras (for example, the Suisse Romande orchestra with Andrzej Panufnik’s Tragic Overture, destroyed during the war and reconstructed in 1945, Michał Spisak’s Bassoon Concerto, and Konstanty Regamey’s Introduction et Allegro). These selections were accompanied by pieces inspired by Polish folk music, such as Kazimierz Sikorski’s Rural Pictures (Obrazy wiejskie) for orchestra and Stanisław Wiechowicz’s Five Folk Songs from Silesia (Pięć pieśni ludowych ze Śląska) for mixed choir, and a variety of chamber pieces, including those by lesser known composers such as Kazimierz Jurdziński and Irena Garztecka-Jarzębska. This mix of offerings may have been in accord with Polish Radio’s official policy in the mid to late 1940s of offering listeners an assortment of musical styles while also providing opportunities to learn more about classical music and to popularize Polish music among workers.191 To help with the latter, Witold Rudziński led a series called “We Listen to Music” beginning in 1947. These broadcasts, which included music examples, provided information about what to listen for in music by composers as diverse as Ludwig van Beethoven and Andrzej Panufnik.192 Several musical events of a clearly political nature that were designed to promote the popularization of music among workers occurred in 1948. These involved artistic performances at the meeting at which the Polish United Workers’ Party (PZPR) was formed and at the World Congress of Intellectuals in Defense of Peace, both of which took place in Wrocław. According to an internal report about the PZPR gathering, 164 concerts organized by Artos (the successor to the Organization for Musical Activity [ORMUZ] and the Central Concert Bureau that will be discussed in more detail below) attracted 101,000 listeners in concert halls, community centers, dining halls (stołówki), and factories; these were later described by the Polish United Workers’ Party as “popularization actions.”193 Five professional orchestras also participated; each of their programs 191 TVP, 85/II 2 (Polskie Radio, Sekretariat Generalny 1945), Sprawozdanie z pracy programowej Rozgłośni Katowickiej za miesiąc sierpień 1945. 192 AKP, Witold Rudziński Collection, Teksty [audycje radiowe “Słuchamy muzyki” 1947–1950]. 193 AAN, PZPR, 237/VIII 85, Sprawozdanie z akcji koncertów masowych w miesiącu grudniu 1948 r. w związku z Kongresem Zjednoczenia Partii Robotniczych.

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was designed to guarantee that it would be “understood by everyone.”194 One known concert featured an ensemble sponsored by the Polish Military House performing Andrzej Panufnik’s Song of Unity (from the competition held for the same congress, see above) and Wacław Lachman’s In the Mountains (W góry, from 1932, for tenor, men’s choir and either piano or orchestra) in addition to several Soviet songs and an excerpt from Stanisław Moniuszko’s opera The Haunted Manor (Straszny dwór). Another event featured Panufnik’s Song of the United Parties and Władysław Szpilman’s Fighting and Working People (Ludzie walki i pracy), both mass songs.195 In Wrocław, the Workers’ Opera performed Moniuszko’s The Raftsman (Flis) at one of the events surrounding the Polish United Workers’ Party congress. This ensemble, comprised at least partly of amateurs, had been formed following Bierut’s 1947 speech discussed above. As several dignitaries commented, such an undertaking demonstrated the city’s care for its working class and its acceptance of the call for popularizing music.196 Musical events for the Party congress were also held in Poznań, Gdańsk, Łódź, and other cities.197 For the World Congress of Intellectuals, Roman Palester and Andrzej Panufnik were named as delegates.198 However, Palester did not attend; at that time, he lived in France and the Polish government would not guarantee that he would be given the visa needed to return there. Years later, he described the event as anti-American.199 Today, the Congress is typically viewed as an attempt by the Soviet Union and its satellite countries to counter the West’s advocacy of

194 Ibid. 195 AAN, PZPR 237/VIII 85, Program wieczoru artystycznego z okazji zjednoczenia Partii Robotniczych; Henryk Swolkień, “Życie muzyczne w kraju: Warszawa,” Ruch Muzyczny 5, no. 1 (1949): 17. 196 According to Kazimierz Wiłkomirski, the vocalists for this opera production were amateurs, but the orchestra was professional. BN Collection, 1948 Programs, Opera Robotnicza, December 8, 1948; Wiłkomirski, Wspomnień ciąg dalszy, 140. 197 Numerous amateur choirs also participated, but their programs are unknown. AAN, PZPR, 237/VIII 85, Wykaz zespołów Z. S. Ch. przygotowujących się do imprez artystycznych z okazji Kongresu Połączeniowego Partii Robotniczych, Sprawozdanie z akcji koncertów masowych w miesiącu grudniu 1948 r. w związku z Kongresem Zjednoczenia Partii Robotniczych; Mycielski, “Muzyka wrocławska.” 198 “Rezolucja Światowego Kongresu Intelektualistów we Wrocławiu,” Odrodzenie 5, no. 36 (1948): 1; Panufnik, Composing Myself, 178; Beata Bolesławska-Lewandowska, “Emigracyjne drogi Romana Palestra i Andrzeja Panufnika,” Roczniki Kulturoznawcze 8, no. 2 (2017): 162. 199 In the 1980s, Palester claimed he had refused to attend this meeting; in a 1948 letter, he referred to the visa problem, but not to other more politicized issues. Krystyna TarnawskaKaczorowska, ed., Muzyka źle obecna (Warsaw: Sekcja Muzykologów Związku Kompozytorów Polskich, 1989), 1: 32; Correspondence with Beata Bolesławska-Lewandowska and Lech Dzierzanowski, May 3–4, 2021.

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freedom with their own calls for peace and their determination to be viewed as equal to, if not superior to the “decadent” West.200 Three official concerts took place, with Panufnik’s Tragic Overture being the only contemporary Polish composition performed.201 With its reminiscences of battle (described earlier), its selection for a conference “in defense of peace”202 seems to be an ironic allusion to the event’s goal, stated in an announcement of the event, of avoiding another war by promoting mutual cooperation among nations.203 As shown above with regard to both commissions and performances, the first few postwar years represented a reasonably well-balanced blend of symphonic and chamber compositions by living Polish composers, despite an obvious skewing in 1948 caused by the introduction of mass song competitions. Polish orchestras displayed a willingness to program an array of pieces by different composers. The extent to which debates about popularization and nationalism played a role in selecting compositions by living Polish composers is probably negligible during these early postwar years. Given the lack of music materials available immediately after the occupation and the desire by postwar concert organizers to promote Polish music, compositions by Poland’s surviving composers were welcomed by soloists, chamber ensembles, and orchestras.

Opportunities in Foreign Countries If Polish composers, especially young ones, were unable to learn about the newest compositions by foreign composers while staying in their own country, as mentioned earlier, they could compensate for these insufficiencies by travelling abroad to broaden their musical education. This was undoubtedly enticing for them, especially given the lack of news about music in other countries that had reached Poland during the war. Supported in the early postwar years by the Polish government (and in some cases by foreign nations), many composers spent time in other countries, either for study, to hear performances of their compositions, or to attend music festivals. Young

200 Katarzyna Murawska-Muthesius, “Modernism between Peace and Freedom: Picasso and Others at the Congress of Intellectuals in Wrocław, 1948,” in David Crowley and Jane Pavitt, eds., Cold War Modern: Design 1945–1970 (London: V & A Publishing, 2008), 34–43. 201 AAN, MKiS, 366/XII 12, Kongres Intelektualistów we Wrocławiu; Mycielski, “Muzyka wrocławska.” 202 AAN, MKiS, 366/XII 12, Letter from Komitet Organizacyjny Światowego Kongresu Intelektualistów w Obronie Pokoju, [undated] 1948. 203 Ibid.

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composers, including Stanisław Skrowaczewski (1923–2017) and Kazimierz Serocki, were able to study in France with Nadia Boulanger, as their elders had during the 1930s.204 Grażyna Bacewicz spent considerable time in France in 1946 and 1947 performing pieces by herself, Roman Palester, Konstanty Regamey, and others. Andrzej Panufnik went to Paris, Zurich, and London in 1946 and 1947. Also in 1946, the Polish government sent him to conduct in East Germany, where he presented the music of Tadeusz Zygfryd Kassern as well as his own Tragic Overture and Divertimento after Trios by Feliks Janiewicz.205 Witold Lutosławski was in Paris in 1946 for a UNESCO concert and in Copenhagen and Amsterdam for International Society for Contemporary Music (ISCM) festivals the following two years.206 The ISCM festivals from 1946–1948, which attracted many Polish musicians, also featured compositions by the country’s composers (Roman Palester’s Violin Concerto, Andrzej Panufnik’s Five Folk Songs and Lullaby, Jerzy Fitelberg’s String Quartet no. 5, Michał Spisak’s Bassoon Concerto, Antoni Szałowski’s Sonatina for Oboe and Piano, and Artur Malawski’s Symphonic Etudes). As a result, foreign audiences could hear works from a country recently decimated by war and Polish participants were exposed to compositions they would not otherwise hear in their native land.207 Musicians also ventured to other countries under Soviet influence. In the spring of 1946, Jan Ekier, Ewa Bandrowska-Turska, and Kazimierz Wiłkomirski toured the Soviet Union, where quartets by Roman Palester and Kazimierz Wiłkomirski were performed along with Antoni Szałowski’s Overture and Jan Adam Maklakiewicz’s Grunwald.208 Wiłkomirski and others also attended the 1947 Prague Spring music festival, where Jan Adam Maklakiewicz’s

204 Iwona Lindstedt, “In the New Reality,” trans. Anna Kijak, http://www.serocki.polmic. pl/index.php/en/biography/in-the-new-reality; AAN, MKiS, 366/I 759 (DTA, Wydział Twórczości Muzycznej, Stypendia 1947–49 r.), Letter from Skrowaczewski to Zofia Lissa [cited as Pani Doktor without her last name], March 10, 1948. 205 Boleławska, The Life and Works of Andrzej Panufnik, 77–80, 88–91. 206 “Calendar 1940–1949,” http://www.lutoslawski.org.pl/en/calendar,4.html. 207 Those composers living abroad (Roman Palester, Jerzy Fitelberg, Michał Spisak, and Antoni Szałowski) represented Poland during these festivals. Among the attendees were Witold Lutosławski, Andrzej Panufnik, Roman Palester, Artur Malawski, Zbigniew Drzewiecki, Stanisław Skrowaczewski, Jan Krenz, Jan Ekier, Stanisław Wisłocki, Zbigniew Turski, and Kazimierz Sikorski. http://iscm.org; AAN, MKiS, 366/XII 12, Sprawozdanie z działalności Biura Współpracy z Zagranicą za okres od 1.I do 30.VI.47 r., Sprawozdanie z pracy Biura Współpracy Kulturalnej z Zagranicą Ministerstwa Kultury i Sztuki za okres od 1.iv.48 do 30.vi.48 r. 208 Wiłkomirski, Wspomnień ciąg dalszy, 61–85.

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Prague Overture (Uwertura praska) and Witold Rudziński’s Nonet were performed.209 These composers later commented on the wealth of music they were able to hear on their travels. Obviously, attending the ISCM and Prague Spring festivals presented a tremendous opportunity to hear new compositions. But others were equally fortunate. For example, Grażyna Bacewicz in her travels had heard pieces by Albert Roussel, Maurice Ravel, Paul Hindemith, Béla Bartók, and Bohuslav Martinů. Witold Lutosławski reported hearing Bartók’s Concerto for Orchestra and Sonata for two pianos and orchestra.210 The Polish magazine Ruch Muzyczny provided detailed reviews of all these events, thus enlightening its domestic readers. Those who went abroad were also able to bring scores and supplies back to Poland to supplement the country’s still meager offerings of recent twentieth-century music. Yet traveling from postwar Poland to another country was not made easy by the Polish government. For example, although Stanisław Skrowaczewski arranged to receive appropriate currency for a planned trip to Scotland for a 1947 festival, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs refused to give him a passport (passports were held by the government and given to individuals on a case-by-case basis).211 Similarly, Lutosławski’s wife was not granted a passport to accompany him to France in 1948.212 In addition to these individual frustrations, Poland’s Communist authorities were also concerned about the repertoire that Polish musicians presented to foreign audiences. As Beata Bolesławska-Lewandowska has recounted, they questioned Panufnik’s choice while abroad to conduct music by Antoni Szałowski, Tadeusz Zygfryd Kassern, and Michał Spisak, all of whom lived outside of Poland (and ultimately never returned permanently).213 Perhaps more ominous was the specter of censorship. Grażyna Bacewicz, in a letter to her brother written while she was in Prague in 1948, asked him to not say anything about Communists or trips to America (where her brother lived) in his letters sent to her family in Poland. Those letters were opened and read, she said, and she feared being arrested due to their content.214 209 Adam Rieger, “Sukcesy zagraniczne muzyków polskich,” Ruch Muzyczny 4, nos. 5–6 (1948): 20. 210 Gąsiorowska, Bacewicz, 154–155; Markiewicz, ed., Korespondencja Grzegorza Fitelberga, 136–137. 211 ZKP, 12/22 (Zebrania plenarne ZG ZKP, Protokoły posiedzeń 1946–1954 r.), Protokół plenargo posiedzenia Związku Kompozytorów Polskich z dnia 17-go IX.1947 r. 212 Markiewicz, ed., Korespondencja Grzegorza Fitelberga, 133. 213 Bolesławska, The Life and Works of Andrzej Panufnik, 79. 214 Małgorzata Gąsiorowska, “Grażyna Bacewicz– Life - Difficult Times of Socialist Realism,” trans. Anna Kijak, https://bacewicz.polmic.pl/en/difficult-times-of-socialist-realism/.

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Signs of Dissent Among Composers The tension between expectations of compositional freedom and the increasing demands for accessible music and compositions that represented some sort of musical nationalism proved to be difficult if not impossible to resolve in the immediate context of postwar Poland. Yet it would seem that composers and critics knew by the end of 1948 what would be expected in contemporary composition going forward. Although many composers had entered the postwar period willing and even eager to accept their responsibility to popularize music among the general public, some of them became wary about the increasingly sharp rhetoric that was expressed in print and at meetings. Stefan Kisielewski and Zygmunt Mycielski expressed reservations multiple times, as discussed earlier. Witold Lutosławski, a member of the Composers’ Union’s executive board, complained privately in April 1948 about the “rottenness”215 (zgniłość) in Warsaw, which he was trying to ignore. Vice-Minister Włodzimierz Sokorski had already accused him of not writing for “the masses”216 and told him (in August) that his Symphony no. 1 would not be performed in Poland. It would be heard again in June and September 1948 and in October 1949 before disappearing from public stages in Poland until 1954.217 Tadeusz Zygfryd Kassern, who in 1945 had accepted a diplomatic position in New York but remained connected to Poland’s musical life via performances and commissions, resigned his post in late 1948. Although he had been offered the position of consul at the Polish Embassy in London, he rejected what he saw as the Sovietization of his home country and decided to remain in the United States as an émigré from Poland. As a result, his contracts and commissions were withdrawn and performances of his music in Poland halted; in 1951 he was removed from the Polish Composers’ Union.218 215 Markiewicz, ed., Korespondencja Grzegorza Fitelberga, 118. 216 Ibid., 134. 217 Ibid., 178, 180; BN Collection, 1949 Warsaw programs, Great Polish Radio Orchestra Symphony Orchestra, October 2, 1949; “Tydzień muzyczny w Polskim Radiu,” Radio i Świat 10, no. 34 (1954): 3. A September 23, 1949 performance of this piece in Warsaw by the Great Polish Radio Symphony Orchestra, which was cited in a Polish Radio program schedule, appears to have not occurred. It most likely was an erroneous listing; the Warsaw Philharmonic, not the orchestra from Katowice, performed in the capital city on that date, with a program of works by Zygmunt Noskowski, Karol Szymanowski, and Sergei Rachmaninov. BN Collection, 1949 Warsaw programs, Warsaw Philharmonic, September 23, 1949; “Audycje Polskiego Radia od 19.ix do 25.ix.1949 r., Radio i Świat 5, no. 38 (1949): 14. 218 In later years, other composers suffered fates similar to Kassern; they will be discussed below. In a rare case of a composer’s commission being rejected, Kassern’s request to compose an opera to memorialize the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising was turned down by the Polish

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Roman Palester spoke of a demoralizing atmosphere in Poland as the political scene moved steadily toward a one-party system closely aligned with the Soviet Union; as will be discussed in more detail below, he would choose to live abroad permanently in 1950.219 Roman Jasiński alluded to this situation also, writing in his memoirs that he did not take any personal notes in 1948 because he felt it was not safe to do so given frequent inspections and questioning from police. He had joined the Soviet-aligned Polish Workers’ Party (PPR) in 1946 only after deciding such a move was needed in order to keep his job at Polish Radio.220 Jan Adam Maklakiewicz had also joined the same political party, reportedly believing it would be advantageous for being assigned the position of artistic director at the Warsaw Philharmonic, which he received in 1947.221 Conductor Arnold Rezler also belonged to the Polish Workers’ Party, and after 1948, to the Polish United Workers’ Party. He came under surveillance in postwar Poland; he knew several foreign languages and some of his family members had been in the Home Army during the war. Thus he was suspected of working for foreign intelligence agencies. Moreover, his friendship with Stanisław Szpinalski was problematic; the pianist often travelled abroad for concerts and thus could make contact with those deemed undesirable by the Communist authorities in Poland.222 These signs of dissent and reluctant accommodation to a new centralized political system, though perhaps few and far between, are actually harbingers of the increasing level of dissatisfaction that would become more visible over the next several years. If the goals of popularization were laudable, composers were becoming less enamored of some of the methods used to achieve success in that area.

Expectations for the Future The years 1944–1948 proved to be a period of great change for Polish composers and other musicians. The government’s assistance in rebuilding musical life was initially considered advantageous and the fulfillment of an interwar wish. Its prompt attention to creating ensembles provided jobs to musicians and cultural government. Violetta Kostka, “An Artist as the Conscience of Humanity: Life in Emigration and the Artistic Output of Tadeusz Zygfryd Kassern,” Musicology Today 8 (2011), 137–140. 219 Helman, Roman Palester, 161. 220 Jasiński, Nowe życie, 68–70, 106. 221 AKP, Zofia Lissa Collection, Korespondencja Z. Lissy 1945–1955, Letter from Zofia Lissa to Centr. Komisja Kontroli Partyjnej Komitetu Centralnego PZPR, September 5, 1950. 222 Rzepa, “Arnold Rezler,” 518–520.

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administrators and the ensuing recitals and other concerts furnished a much needed diversion to audiences. Whether Nazi occupation-era café and private concertgoers were among these listeners is unknown, but reports of crowds at musical events immediately following the war attest to a continued interest in musical culture among the general public. During these initial postwar years, moreover, the issue of whether all music heard in Poland should be understandable by everyone was not of practical concern to the country’s conductors, musicians, or composers. Many ensembles undertook efforts to bring music to audiences in rural areas and to students, but they also endeavored to bring recently written Polish music to all audiences. Compositional freedom remained a reality also, as seen both in commissions and performances, where a variety of musical styles could be heard by audiences in many cities. Despite ongoing discourse about the desirability of creating a national style for Polish music and the necessity of incorporating folk elements into art music, composers in the early postwar years were not pressured to write folk-based pieces by the media or anyone in a position of authority. Any new folk-inspired compositions came to life due to composers’ own interest in such endeavors, whether from their pure affinity to or affection for folk music or their own personal desire to write music that students and other audiences would appreciate. By the end of 1948, when criticism of formalism in music became more strident and the Polish government had overtly showed its preference for the creation of mass songs as a means to bring musical culture to as many as possible, officials began searching for other compositions that they could uphold as ideal examples of musical realism. To this end, they turned to a symphony that they believed expressed Poland’s contemporary life in a superior manner. In many respects, this piece, Bolesław Woytowicz’s Symphony no. 2, became the poster child in the late 1940s for socialist realism in Polish music. Its reception also contained echoes of the debates about nationalism and patriotism in music that had long been percolating in the country. Composed in 1945 and dedicated to Woytowicz’s brother, who had been killed in the Warsaw Uprising, the symphony was premiered in February 1946, repeated during the 1947 Slavic Music Festival, opened the 1948–1949 Warsaw Philharmonic’s concert season, and was rebroadcast on Polish Radio several times. Comprised of four movements, it incorporates portions of Karol Kurpiński’s Song of Warsaw (Warszawianka), a revolutionary song written in 1831 in support of the failed November Uprising of 1830–1831,223 and Song of 223 This rebellion was an attempt to overthrow the Russian authorities in the Congress Kingdom (a semi-autonomous region of Poland overseen by czarist Russia) and in parts of what are

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the Armored Brothers (Pieśń braci pancernych), a march written by Woytowicz during the Nazi occupation. As such, it could be connected not only to historical Poland but also to the country’s most recent war. In referencing the country’s past as well as its most recent victory (even if that was a “liberation” by out­siders), it is thus similar to Jan Adam Maklakiewicz’s Grunwald. Yet Woytowicz’s composition received a more positive reception than Grunwald had. As Mycielski said in a 1946 article devoted exclusively to Woytowicz’s piece (which in itself points to its recognition as a major composition), its expressive tension contributed to its success, as did its fine overall construction, which included fugues, references to Gregorian chant, and hints of Polish highlander music in addition to the aforementioned historical allusions, all cast within sonata, scherzo, and rondo forms. He refused to say whether the piece was programmatic or not, but willingly claimed it bore the influences of Woytowicz’s fellow countrymen Karol Szymanowski, Antoni Szałowski, and Roman Palester.224 Interestingly, Woytowicz did declare that his symphony was programmatic. Speaking with Lissa in interviews held over a span of almost four years, he referred to its first movement as expressing “the hopelessness and emptiness of the daily battle with the violence and brutality of representatives of ‘German civilization’,”225 a clear reference to the recently defeated occupiers of Polish lands. The second movement, with its Song of Warsaw motives, symbolized a rebellion (perhaps a reference to the 1944 Warsaw Uprising), while the third part reflected a “focused search for a way out. The double fugue . . . carries a symbol of controlling reality.”226 The finale reveals a “liberation”227 from the moods heard in the first movement. He also was quick to note in 1947 that his new piece was linked to “our reality,”228 but might not be understood by everyone. These comments demonstrate Woytowicz’s awareness of the changing currents of rhetorical discourse about the purpose of music composition in Poland, which would soon be embodied in more decisive governmental actions. It was Vice-Minister Włodzimierz Sokorski’s remarks about this symphony made at the November 1948 Composers’ Union’s congress that brought it the most notoriety, however. In the same speech in which he proclaimed that composers must not be isolated from their own society, he turned to Woytowicz’s now Lithuania, Belarus, and Ukraine. Poland at that time had been partitioned among the Russian Empire, the Kingdom of Prussia, and the Habsburg (Austrian) Empire. 224 Zygmunt Mycielski, “II Symfonia Woytowicza,” Ruch Muzyczny 2, no. 6 (1946): 19–20. 225 Zofia Lissa, “Trzy rozmowy z B. Woytowiczem,” Kuźnica 5, no. 3 (1949): 6. 226 Ibid. 227 Ibid. 228 Ibid.

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composition, stating that “each listener, often without even thinking about it, experiences the tragedy of battle and the strength of his own victory.”229 In reaching everyone, including workers, Woytowicz had not found “the solution for a musical language of a new era,” but had “undoubtedly found a path to that solution.”230 As the only composition cited specifically by Sokorski in this extraordinary speech that set the tone for future composition in Poland, the Warsaw Symphony (as it is called colloquially) was thus proclaimed as a model to which other composers should aspire. A month later, Woytowicz was announced as the winner of a 1949 State Artistic Award, the first such honor given in music after the war. The final deliberations were made by Lissa and a group of prominent government officials, including Sokorski, Minister of Culture and Art Stefan Dybowski, Prime Minister Józef Cyrankiewicz (1911–1989), the Treasury and Education ministers, and the minister of National Defense. Zofia Lissa, speaking about this award, emphasized that to date no composition had adequately demonstrated the requisite path of social transformation. Repeating Sokorski’s words almost verbatim, she said that neither Woytowicz’s symphony nor his Cantata in Praise of Work (Kantata na pochwałę pracy), which had been recently completed but remained unperformed, reflected a solution to this task, but they did show an attempt to “link thematically to reality.”231 Woytowicz responded humbly to the award, with words expressing an awareness of music’s potential impact on society. For him, “if an artist essentially gives society what it requires from him, he has only performed his own social duty.”232 He said that his Cantata in Praise of Work had been written for amateurs and that he already had given many concerts (as a pianist) for workers, for whom he felt a special attachment. However, his statements on the social role of composers expressed elsewhere in 1948 reflected an ambivalence toward the call to compose with his fellow citizens in mind. In his opinion, contemporary music always faced accusations from critics and the public. He also suggested that not all complicated pieces were inherently bad. While acknowledging that composers were sometimes at fault, he also claimed that if composers did not “feel at one with the masses,”233 then any works they wrote for this group would be unsuccessful. 229 Sokorski, “Formalizm i realizm w muzyce,” 5. 230 Sokorski, “Formalizm i realizm w muzyce,” 5. Bolding is in the original text. 231 AKP, Zofia Lissa Collection, Z. Lissa, Dokumenty, Protokół z dwunastego posiedzenia Komitetu Ministrów do Spraw Kultury, odbytego w dniu 29 grudnia 1948 r. 232 Zofia Lissa, “Trzy rozmowy z B. Woytowiczem,” 6–7. 233 AKT 12/4, Protokół z obrad Zwyczajnego Walnego Zgromadzenia członków Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 20, 21 i 22 listopada 1948 r., page 23.

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Governmental leaders were apparently willing to either accept or ignore Woytowicz’s equivocations. Perhaps they could not find another composition that fit their idea of appropriate socialist music. Most likely these Soviet-aligned officials were pleased to equate Woytowicz’s explanation of the “liberation” reflected in the final movement with their own postwar takeover of the Polish government. Most Poles, however, did not feel liberated as a result of the political situation in the late 1940s. With this award, however, and especially the reasons given for honoring Woytowicz, the government’s plan for future composition became obvious, if it was not already clear before. At least according to Sokorski and Lissa, realism, patriotism, and nationalism were all wrapped up in the Warsaw Symphony. Although the piece was not perfect (unfortunately, they did not enumerate its defects), it showed one way to provide music that spoke to the issues and the people of Poland in a new reality, one whose terms were increasingly defined by politicians and governmental functionaries. Expectations for the future of Polish composition had been revealed through Woytowicz’s work and via the mass song competitions already completed. How would other composers respond as they completed commissions already granted? The next few years would present great challenges, but composers in Poland would continue to assert their independence.

CHAPTER 4

Negotiating a New Path 1949–1953

On the evening of September 21, 1951, the Warsaw Philharmonic inaugurated a new season in a recently renovated (albeit still temporary) hall with the world premieres of Grażyna Bacewicz’s Cello Concerto no. 1 and Zygmunt Mycielski’s Polish Symphony (Symfonia polska), performed as part of that year’s Festival of Polish Music. This months-long event, which encompassed hundreds of concerts around the country presented by both professional and amateur ensembles, was intended to demonstrate the progress of Poland’s composers in their endeavor to write music that could be understood by all layers of society. The Polish government offered numerous commissions to composers, hoping to prove that cultural creators had enthusiastically joined the socialist community being formed in the country and were eager to contribute their talents. Critical reaction to these two musical pieces was directly connected to ongoing discussions about the appropriate character of new compositions in Poland’s current political environment. Mycielski’s symphony garnered the most interest. As someone who had frequently voiced support for compositional autonomy, his decision to compose a work that in both title and content seemed to capitulate to the desires of cultural authorities might have seemed somewhat surprising (although he had already written a Silesian Overture). Mycielski expressed his desire to infuse the symphony with “Polish character,” hoping that it would be appreciated by audiences. In his diaries, he offered his new piece as an alternative to what he described as the cheap products, or “trash,” that were “flooding the market.”1 At the same time, he did not want to compromise himself artistically, as many had, in his opinion, with their overly simplistic mass songs.2

1 2

Zygmunt Mycielski, Dziennik 1950–1959 (Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Iskry, 1999), 25. The work’s alternate title was Symphonic Pictures (Obrazy symfoniczne), a title that appeared in some concert programs even though Mycielski himself called the piece Polish Symphony.

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(As will be discussed below, Mycielski’s private statements differed in tone from nearly all of his public speeches and writings, which in some cases were vetted by the government.) The “Polishness” in this case was achieved by writing original melodies in a highlander style, reminiscent of the folk music of Poland’s Tatra mountain region.3 With overtones of Sergei Prokofiev, Igor Stravinsky, and Pyotr Ilych Tchaikovsky, the symphony alternates between rhapsodic expressiveness and ascerbic motoric passages, but did not overstep the boundaries of the more conservative musical tastes of many Polish critics. As Tadeusz Marek (1915–1994) wrote in his program note, this piece was “one example of the revised creative view of Polish composers, . . . the linking of composition with . . . social life . . . The Polish Symphony indicates a decisive turnabout . . . [It takes] a great classical form and fills it with Polish national character.”4 One reviewer, fellow composer Wawrzyniec Żuławski, praised the piece as reflecting Mycielski’s desire to imbue the music with “features that define its national character . . . This is also the path followed by almost all contemporary Polish composers who strive to create truly national music . . . for new listeners.”5 Another, the uncompromising Stefan Kisielewski, was decidedly less enthusiastic. In his opinion, the composition was “strange” and “chaotic . . . but sometimes has charm.”6 Even more detrimental for Kisielewski was Mycielski’s alleged lack of effort to make any advance in harmonic practices, as if he were ignoring the more adventurous musical language of other postwar Polish composers (Kisielewski cited Panufnik as an example). That the piece appealed to non-musically literate audiences, which Kisielewski readily admitted, was not a sign of its success, but rather its failure. Kisielewski’s comments were rebutted by Witold Rudziński. An ardent supporter of the popularization of music throughout society, he rejected Kisielewski’s calls for harmonic advances, saying such contributions had resulted in the “poverty” of compositions based on bitonal, polytonal, or atonal frameworks.

Ibid., 25–27; BN Collection, 1951 Warsaw Programs, Warsaw Philharmonic November 30, 1951. 3 PWM published the symphony in 1961. For a description of the folk characteristics of this symphony, see Dagmara Dopierała, “Refleksje wokół Symfonii polskiej Zygmunta Mycielskiego,” in Twórczość Zygmunta Mycielskiego jako dziedzictwo kultury polskiej i europejskiej, ed. Grzegorz Oliwa (Rzeszów: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Rzeszowskiego, 2008), 88–93. 4 Tadeusz Marek was the pen name used by Tadeusz Żakiej when writing about music. BN Collection, 1951 Warsaw programs, Warsaw Philharmonic, September 9, 1951. 5 Wawrzyniec Żuławski, “Inauguracja sezonu w Filharmonii Warszawskiej,” Nowa Kultura 2, no. 40 (1951): 11. 6 Stefan Kisielewski, “Nowe utwory polskie,” Tygodnik Powszechny 7, no. 40 (1951): 10–11.

Negotiating a New Path 1949–1953

For him, melody was music’s most important element, in part because it could be richly expressive. He declared that Mycielski’s symphony provided deep emotional experiences and for the most part reflected an “agreement between means and content,”7 thus branding it a success in this new era in which socialist realist aesthetic values in music were to be of paramount importance.

Ideological Parameters of New Polish Music If Mycielski’s symphony was considered a relative success following its 1951 premiere for its ability to reach audiences through its melodic expression and folklorist atmosphere, could these traits be considered a recipe suitable for use by other Polish composers? In reality, cultural officials and musicians spilled much ink between 1949 and 1953 (the year of Stalin’s death and the start of significant cultural policy changes) debating how (and whether) to translate Bierut’s 1947 remarks into actual musical compositions. These objectives, as rendered in the 1948 Composers’ Union’s Declaration, referred to creating music for new listeners that was simultaneously of high quality, avoided elitist impressions, and was influenced by vaguely defined Polish nationalist traditions. Composers were to strive to fulfill these compositional goals in exchange for material support from the government.8 The term “socialist realism” did not appear in this declaration, but its presence was undoubtedly felt and in fact, had been voiced by the Vice-Minister of Culture and Art at the union’s annual congress that year. Cultural officials made multiple pronouncements setting forth ambiguous remedies and admonitions about what they regarded as mandates for new composition. While it seems easy to find descriptions that were both generalized and combative, locating specific (shall we say, technical) information about what was wanted in new music is more difficult. In part, this was due to the variety of opinions expressed on the topic and, perhaps more importantly, the lack of agreement among those who appeared to have voices of authority. What quickly became apparent, however, was that compositional style and technique, heretofore determined in a diverse, ad hoc manner by individual composers, were now to be monitored and chaperoned by the country’s political and cultural authorities. Perhaps equally important, nationalism in music became a high priority

7 Witold Rudziński, “Polemiki i dyskusje w sprawie ‘Symfonii Polskiej’ Z. Mycielskiego,” Muzyka 2, no. 10 (1951): 45–47. 8 ZKP, 12/4, Deklaracja Walnego Zgromadzenia Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w Warszawie.

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and in many cases was nearly synonymous with the incorporation of folk music into professional compositions. Moreover, all new musical works should be readily comprehensible to the general public. Composers were to serve everyone, fulfilling directives provided by the government. Not all of these musicians were satisfied with this situation, but the politicization of their music and careers forced many of them to adhere at least partially with the “Party line.” Many also resisted where and when they could; the Composers’ Union itself did the same. Leading the rhetorical offensive were both cultural officials and musicians themselves. Włodzimierz Sokorski, the Vice-Minister of Culture and Art, spoke at every annual congress of the Composers’ Union and met frequently with its members, often exhorting them through the repetition of slogans couched in Marxist-oriented language. He railed against imperialism, often of the American kind, which had brought forth formalist art that contaminated the culture of socalled “liberated nations,” referring to the Soviet Union and its satellite countries in Eastern Europe.9 Thus, an international outlook would be acceptable only if it did not face toward the West. Sokorski also described an ongoing battle to form a classless society and a uniform national culture whose artistic creations reflected reality and were comprehensible to all.10 Yet it was Poland’s authorities who planned to act as society’s elite, directing all activities and thus negating the “classlessness” espoused by governmental representatives. Creating a national style in Polish music was imperative for Sokorski. He lifted up Frédéric Chopin’s compositions as examples of music that “emerge[d] in the spirit of a given era.”11 Karol Szymanowski’s compositions, however, were given only marginal praise: “No one denies, for example, that [the music of] Szymanowski was a creative protest against the idyllic nature of [the music of] Noskowski or Moniuszko, and that to a certain degree the past period, in which the sanctified principles of tonality and classical harmony were broken down, was positive with regard to the development of music composition . . . but at the same time, we cannot fail to realize that this period was the artistic reflection of the chaos of a dying world.”12 In 1949, Sokorski supported the use of folk music in new composition as the best way to counteract formalism.13 He again invoked issues of social class by applauding folk traditions for their “protest 9 “Połączeniowy zjazd związków artystycznych,” Ruch Muzyczny 5, no. 9 (1949): 21. 10 Włodzimierz Sokorski, “O właściwy stosunek do sztuki ludowej,” Ruch Muzyczny 2, no. 10 (1949): 3; Włodzimierz Sokorski, “Od Łagowa do Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej,” Muzyka 3, nos. 1–2 (1952): 4. 11 Sokorski, “Formalizm i realizm w muzyce,” 3. 12 Ibid. 13 “Połączeniowy zjazd związków artystycznych,” 21.

Negotiating a New Path 1949–1953

against courtly culture and the cosmopolitan art of the middle class.”14 A year later, however, he asked that composers of art music not use folk melodies “in crudo,” which resulted in a formalist application of native themes, but instead transform them as Chopin had. Impressionist influences in music were unacceptable, although by 1953 he declared that perhaps the instrumental color of such compositions could be of some value.15 His stated disdain for Western culture and his desire to create a distinctive Polish musical style carried with it the implication that his country could somehow demonstrate the superiority of the Communist system as it related to the arts. Such shifting of the details, however minor they may seem in theory, would have greatly affected composers. Perhaps the biggest question for those who wished to heed the prescriptions of the day, whether for monetary or ideological reasons, was how to handle folk music. Was nationalism in art music to be equated with the incorporation or transformation of actual folk music or with the creation of an individualized yet somehow national essence? Other concepts related to the emotional expression of Poland’s reality and the implied yearning for a lack of diversity in both society and culture also seemed ominous for advocates of compositional freedom. Certain compositional techniques were to be avoided, but with the exception of atonality and dodecaphony, it was not possible to determine other negative aspects with any precision. Zofia Lissa attempted to clarify these issues. By 1949, she had become the director of the University of Warsaw’s newly created musicology department, whose development she had spearheaded.16 As a Party member who was also a musicologist, part of her role, at least ostensibly, was to take Sokorski’s views regarding musical composition and paraphrase them in a way that would be more meaningful for composers. However, she sometimes reached for language that was as equally obtuse as Sokorki’s had been. She too foresaw a classless society in which professional music and folklore would be intertwined and whose music reflected national traditions (but somehow not imitate earlier styles) as well as the reality of current-day Poland.17 More specifically, in 1949 she accused Polish 14 Sokorski, “O właściwy stosunek do sztuki ludowej,” 3. 15 ZKP, 12/92 (Protokół z konferencji kompozytorskiej, Warszawa, dn. 4.II.1950 r.), page 3; AAN, MKiS 366/III 35 (Gabinet Ministrów, Rada Artystyczna. [Stenogramy posiedzeń z dn. 30–31 stycznia 1953 r.]), page 30/2. 16 Izdebski, “Powstanie warszawskiego ośrodka muzykologicznego,” 174–186. 17 Zofia Lissa, “Niektóre zagadnienia estetyki muzycznej w świetle artykułów Józefa Stalina o Marksizmie w językoznawstwie,” Studia Muzykologiczne 1 (1953), 31–33, 55–56; AAN, MKiS, 366/XII 241 (Biuro Współpracy Kulturalnej z Zagranicą, V Zjazd Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w Warszawie dn. 16.vi.1950 r.), Lissa’s speech; Zofia Lissa, “Uwagi o metodzie marksistowskiej w muzykologii,” in Zofia Lissa, Muzykologia polska na przełomie:

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composers of accepting the musical aesthetics of interwar Parisians because they felt artistically inferior to their foreign counterparts; instead, they should create their own national compositional identity. She then echoed her remarks from a year or so earlier, proclaiming that Polish composers should reject neoclassicism, atonality, and anything lacking melody; in other words, any musical style seen as originating in the West during the interwar period.18 Lissa’s understanding of the role of tradition in new Polish music changed over the course of several postwar years. As early as 1950, she recognized that elements from the interwar period could be incorporated into new socialist music. However, she still advised composers to avoid copying earlier musical styles, although she made exceptions: she warned against imitating Stravinsky’s neoclassic style but praised the archaic derivations heard in German composer Hans Pfitzner’s opera Palestrina, saying they emphasized the latter work’s content.19 Yet again mixing the signals she was sending, in 1951 she acknowledged that “theorists and ideologues” had not yet established which musical traditions were acceptable influences for composers, except that impressionism and interwar musical styles were to be rejected.20 Two years later, however, she proclaimed that the compositional style of any composer becomes, over time, part of the traditions of his or her individual nation.21 This seemingly open-ended pronouncement signaled a possible end to the most rigid of the compositional principles that had been espoused in recent years. But by then, composers, exposed to rhetorical language that encouraged a more restrictive notion of the ingredients of an appropriate musical composition, were still coping with the demands of those precepts, to the extent that they paid attention to them. As will be shown below, they were also intent on modifying these conditions. Sławomir Wieczorek, in his recent writings on socialist realist discourse in Polish music, advised approaching Lissa’s words cautiously, saying her goal

18 19

20 21

Rozprawy i artykuły naukowo-krytyczne (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1952), 60; Zofia Lissa, “O obiektywności praw w historii i teorii muzyki: Na marginesie pracy J. W. Stalina Ekonomiczne problemy socjalizmu w ZSRR, 1952,” Studia Muzykologiczne 3 (1954): 94–95. Zofia Lissa, “‘Pierwszy etap’: Po zjeździe kompozytorów polskich w Łagowie,” Kuźnica 5, no.  38 (1949): 2; “Konferencja kompozytorów w Łagowie Lubuskim,” Ruch Muzyczny 5, no. 14 (1949): 29–30. Lissa, “Uwagi o metodzie marksistowskiej w muzykologii,” 78–79. This article was originally published in 1950 in Adolf Chybiński, Księga pamiątkowej ku czci Prof. A. Chybinskiego w 70-lecie urodzin: Rozprawy i artukuły z zakresu muzykologii (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1950), 50–119. Zofia Lissa, “O wybór właściwych tradycji,” Nowa Kultura 2, no. 46 (1951): 3. ZKP, 12/22, Protokół surowy obrad rozszerzonego plenum Związku Kompozytorów Polskich [March 17–18, 1953], page 17.

Negotiating a New Path 1949–1953

was to appear loyal to the governmental policies of the moment. This echoes comments made by Mycielski in 1956.22 Even Lissa alluded to this later, apparently telling Mieczysław Tomaszewski, then the editor in chief at Polish Music Publishers, that she had to criticize Stravinsky’s music in her monograph on Russian music history in order to get the book published, even though she personally appreciated his compositions as well as Schoenberg’s.23

Composers Talk Rhetorically about Guidelines for Polish Music Numerous composers weighed in on the debate about what direction Polish composition should take in the early 1950s. Of those who either publicly or in official meetings debated the positions taken by Sokorski and Lissa, Zygmunt Mycielski and Witold Rudziński are perhaps the most fascinating. Mycielski found himself in a difficult position. He was the president of the Composers’ Union from November 1948 to June 1950 and a member of its executive board at other times. In mid-1948 he voiced perhaps his most forthright opinion in print concerning the impending shift in cultural ideology and potential restrictions to compositional freedom. While reviewing a performance of a Soviet song and dance troupe in Poland, he noted the crowded hall, which he admitted signalled a fulfillment of the desire to popularize music in society. But he followed that placating statement by remarking: We understand that there is no essential difference between ‘folk art’ and ‘artistic’ art there [in the Soviet Union]. Therefore when one speaks of popularization and publishes statements about formalism or a return to classical art, these things sound rather different in the Soviet Union than here . . . The mechanical repeating of some slogans in the name of musical tendencies in the Soviet Union, which several critics here do, is only proof

22 Wieczorek, Na froncie muzyki, 101–104, 116–133, 139–141; Mycielski, Dzienniki 1950– 1959, 204. 23 The book in question is Zofia Lissa, Historia muzyki rosyjskiej (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1955). Krzysztof Droba, Odczytywanie na nowo: Rozmowy z Mieczysławem Tomaszewskim (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, Olszanica: Wydawnictwo Bosz, and Kraków: Akademia Muzyczna, 2011), 86.

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of the shallow and thoughtless repeating of a lesson whose deep sense one has not digested. This babble is supposed to serve the rebirth of contemporary Polish art. In reality it seems to tend to kill its creative aspirations.24 This caustic interpretation of the situation, with its scathing opinion of rhetoric about music as merely an inappropriate basket of slogans imported from the East and his implicit interpretation of “creative aspirations” as being essential to music composition, foreshadowed the polemics that were to continue throughout the next several years. However, after Mycielski became head of the Composers’ Union, he was expected to work with the government to achieve its goals while also satisfying the desires of the union’s membership, not all of whom agreed with the Ministry’s wishes. His speeches and published comments became much more circumspect as a result. As was a fairly routine practice in the Ministry of Culture and Art, Mycielski’s speeches for important occasions were vetted beforehand.25 In these, he succeeded in inserting sufficient nuances to sound as if he supported the new guidelines for Polish music while also noting their flaws. He acknowledged in 1949 that not everyone had understood the “achievements” of the interwar period and that “in a socialist state, art has to . . . speak to the broadest range of consumers, using an artistically excellent language.”26 However, he also stated that taking an historical approach to understanding current stylistic expectations did not provide “sufficient answers about what is happening today.”27 Furthermore, it was not possible to determine if a composition was formalist or realist. His words of skepticism were intertwined with affirmations that the Composers’

24 “Rozumiemy, że nie ma tam istotnej różnicy pomiędzy ‘sztuką ludową’ a ‘sztuką artystyczną.’ Dlatego, kiedy się mówi o upowszechnieniu, i wydaje enuncjacje o formalizmie czy nawrocie do sztuki klasycznej, rzeczy te inaczej brzmią w ZSRR, a inaczej u nas . . . mechaniczne powtarzanie niektórych haseł—jak to czyni kilku krytyków u nas—w imię muzycznych tendencji w ZSRR, jest tylko dowodem płytkiego i bezmyślnego powtarzania lekcji, której głębokiego sensu się nie przetrawiło samemu. Bełkot ten ma niby to służyć odrodzeniu polskiej sztuki współczesnej a w rzeczywistości, zdaje się dążyć do zabicia jej aspiracji twórczych.” Zygmunt Mycielski, “Ludowy Zespół Pieśni i Tańca imienia Piatnickiego,” Odrodzenie 5, no. 25 (1948): 7. 25 AAN, MKiS, 366/I 469 (DTA, Wydział Ogólny, Sprawozdanie 1948–1950 r.), Sprawozdanie Departmentu Twórczości Artystycznej za III kwartał 1949 rok; AAN, MKiS 366/I 719 (DTA, Wydział Twórczósci Muzycznej, Kolegium Muzyczne [Protokoły posiedzeń] 1950– 51 r.), Protokół nr 7, Protokół nr 8. 26 Zygmunt Mycielski, “O zadaniach Związku Kompozytorów Polskich,” Ruch Muzyczny 5, no. 14 (1949): 10. 27 Ibid.

Negotiating a New Path 1949–1953

Union accepted realism as the goal of composition, with the caveat that commissions should be given for all types of music. He called for compositions that did not quote folk melodies at length, but whose “melodic contour, rhythm, form, harmonic garb, and general mood . . . [were] characteristic of a Polish school of musical elements.”28 This interest in a uniquely Polish “school” of composition would permeate evaluations of new compositions over the next several years, although Mycielski’s admonition to avoid citations of folk music would be ignored. Within a few months, Mycielski realized he could not reconcile his personal beliefs about what musical life in Poland should look like with what he perceived as the reality of the day. Refusing to continue as the union’s president after June 1950, he voiced his regret that the artistic level he had tried to defend was being disparaged by those in power. He also questioned how to reconcile the desire to write high-quality music with the need to compose for the masses. While he was interested in trying to appeal to a broader audience through his own compositions, as for example with his Polish Symphony, he wondered if composing pieces with clear themes, harmonies, and rhythms resulted in a victory for less talented composers, who were otherwise unsuccessful in writing more adventurous compositions.29 When asked to rejoin the union’s executive board in early 1951, following the resignations of several members, Mycielski agreed, assuming everyone involved now supported his views. He soon regrettably discovered that was not the case.30 These resignations, submitted by Andrzej Panufnik, Grażyna Bacewicz, and Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, had occurred following a reception held for Dmitri Shostakovich and Tikhon Khrennikov, Soviet composers who had been in Poland for a World Congress for Defenders of Peace.31 Two Polish composers, Edward Olearczyk and Tomasz Kiesewetter, played selections from their music. Although their precise program is unknown, it almost certainly included mass songs, since Olearczyk wrote many of them. At least some of the Polish composers present were embarrassed by what Mycielski called the scandal of presenting such pieces as representative of Polish music. In a letter to the Composers’ Union, Bacewicz and Panufnik explained that the union had been discredited by what they tactfully called the “conceptual and organizational mistakes” made 28 Ibid. 29 ZKP, 12/6 (VI Walny Zjazd 11–13.XII.1951), Załącznik 3, page 3; Mycielski, Dziennik 1950–1959, 15–20. 30 Mycielski, Dziennik 1950–1959, 37–38. 31 This meeting had been relocated to Warsaw from Sheffield, England after the British government refused to grant visas to some participants.

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at the reception.32 Although Maklakiewicz was a Party member who may have resigned for health reasons (although Witold Rudziński alluded to negotiations regarding his departure due to a personality conflict), Bacewicz and Panufnik defended compositional autonomy and could not abide the current appeal for politicized restrictions in music composition.33 At the time of these resignations, Rudziński was the president of the Composers’ Union. Where Mycielski had placed himself on the side of composers as they attempted to interpret the wishes of officials and musicologists, Rudziński took a more adversarial role toward his colleagues. He too rejected the music of the interwar period. Although he had been one of the many composers who had studied in Paris with Nadia Boulanger prior to World War II, he had the audacity to blame his compatriots who made similar pilgrimages for “acquiring the ideology of the decadent middle class, transplanting formalism onto Polish ground.”34 As did Sokorski and Lissa, he endorsed folk music as a rich area of exploration for composers.35 As will be discussed in more detail in this chapter, the actions he took to encourage the creation of ideologically correct compositions were met with dissatisfaction by many of his fellow composers. According to Rudziński, Włodzimierz Sokorski had congratulated him for his “truly Marxist speech”36 at the 1950 Composers’ Union congress, in which he had encouraged union members to critique their colleagues (and by implication, their compositions and other writings) without being reluctant to “offend [them] by accident.”37 Stefan Kisielewski, however, noted the reticence of composers at the same meeting to discuss ideological issues. These composers, in his opinion, wanted to be left alone to write as they wished.38 Kisielewski continued his attacks on socialist realism throughout the first postwar decade, publishing primarily in Tygodnik Powszechny, a Catholic newspaper that was suppressed by the government in 1953. Under Church patronage, the weekly’s writers and 32 Mycielski, Dziennik 1950–1959, 37–38; ZKP, Andrzej Panufnik folder, Letter from Grażyna Bacewicz and Andrzej Panufnik to Zarząd Główny ZKP, November 21, 1950. 33 Maklakiewicz’s biographer suggests that the composer resigned due to a heavy teaching schedule combined with health problems. However, Rudziński referred to a request that Maklakiewicz leave the union’s presidium since few associates could work with him. Wacholc, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, 95; AKP, Witold Rudziński Collection, Teksty osobiste, January 5, 1951. 34 Witold Rudziński, “Zagadnienia współczesnej muzyki polskiej,” Myśl Współczesna, no. 10 (1950): 120. 35 AKP, Witold Rudziński Collection, Teksty osobiste, August 7, 1949, April 11, 1951. 36 Ibid., June 18, 1950. 37 This speech will be discussed in more detail below. “Sprawozdanie z obrad V Walnego Zgromadzenia Związku Kompozytorów Polskich,” Muzyka 1, no. 5 (1950): 55. 38 Stefan Kisielewski, “Zjazd kompozytorów,” Tygodnik Powszechny 6, no. 28 (1950): 4.

Negotiating a New Path 1949–1953

editors enjoyed freedoms of speech not possible for other publications, which were subjected to strict censorship. Kisielewski was thus one of few musicians able to publicly voice opposition to the new guidelines for music composition. He suffered other consequences, however, for he was dismissed from his faculty position at Kraków’s Higher School of Music in 1949 after describing current artistic policy as nonsensical in a speech attended by a member of the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party. Zbigniew Drzewiecki, the pianist who was then the head of the school, sympathized with Kisielewski and provided him with three months of salary as he departed.39 The Composers’ Union also continued to support him with additional commissions.40 Other opinions held by individual composers will emerge as we look into government-financed actions designed to support the implementation of these new aesthetic guidelines in music. First, however, a summary of the statements given above as they relate to guidelines for new Polish music might provide a working definition of socialist realism in Polish composition. Taken at face value, it appears that these musical creations were to be different from what had been produced before World War II, especially those written during the interwar period by composers in Western Europe. A new type of national music was to be produced that audiences could readily appreciate and that met what authorities (and some composers) considered to be the musical needs of the general public, especially workers. Dodecaphony, atonality, and—for a time—impressionism were explicitly rejected, but recommendations to use functional tonality were rarely made, leaving open the possibility for some kind of harmonic experimentation.41 Original applications of Polish folk music, but not similar pieces from other countries, were welcomed.

39 AKP, Witold Rudziński Collection, Teksty osobiste, June 18, 1950; Małgorzata Gąsiorowska, Kisielewski (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 2011), 68. 40 In the early 1950s, Kisielewski received commissions for a one-movement orchestral work (probably the Rural Rhapsody [Rapsodia wiejska]), Fantasy for piano, Symphony no. 2, two sets of songs set to Konstanty Ildefons Gałczyński’s poems, and for other pieces that remained unfinished (including a set of chamber works for wind instruments). ZKP, 12/54, Protokół z posiedzenia Komisji Zamówień Z. K. P. z dn. 19 grudnia 1950, Protokół posiedzenia Komisji Zasiłków Twórczych ZKP z dnia 31.VII.1951 r., Protokół nr 7 z posiedzenia Komisji Zamówień Kompozytorskich w dniu 10.VII.52, Protokół nr 2 z posiedzenia Komisji Zamówień Kompozytorskich w dniu 8 marca 1954 r. 41 Musicologist Józef Chomiński called for a functional tonal system, although the primary conveyors of socialist realist policy in music (Sokorski and Lissa) were reluctant to offer such a precise recommendation. “Konferencja kompozytorów w Łagowie Lubuskim,” 17.

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Financing New Compositions: Commissions The first concrete steps in encouraging composers to write compositions that reflected reality in socialist Poland were not ideological speeches, but financial inducements to compose suitable pieces. This did not mean giving them only small amounts of money to write mass songs, but also offering them larger sums for more substantive works. As shown previously with regard to the 1947 allocation of funds by the Council of Ministers and the Slavic Music Festival as well as the 1948 competition for the Polish United Workers’ Party’s congress, commissions, contests, and festivals had become the favored “soft power” methods used by the government to promote its goals. These events were almost exclusively aimed only at domestic audiences; travel abroad for performances or education, particularly outside of official cultural exchanges arranged with the Soviet Union and other Communist countries in Eastern Europe, was extremely rare during these years, which in turn satisfied the government’s desire to limit composers’ awareness of new music in Western countries. Governmental agencies were thus theoretically able to control not only what composers produced but what audiences could hear. The concept of popularization remained an integral part of the government’s overall plan to bring classical music to all of society. Zofia Lissa proposed in 1949 that the Commissions Committee support the composition of “small, useful works.”42 The Ministry of Culture and Art’s plan for 1949–1951 was similar, calling for more works for amateurs, including mass songs. The Composers’ Union’s contribution to the national Six Year Plan for 1950–1955 called for emphasizing commissions for vocal works, operas, mass songs, cantatas, ballets, and pedagogical compositions.43 These programs were not fulfilled, at least not to the satisfaction of Zofia Lissa and Włodzimierz Sokorski.44 For commissions involving the Composers’ Union, roughly the same balance of funding existed from 1949–1953 as had occurred in 1948. The bulk of the funds went to orchestral pieces and concerti, while most of the remaining money was allotted to chamber and choral works. The sheer number of orchestral compositions that were commissioned 42 ZKP, 12/28, Protokół z posiedzeń Prezydium Zarządu Głównego ZKP w dniach 7, 8 i 11 kwietnia 1949 r. 43 AAN, MKiS 366/ I 726 (DTA, Wydział Twórczości Muzycznej, Plany pracy Wydziału [roczne i kwartalne] 1949, 1951 r.), Szkic planu pracy na r. 1949; Zygmunt Mycielski, “Przemówienie Prezesa Zygmunta Mycielskiego,” Muzyka 1, nos. 3–4 (1950): 22. 44 Włodzimierz Sokorski, “Od Łagowa do Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej,” 3–11; AAN, MKiS 366/ XII 241, Lissa’s speech.

Negotiating a New Path 1949–1953

attests to the strength of this genre in composers’ interests and to the willingness of the union-dominated Commissions Committee to fund such pieces. For example, in 1950, more than forty percent of the 145 Composers’ Union commissions identified for this project were for orchestral or combined chorus and orchestra works (including concerti); the remainder included six choral works, thirty-four chamber pieces, twenty-two cantatas, twenty mass songs, and five opera, operettas, or ballets.45 By 1953, when commission funds were held by the Ministry of Culture and Art rather than being given to the Composers’ Union, little had changed: over thirty-five percent of the more than 200 commissioned pieces were for orchestra or combined choir and orchestra, with the other monies being allocated for ten choral pieces, eighty-nine chamber works (many of them probably of pedagogical value), thirteen cantatas (some of which had been under contract since 1949), eight mass songs, and nine dramatic stage works.46 Mass songs and cantatas constituted a relatively small percentage of commission monies initially; after 1951, such funding diminished even further. Although according to Witold Rudziński, approximately 1,500 mass songs were composed by Polish composers during the first postwar decade, available sources reveal only about 450 such pieces written by Composers’ Union members.47 Of these, few were funded by the Commissions Committee, which approved grants for fewer than fifty such pieces between 1949 and 1953, with most of these intended for the 1951 Festival of Polish Music (FMP I). Others were commissioned by organizations such as youth groups and the military. If the overall total of 1,500 is to be believed, members of the Composers’ Union were not among the most prolific producers of such pieces. Witold Rudziński, for example, claimed he wrote twenty-five mass songs for a variety of institutions.48 Edward Olearczyk wrote about thirty-five such pieces, while Alfred Gradstein and Władysław Szpilman contributed at least thirty each. 45 The relatively large number of cantatas, compared to other years (seven in 1949, seventeen in 1951, seven in 1952) was fueled by commissions provided for the upcoming Festival of Polish Music, originally slated for late 1950. 46 Most of my information about commissions comes from ZKP, 12/28, 12/29 (Protokoły z posiedzeń Prezydium ZG ZKP, r. 1951–1952), 12/30 (Protokoły z posiedzeń Prezydium ZG ZKP 1953–54 r.), 12/31 (Protokoły z posiedzeń Prezydium ZG ZKP 1955–56 r.), and 12/54. Much of my data on performances comes from the BN Collection of concert programs as well as AAN and ZKP archival documents, periodicals, and newspapers. 47 Categorizing a piece as a mass song sometimes proved to be difficult. For this project, songs with obviously politicized texts as well as those labelled as such mass songs on concerts and radio broadcasts or in reviews have been included in this category. Witold Rudziński, “Pieśni masowe,” in Kultura muzyczna Polski Ludowej 1944–1955, eds. Józef Chomiński and Zofia Lissa (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1957), 226. 48 ZKP, Witold Rudziński folder, Zestawnienie ważniejszych utworów.

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The government set aside special funds for FMP I. In addition to the commissions noted above, an additional sixty-five were allotted in 1950 for such works. Adrian Thomas, in his detailed account of these commissions, observed that composers living abroad were not invited to participate and that the Ministry of Culture and Art, which approved each request, apparently did nothing to ensure they were fulfilled as specified.49 This apparently allowed some composers to receive funds without completing their proposed pieces. Zbigniew Turski, for example, proposed a ballet called Warsaw Legend (Legenda Warszawska) that was never finished, although commission funds were provided for three years (1949, 1950, 1953).50 Other compositions, including Szabelski’s Symphony no. 3, were not completed in time for the festival. A competition for mass songs was also organized for FMP I. Forty-one composers (not all union members) sent 172 songs. No one received first prize.51 Among the composers notably absent from this competition were several of the most prominent: Andrzej Panufnik, Grażyna Bacewicz, Tadeusz Baird, Stefan Kisielewski, and Jan Krenz. Kisielewski, in fact, never wrote a mass song and only one has surfaced under Bacewicz’s name, a Song of Unity (Pieśń jedności) written for the 1948 Polish United Workers’ Party’s competition. Of all these commissions, those for mass songs and many of the chamber pieces could serve what Zofia Lissa considered a “small, useful” purpose. In addition, commissions for some choral and orchestral works specifically mentioned that they were intended for use by children or in community centers, implying amateur performances. Others were distinctly folk flavored (Tomasz Kiesewetter’s Dance Suite no. 2 [Suita taneczna nr. 2], Włodzimierz Kotoński’s Highlander Dances [Tańce góralskie], Bacewicz’s Suite of Polish Dances [Suita tańców polskich], and Jerzy Młodziejowski’s Opole Rhapsody [Rapsodia opolska], all for orchestra) and likely, at least in the opinions of socialist realist advocates, to attract broader audiences than might an assortment of full-fledged symphonies.

49 Adrian Thomas, “File 750.” 50 AAN, MKiS 366/I 750 (DTA, Wydział Twórczości Muzycznej, Festiwal Muzyki Polskiej 1950 r.), Letter from Turski to Zarząd Główny ZKP April 2, 1950; ZKP, Zbigniew Turski folder, Contract dated September 16, 1949, Letter from Turski to Zarząd Główny ZKP, June 17, 1953; ZKP, 12/30, Protokół nr 24 z posiedzenia Prezydium Zarządu Głównego ZKP w dn. 5 września 1953 r. 51 AAN, MKiS 366/I 750, Komunikat Biura Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej o wynikach zamkniętego konkursu kompozytorskiego na pieśni masowe, Protokół z posiedzenia jury konkursu kompozytorskiego na pieśni masowe.

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Although the titles of many of the pieces suggested for FMP I implied folklorerelated or politically relevant content (for example, Alfred Gradstein’s cantata A Word about Stalin [Słowo o Stalinie] and Artur Malawski’s Highlander Triptych [Tryptyk góralski] for piano or orchestra), others did not (for example, Piotr Rytel’s Violin Concerto, completed but apparently never performed). Some composers submitted proposals for multiple compositions of both folk and more abstract qualities, perhaps in an attempt to satisfy both their own ambitions and those of the organizers. Young composer Włodzimierz Kotoński (1925– 2014), for example, submitted plans for a Concertino for oboe and orchestra, a Quartettino for four French horns, and Highlander Dances. To be fair, other composers limited themselves to proposing only folk-inspired works, as with Witold Friemann, who suggested a Mazovian Rhapsody (Rapsod mazowiecki) and his already-completed Slavic Symphony (Symfonia słowiańska).52 The Commissions Committee had gradually become dominated by composers, easily able to direct funds to their colleagues. By late 1951, Kazimierz Sikorski, Tadeusz Szeligowski, and Zbigniew Turski had joined Zygmunt Mycielski on the committee; early the next year, Witold Lutosławski and his fellow composer Wawrzyniec Żuławski were also added.53 None of them was known to be an uncompromising follower of the new aesthetic guidelines for Polish music. Perhaps it is no surprise, then, that funding was provided for a wide variety of genres, for—except for Wawrzyniec Żuławski—these composers were all partial to writing large orchestral pieces as well as smaller chamber and pedagogical works. Nor were they willing to dictate what kind of pieces each composer should produce, although they did sometimes suggest certain genres, for example, folk suites for orchestra or easy pieces for cello and piano. They frequently asked their colleagues what they were currently working on and what they planned to write in the near future.54 Replies to these questions as well as unsolicited requests for commissions from composers exist throughout available archival materials. If a commission was requested, it was nearly always granted. Furthermore, although the Commissions Committee was part of the

52 Kotoński’s Concertino was apparently never written. The other works mentioned were completed. AAN, MKiS 366/I 750, Letter from Włodzimierz Kotoński to Zarząd Główny ZKP, April 20, 1950, Letter from Witold Friemann to Zarząd Główny ZKP, March 11, 1950. 53 ZKP, 12/54, Lista obecności posiedzenia Komisji Zasiłków przy ZKP w dniu 3 grudnia 1951 r., Protokół nr 2 Komisji Zamówień Kompozytorskich przy Ministerstwie Kultury i Sztuki 5 lutego 1952. 54 ZKP, 12/54, passim; ZKP, Bolesław Szabelski folder, Letter from S. Kołodziejczyk, ZKP, to Szabelski, November 19, 1949.

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Ministry of Culture and Art, the Composers’ Union maintained the ability to accept or reject the completed works. One of the many extant examples of this collegial atmosphere between committee members and their fellow composers involves commissions received by Grażyna Bacewicz. In 1951, she requested and received a commission for her Violin Concerto no. 4. As occurred with many composers, she was able to change her commissions upon request. One instance of this resulted in the cancellation of her planned Fairy Tale (Bajka) for reciter and orchestra, originally commissioned in 1948, with the funds being transferred to a commission for Cello Concerto no. 1, completed in 1951.55 A similar pattern involved Witold Lutosławski. In 1949, he requested a commission for an Intermezzo for string orchestra, which he had already started. The committee granted that request, which resulted in his Overture for string orchestra. The same year, Lutosławski agreed to a commission for a piano concerto, for which he would be paid 300,000 zlotys. It is likely that he requested this funding, as he was planning to write the piece for his friend, pianist Witold Małcużyński (1914–1977). As with many commissions, over the next two years he was granted additional sums for the same piece, although this particular project was never completed (Lutosławski did write a piano concerto in 1987–1988, commissioned by the Salzburg Festival.)56 One example stands out for its forthrightness concerning the ideological direction of that era. Zygmunt Mycielski had received a commission in either 1948 or 1949 for a Theme and Variations for wind ensemble (in Polish parlance, a wind orchestra). In August 1951, however, he asked that the contract be canceled, saying the plans he had in mind were “too formalist.”57 Instead he proposed writing a Piano Concerto, which he finished in 1954. This, together with the folk-related suggestions made for commissions for the 1951 Festival of Polish Music, strongly suggests that composers were well aware of what types of music would guarantee them badly needed funds, even if the union in many cases accepted anything they suggested. Given the large number of folk-inspired compositions that emerged at this time, it is tempting to suggest that psychological pressures were being exerted on composers to produce such pieces, 55 ZKP, 12/54, Protokół z V-tego posiedzenia Komisji Zamówień i Zakupów z dnia 6.VII.1948; Protokół z posiedzenia Komisji Zamówień i Zakupów przy ZKP z dnia 16.XII.49 r. 56 12/54, Protokół z dnia 16.XII.49 r., Protokół z posiedzenia Komisji Zasiłków Twórczych w dn. 3 grudnia 1951 r.; Gwizdalanka and Meyer, Lutosławski, 1: 224. 57 ZKP, 12/54, Wykaz zamówień i zakupów /wydawnictw/ kompozytorskich dokonanych przez Związek Kompozytorów Polskich w r. 1948–49; ZKP, Zygmunt Mycielski folder, Letter from Mycielski to Komisja Zasiłków Twórczych, July 30, 1951.

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even though the same types of compositions had also been an important part of interwar music. Unfortunately, very few examples of such emotional burdens have surfaced, although these may well have been in the form of informal, undocumented conversations.58 Furthermore, as will be shown below with discussions of the composers’ conference in Łagów Lubuski, some compositions were severely criticized and even kept off concert stages for their allegedly formalist traits. All composers would have been aware of this situation. Many of them acted accordingly to preserve funding for themselves, although this did not mean that they delivered the mass songs and cantatas desired by authorities. During these years, commissions were given to nearly every member of the union, regardless of talent or financial circumstances.59 Although in 1948, the Commissions Committee had expressed concern about the artistic level of compositions by Łucja Drège-Schielowa, Eugeniusz Dziewulski, and Walerian Gniot (1902–1977), in subsequent years it continued to provide small amounts of funding to them, usually for pedagogical pieces.60 At least initially, commissions were also granted to a number of composers who lived abroad. Soon, however, their fortunes in Poland changed in retaliation for avoiding their homeland. Michał Spisak, who had resided in France since before World War II, received commissions throughout the first postwar decade, despite the fact that he expressed no interest in writing mass songs or other pieces intended for “mass meetings” (masówki). Spisak maintained more or less cordial relations with his homeland and retained his membership in the Composers’ Union, although his music was not performed in Poland between 1949 and late 1954.61 Antoni Szałowski, however, who had also emigrated before the war, did not receive any commissions between 1950 and 1956 and lost his union membership in 1954.62 His music disappeared from Polish stages, airwaves, and the 58 One possible example involves Jan Krenz, who said that his commission for Quartet for winds, which was criticized for its formalist characteristics, was “somehow imposed” on him. ZKP, 12/53 (Sekcje ZKP nieistniejące), Protokoły z I przesłuchania muzyki kameralnej. 59 In 1951, there were 115 Composers’ Union members, including approximately fifteen musicologists. In April 1954, there were ninety-three total members. ZKP, 12/6, Lista obecności członków; ZKP, 12/7 (VII Walny Zjazd 24, 25, 26 IV.1954 Wwa), Lista obecności członków. 60 ZKP, 12/54, Protokoły z II zebrania Komisji Zamówień i Zakupów przy ZKP 26.ii.48. 61 Spisak, asked by the Polish government why he participated in the 1951 International Society of Contemporary Music (ISCM) festival as an independent composer, replied that he had not been asked to send scores to Poland for consideration and that Poland had not sent any compositions to that year’s festival. Leon Markiewicz, Michał Spisak 1914–1965 (Dąbrowa Górnicza: Muzeum Miejskie “Sztygarka,” 2005), 62–63, 153, 231. 62 According to official documents, an MKiS agency told the Composers’ Union in December 1953 to remove Szałowski from its membership rolls. Szałowski, however, blamed Szeligowski (the union’s president) and Maklakiewicz for this action. Szałowski’s name remained on

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Polish Music Publishers’ catalog as of early 1951, including his wildly popular Overture, which had been heard nearly thirty times (and perhaps more) between 1945 and 1949. As Roman Palester explained later, Szałowski did not publicly express his displeasure with Polish politics, yet he was regarded by the government as a composer in exile along with Palester (and, eventually, Panufnik).63 The situation was perhaps more painful for Roman Palester, for he had resided in Poland at least part-time after the war. In 1950, he decided not to return to Poland from his temporary home in France, even though government officials had offered him employment in his native country. For Palester, Poland’s restrictive cultural policies were too much to accept. As a result of his departure, his commissions and publishing contracts were canceled and his Composers’ Union’s membership was revoked.64 Palester’s arrangement of M. K. Ogiński’s Polonaises was still performed, although as additional punishment for his decision to remain abroad, his name was omitted from programs and other documentation about this piece.65 Among his other works performed was a piece titled We Are Building Warsaw (Budujemy Warszawę), for which the text survives (the refrain is given below), but apparently not the music. Palester is credited as the composer, although Feliks Rybicki arranged the piece for choir and orchestra. It was heard at least twice, once in September 1950 on Polish Radio and again a month later in Łódź.66 Its placement on a radio program of mostly the membership list at the union’s congress in April 1954. ZKP, 12/30, Protokół zebrania Prezydium ZKP 19 grudnia 1953; ZKP, 12/139, Letter from Mycielski to Włodzimierz Sokorski, February 7, 1950; Tadeusz Kaczyński, “Ostatnia rozmowa z Antonim Szałowskim,” Ruch Muzyczny 17, no. 10 (1973): 4. 63 Tarnawska-Kaczorowska, ed., Muzyka źle obecna, 1: 31. 64 Helman, Roman Palester, 162–170; Tarnawska-Kaczorowska, ed., Muzyka źle obecna, 1: 34–35. 65 The polonaises were performed in Łódź on May 13, 1951, in Szczecin on August 19, 1951, in Stalinogród (Katowice) on October 3, 1953 and December 4, 1953, in Warsaw on March 12, 14, and 17, 1954, and on eight occasional and travel concerts in and near Warsaw in March 1954. His Symphony no. 4 was heard at the 1958 Warsaw Autumn Festival; additional performances in Poland did not occur until 1977. BN Collection, 1953 Stalinogród programs; MKiS 366/I 2758 (CZTOiF, Wydz. Symfoniczny, Państwowa Filharmonia Śląska w Katowicach 1952–53 r.), Komentarz opisowy do sprawozdania z wykonania planu usługowego Państw. Filharmonii Śląskiej w m-cu grudniu 1953 r.; MKiS 366/I 2397 (GDTOiF, Państwowa Filharmonia w Łodzi 1949–51 r.), Sprawozdanie artystyczne za m-c maj 1951 r.; MKiS 366/I 2766, Sprawozdanie artystyczne w m-cu marcu 1954 rok; Maria Andrzejewska, “Życie muzyczne w kraju: Szczecin,” Muzyka 3, nos. 1–2 (1952): 106. 66 The text can be found in the Łódź ZKP archival documents. The October 1950 performance was part of an “audition” of pieces intended for presentation at community centers. Auditions will be discussed further below. Łódź ZKP, Korespondencja przychodząca od września 1948 do grudnia 1953, “Budujemy Warszawę,” and Program audycji Sekcji muzyki świetlicowej ZKP—Koło Łódź w Łodzi dnia 10.x.1950 r.; ZKP, 12/116 (Protokoły przesłuchiwania

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mass songs and its characterization by Poland’s National Digital Archive as a march makes it probable that this is the only mass song Palester composed, for no others of similar style and content have surfaced. Certainly its text praises workers in socialist realist fashion, although its invocation of God at the end of the refrain would seem to be problematic in this officially atheistic country. Roman Palester/F. Rybicki. We Are Building Warsaw, refrain: Młoty w dłoń tak, jak broń. Młoty w ruch, wal za dwóch. Niech pracy wtóruje nam hymn. Nie zabraknie wśród nas Braci ze wsi i miast Naszym młotom pomaga dziś pług. Czyś z Pomorza, czy z Tatr Będziesz kamień tu kładł Jednakowo kochany ten bruk Dzisiaj jedność nam orężem, tylko praca śmierć zwycięży Nie zabraknie wśród nas braci ze wsi i z miast, Tak nam dopomóż Bóg!

Hammers in the hand, just like a gun. Hammers in motion, bang for two. Let the hymn of work accompany us. Among us will be Brothers from villages and cities. Today the plow helps our hammers. Whether you are from Pomerania or the Tatra Mountains You will put a stone here. We equally love these cobbles. Today unity is a weapon for us, only work will conquer death. Among us there will be enough brothers from villages and cities, So help us God!

Tadeusz Baird’s Ballad of the Soldier’s Mug: An Undesired Commission Although the aforementioned commissions were generally given at the composer’s request, that was not always the case. Krenz’s aforementioned comment about his Quartet for winds indicate that he was somehow forced to accept that commission.67 Another example involves Tadeusz Baird and his Ballad of the Soldier’s Mug [Ballada o żołnierskim kubku], a cantata for baritone, reciter, choir, and orchestra completed in 1954. The story behind this commission demonstrates one composer’s ambivalence about writing compositions of an obviously utworów komponowanych przez członków ZKP 1950–56 r.), Protokół z audycji dyskusyjnej sekcji muzyki świetlicowej ZKP zorganizowanej przez Łódzkie Koło ZKP. A recording of “We Are Building Warsaw” can be found at https://audiovis.nac.gov.pl (Sygnatura 33-P-4167). 67 See chapter 4, footnote 58.

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socialist realist tinge as well as the willingness of the Composers’ Union to support its members, regardless of pressure from other agencies or individuals. The prevailing explanation for the existence of the Ballad is that Baird composed it under pressure from Włodzimierz Sokorski and Prime Minister Bolesław Bierut in exchange for the release of Baird’s father, who had been arrested on January 5, 1950.68 This rendition is based on later recollections, not documents from the period in question. These show, if not a different story, at least a more complex one. The Composers’ Union decided to commission the Ballad in December 1949, prior to the imprisonment of Baird’s father.69 Apparently the arrangements were not finalized; just before the arrest, Baird asked the union to suspend the funding, explaining that he was busy with other projects.70 In February 1950 (following the arrest), however, he signed a contract for the piece, which was to use a text by Stanisław Strumph-Wojtkiewicz (1898–1986) that in a folk-like manner speaks of a meeting between Polish and Soviet soldiers who shared a cup of water. (At the same time, he also signed a contract to compose his Symphony no. 1, which was premiered in September.)71 In August 1950, he requested that the cantata’s deadline be extended, saying he did not believe it was urgent work.72 The Commission Committee’s response is unknown. However, Baird received additional commissions: in September of that year for a different socialist realist cantata that would be titled Song of Revolution (Pieśń o rewolucji) and in December for his Symphony no. 2. Both of these commissions were granted at 68 Sokorski was the Vice-Minister and from 1952, the Minister of Culture and Art. Bierut was the head of the Polish United Workers’ Party and, also from 1952, Poland’s Prime Minister. Edward Baird was arrested for allegedly passing state secrets about agriculture to a foreign agent. Almost certainly, however, his detention was related instead to his resistance activities as a member of the Home Army and the Government Delegation for Poland, both of which were underground organizations during World War II. Literska claims that Tadeusz Baird, in numerous letters to officials, referred to the Ballad and the Song of Revolution as being intentionally written in exchange for his father’s freedom. She did not offer further details about these letters. My timeline suggests a somewhat different scenario. Barbara Literska, Tadeusz Baird: Kompozytor, dzieło, recepcja (Zielona Góra: Oficyna Wydawnicza Uniwersytetu Zielonogórskiego, 2012), 142, 145; Barbara Literska, “Group 49 and Fight for the Father (1949–1954),” trans. Anna Kijak, http://baird.polmic.pl/index.php/en/ biography/group-49-and-fight-for-the-father. 69 ZKP, 12/28, Protokół z posiedzenia Prezydium Zarządu Głownego ZKP z dnia 20 grudnia 49 r. 70 ZKP, Tadeusz Baird folder, Letter from Baird to Prezydium Zarządu Głównego Z.K.P., January 3, 1950. 71 The text is given in Literska, Tadeusz Baird, 723–724; ZKP, Tadeusz Baird folder, Contracts signed February 23, 1950. 72 ZKP, Tadeusz Baird folder, Letter from Baird to Komisja Zamówień Kompozytorskich, August 9, 1950.

Negotiating a New Path 1949–1953

Baird’s request.73 At this point in time, Baird was also one of three composers in the Group 49 (Grupa 49), which at least superficially supported socialist realism in music (this group will be discussed further below). At this point, Baird was apparently unaware of any connection between the Ballad and his father’s problems. It seems unlikely that he would be so adamant about delaying its composition if he believed it would help his family situation. By May 1951, he had asked the Composers’ Union to allow him to exchange its commission for Colas Breugnon, a suite for flute and strings. In making this request, he admitted to having no interest in the Ballad project. His lingering bitterness at having to write this piece was evident, for he went on to write, “I began work on the cantata. I soon, however, came to the conclusion that it would be a work written, so to say, ‘by force’ . . . This kind of attempt usually ends with a deplorable artistic result . . . I resigned from writing the Ballad.”74 Baird explained that he had accepted the Ballad commission with the understanding that he would also receive a commission for his Symphony no. 1. This indicates Baird’s distaste for writing the cantata as well as the Composers’ Union’s acknowledgment that symphonic compositions were included in its own priorities. It also demonstrates the union’s preference for fulfilling its members’ desires. Unfortunately, Baird did not expound upon why he felt he was being forced to write the cantata. By then, his father had been sentenced to fifteen years behind bars, yet he still did not want to write the piece.75 In April 1951, Baird had completed his Song of Revolution cantata, which uses excerpts from Władysław Broniewski’s “A Word about Stalin,” a panegyric text used occasionally by Polish composers.76 If Baird had been pressured to write a socialist realist cantata in exchange for favoritism shown to his father, this composition would seem to have been sufficient; its movements are titled “Song of Revolution,” “Song of My Land,” and “We Are Building a People’s Republic” (although the latter is set as a funeral march, not the expected optimistic allegro).77

73 ZKP, 12/54, Protokół Komisji Zamówień z dnia 12.ix.1950 r., Protokół z posiedzenia Komisji Zamówień Z.K.P. z dn.19 grudnia 1950; ZKP, Tadeusz Baird folder, Letters from Baird to Komisja Zamówień Kompozytorskich, August 9, 1950, December 19, 1950. 74 ZKP, Tadeusz Baird folder, Letter from Baird to Prezydium Zarządu Głównego Związku Kompozytorów Polskich, May 14, 1951. 75 Literska, “Group 49.” 76 According to the composer, this cantata was a four-movement work. Barbara Literska notes that the piano reduction (the only surviving portion of the music) contains three movements. ZKP, Tadeusz Baird folder, Letter from Baird to Prezydium Zarządu Głównego Związku Kompozytorów Polskich, April 24, 1951; Literska, Tadeusz Baird, 143. 77 Barbara Literska, “Cantata Song of Revolution (1951),” trans. Anna Kijak, http://baird.polmic. pl/index.php/en/work/works-in-detail/64-cantata-song-of-revolution.

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The Composers’ Union seemed to agree. The funds already paid to Baird for Ballad were shifted to the suite and the cantata commission was canceled.78 Baird went on to receive several other commissions over the next two years for pieces such as Concertino Giocoso for piano and chamber orchestra (which was never completed),79 and Giocoso Overture.80 The union also vouched for Baird’s talent as a composer of realist music, supporting him by using language that could be appreciated by governmental officials. In a confidential July 1951 letter sent from the union to Bolesław Bierut’s office, Baird was described as one of Poland’s most talented younger composers. Furthermore, “despite a severe mental state connected with his issue, Baird is extremely active as a composer. His works, full of musical realism, have an optimistic character that mobilizes listeners.”81 Presumably the reference to Baird’s mental state concerned his father’s imprisonment and the composer’s attempt to get him released, although earlier notes also mentioned his poor health.82 It seems that Baird, concerned about his father, was (reluctantly) willing to compose pieces that would please the government (the Song of Revolution, for example). Yet he still did not want to finish the Ballad of the Soldier’s Mug. After 1951, the Ballad was not mentioned by the Commissions Committee until June 1953, the same month that Baird’s father was released from prison. The composer was again commissioned to write the piece.83 This time Baird finished it, although not until 1954.84 Włodzimierz Kotoński, who reviewed the piece for the Composers’ Union, noted that it was “rather easy, accessible both for Philharmonic choirs and more advanced amateur choirs. The orchestral part is basically easy and technically simple.”85 In other words, it likely fulfilled any socialist realist postulates in place at the time. It was performed twice at the

78 ZKP, 12/29, Protokół z zebrania Prezydium Zarządu Gł. z dnia 14 maja 1951 r.; ZKP, Tadeusz Baird folder, Letter from ZKP to Baird, May 16, 1951. 79 ZKP, 12/54, Protokół z posiedzenia Komisji Zasiłków Twórczych Z.K.P. w dniu 15.XI.1951 r. 80 The original title for the overture was Joyful Overture (Uwertura radosna). ZKP, 12/54, Protokół nr 6 z posiedzenia Komisji Zamówień Kompozytorskich przy Ministerstwie Kultury i Sztuki w dniu 17.V.1952 r. 81 ZKP, Tadeusz Baird folder, Letter from ZKP to Kancelaria Cywilna Prezydenta R. P., July 2, 1951. 82 ZKP, Tadeusz Baird folder, Comment added by Witold Rudziński to a letter from Baird to Komisja Zamówień, December 19, 1950. 83 ZKP, 12/54, Protokół nr 6 (1953 r.). 84 AKP, MKiS Materiały, Tadeusz Baird, Letter from Baird to Ministerstwo Kultury i Sztuki, Centralny Zarząd Teatrów, Oper i Filharmonii, August 27, 1954. 85 ZKP, 12/119 (Recenzje utworów zamawianych przez ZKP 1954–55 r.), October 6, 1954. Analyses of the cantata have been written by Literska, Tadeusz Baird, 145–149, and Zofia Lissa, “Nowa kantata Tadeusza Bairda,” Przegląd Kulturalny 3, no. 45 (1954): 5.

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1955 Festival of Polish Music, both times on concerts in Warsaw that were also broadcast on radio. Several questions elicit only plausible answers. If the composition of Ballad was one condition of his father’s freedom, why was the elder Baird released from prison before its completion—especially when the composer had already set the piece aside once, in 1951? Perhaps there was a threat of rearrest if the cantata did not see the light of day? Furthermore, why in 1951 did the Commissions Committee and the Composers’ Union not inform Baird that the government wanted the Ballad to be completed, if that was indeed the case? Available evidence suggests that the commissioning bodies must have believed that any plausible coupling between composing an overtly socialist realist piece and freeing Baird’s father had been accomplished with the completion of the Song of Revolution. The number of commissions given to Baird between 1949 and 1954, especially those for large scale works, compellingly demonstrates the respect they had for his composing skills and choice of compositions. The decision to approve Baird’s request to cancel the Ballad’s commission was made by the Composers’ Union’s presidium at a time when Witold Rudziński was the group’s president. Given Rudziński’s connections with government officials, he was seemingly well-positioned to know of any potential ramifications from the Ballad’s cancellation. Thus, if a quid pro quo existed in the spring of 1951, it most likely did not require the cantata’s completion. The union consistently helped composers by ensuring they had financial support. It was not known for urging composers to write pieces that were distasteful to them. If and when such pieces were written, their creation was typically due to a financial need (that could be partially alleviated by entering into a mass song competition, for example) or demands from outside the union. The reinstatement of the commission for Ballad in 1953 begs the question of what happened that year. Baird’s Symphony no. 2 had been premiered in February that year to mixed reviews that warned of encroaching formalism, which in this case included accusations that the work’s “formal and technical means were overwhelming, [to the point that its] ideological and musical content was eliminated.”86 Although the piece was presented at least twice more, it was eventually withdrawn by the composer.87 86 Jerzy Kuryluk, “Prawykonania utworów polskich kompozytorów,” Kurier Codzienny, no. 42 (February 18, 1953); Tadeusz Marek, “Grupa 49 (Próba charakterystyki),” Muzyka 4, nos. 5–6 (1953): 54. 87 It was performed later in 1953 in Bydgoszcz; it was also presented on May 12, 1955 in Szczecin. Stefan Wysocki, “Notatnik muzyczny,” Przegląd Kulturalny 2, no. 9 (1953): 2; Zbigniew Wiszniewski, “Pomorze ma swoją filharmonię,” Przegląd Kulturalny 2, no. 7

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Unfortunately, we do not know precisely when Baird met with Bierut to discuss his father’s situation, although it was prior to Edward Baird’s release from prison in June 1953. According to Baird’s widow, Alina Sawicka-Baird, Włodzimierz Sokorski arranged the meeting with Bierut as a favor to Baird. Sokorski has been described by Roman Jasiński, then the head of Polish Radio’s music department, as disliking risk-taking and siding with those in power when confronted with a disagreeable choice.88 Most likely, then, it was Bierut who demanded that the cantata be completed. Whether the relative failure of the Second Symphony was mentioned by Sokorski or Bierut is unknown, but if so, Baird could have been advised and perhaps even warned that he should pursue a different compositional direction, one that was demonstrated in this cantata. It is plausible that the composition of the Ballad was seen by governmental authorities as yet another attempt to add to the country’s relatively small list of socialist cantatas. The Song of Revolution had been completed in 1951. One effect of delaying the release of Baird’s father manifested itself two years later, when Baird was still seeking his father’s freedom and finally was willing to write the cantata.89 Although we do not know all of the details surrounding the resurrection of the Ballad’s commission, we do know that the mystery includes an example of a composer putting a piece aside not because it was too experimental to bring into public view during a time in which authorities were criticizing modernist pieces, but because it did not align with his own desires regarding suitable composition. Whether Baird and the Composers’ Union believed the issue related to the composition of the Ballad was resolved in 1951, only to be reopened in 1953 is still unknown. Current evidence points to the veracity of this scenario, however.

Celebrations and Competitions: Composing for the Government Monies were also distributed for specific occasions related to celebrations that the Polish government wished to highlight. In 1949, for example, these (1953): 6; BN Collection, 1955 programs R–Z, Szczecin Philharmonic, May 12, 1955. For more discussion of this piece, see Literska, Tadeusz Baird, 168–174, 440–442. 88 Literska, “Group 49”; Jasiński, Nowe życie, 209. 89 Another intriguing fact that should be mentioned with regard to this timeline is that of Joseph Stalin’s death in March 1953. Is it plausible that Baird’s father was released in June as a sign of the loosening of cultural and political restrictions that occurred in Poland after that? Perhaps. As will be discussed further below, Andrzej Panufnik’s oft-criticized Sinfonia Rustica merited an essay in Radio i Świat in April of that year, but policy changes related to socialist realism, at least in music, did not begin in earnest until 1954.

Negotiating a New Path 1949–1953

included two birthdays (Stalin’s seventieth and Pushkin’s 150th), and a composers’ competition held in conjunction with the Chopin Year celebrations. The Composers’ Union, as the official representative of Polish composers acting as a liaison between its individual members and governmental agencies, created a semblance of supporting the wishes of higher-level officials, but did not exert pressure on composers to participate. Many composers expressed little interest in supporting events honoring figures and events related to the Communist regime in power.90 Most of those who did engage in these activities most likely did so either to earn money or because they already had works underway that would satisfy any given request for participation. In effect, the union seemed to be playing a balancing game. In exchange for the government providing funds to the Commissions Committee that were used for a large variety of compositions, often with no strings attached related to the style or content of each piece, the union cooperated with its patrons in lightly promoting politicized events of importance to officials in higher office. For Stalin’s birthday, celebrated December 21, 1949 (which was not his actual birthday), such an unwritten plan was in effect. The Composers’ Union wrote to each composer just nine days before this with a request for a new vocal composition (a mass song was not specified) on texts that were as yet unavailable. Commissions were to be provided.91 A few days later, Zygmunt Mycielski, the union’s president, distributed a press release announcing that sixty composers had agreed to participate.92 Although Stalin’s birthday celebration passed without these pieces being completed, Mycielski’s announcement allowed the union to avoid being embarrassed by a lack of an appropriate response. Texts finally became available in January 1950. Twenty-three composers received commissions, far fewer than the sixty mentioned by Mycielski. Witold Lutosławski had originally expressed interest in contributing a work using one of the as yet unwritten texts. He was later asked to write a cantata for this same observance, but this did not come to fruition, for unknown reasons.93 Poland’s other leading composers, including Andrzej Panufnik, Grażyna Bacewicz, Artur Malawski, 90 David Tompkins has argued, however, that composers’ participation in such occasional events demonstrated their willingness, at least in the early 1950s, to write music that was desired by governmental and Party authorities. Tompkins, Composing the Party Line, 132. 91 ZKP, 15/37 (70-ta rocznica urodzin J. Stalina, Zobowiązania kompozytorów 1949–1950 r.) Letter from ZKP to all members, December 12, 1949. 92 ZKP, 15/37, Kompozytorzy polscy czczą 70-tą rocznicę urodzin Generalissimusa Stalina, Letter from Zygmunt Mycielski to Włodzimierz Sokorski, Ministerstwo Kultury i Sztuki, December 17, 1949. 93 ZKP, 12/54, Protokół z posiedzenia Komisji Zamówień Kompozytorskich z dnia 25 marca 1950 r.; ZKP, 15/37, Letter from Lutosławski to ZKP, December 14, 1949.

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and Stanisław Wiechowicz, did not reply in print to this request. Of the union’s executive board members, only Zofia Lissa, a musicologist, responded by listing articles and other publications that were either already completed or in progress.94 If the government had wanted certain composers to participate, either for reasons of its own prestige or to hopefully acquire quality works, there is no evidence of that. As part of the 1949 events in Poland commemorating the Russian poet Alexander Pushkin’s birthday, a competition for songs using his texts was held; funds were provided to all participants. Of the paltry number of nine compositions submitted by union members, four (by Alfred Gradstein, Witold Lutosławski, Piotr Perkowski, and Tadeusz Szeligowski) received awards and were published by Polish Music Publishers, although as was typical, none were deemed worthy of first prize.95 Lutosławski composed Avalanche (Lawina), a third prize winner, not because he liked to enter competitions, but because, as he said, “they pay for participation, so it is possible to earn a good amount easily.”96 The competition that did interest many composers was the one associated with the 1949 composers’ competitition held as part of the Chopin Year celebrations in Poland. Of the more than seventy compositions submitted, those by Andrzej Panufnik (Sinfonia Rustica), Artur Malawski (Variations for orchestra, Toccata and Fugue in Variation Form for piano and orchestra), Grażyna Bacewicz (Piano Concerto), Tadeusz Szeligowski (Piano Sonata), and Alfred Gradstein (Adagio and Scherzo for piano, Mazurka for piano) won prizes. The competition jury recognized only those works that purportedly “satisfied the postulates about taking advantage of Polish folk roots, [displaying] emotional depth, simplifying expressive means, and withdrawing from further formalexperimental moments.”97 Not all of these pieces, however, met these postulates. Malawski’s works feature orchestral virtuosity and motoric neoclassicism, while Stefan Kisielewski described Szeligowski’s sonata as “a little like ‘modernized’ Rachmaninov.”98 Although Panufnik’s and Bacewicz’s pieces incorporate folk music, they avoid the obsequious motivations of the aforementioned

94 ZKP, 15/37, Letter from Zofia Lissa to Zarząd Główny ZKP, December 14, 1949. 95 The other participants included Zygmunt Mycielski, Jerzy Lefeld, Stanisław Skrowaczewski, and Kazimierz Wiłkomirski. ZKP, 12/139, Letter from J. Kwiatkowska, Komitet Uczczenia Aleksandra Puszkina to ZKP, December 30, 1949; ZKP 12/5, Ogólne sprawozdanie z działalności Zarządu Głównego ZKP w okresie kadencji od listopada 1948 do czerwca 1950 roku, page 12. 96 Markiewicz, ed., Korespondencja Grzegorza Fitelberga, 188. 97 ZKP, 12/5, Ogólne sprawozdanie z działalności Zarządu Głównego ZKP w okresie kadencji od listopada 1948 do czerwca 1950 roku, page 10. 98 Stefan Kisielewski, “Życie muzyczne,” Tygodnik Powszechny 6, no. 9 (1950): 11.

Negotiating a New Path 1949–1953

anniversary competitions. Some of these same pieces would be disparaged by officials just a few months later, as will be discussed below. For other occasional celebrations, special funds were not set aside, at least not for use by the Composers’ Union. Poland’s International Workers’ Day (May 1st) was a prestigious annual event, when parades, speeches, and signs honoring workers’ Poland were presented throughout the country.99 In 1949, the union distributed mass song texts to twelve composers for their use on this occasion.100 By 1951, even this relatively low level of effort on the union’s part had fallen by the wayside. Just two weeks before the same holiday, the union gave its members three options for fulfilling their “individual commitments for the First of May”:101 composing a piece that has “popular (mass) character,”102 finishing another composition already in progress, or spending up to two weeks visiting agricultural or industrial centers to learn about workers’ cultural needs.103 No commissions were promised and few appear to have resulted from this appeal. Only Witold Rudziński and Witold Krzemieński (primarily a conductor) committed themselves to the third option. Most respondents named pieces they were currently working on, including mass songs, other pieces with folk themes, and even a clarinet concerto (by Faustyn Kulczycki). Others said they were too busy to produce anything new. As with the call for action for Stalin’s birthday, Poland’s leading composers declined to participate.104 Similar behavior characterized the union’s and composers’ responses to calls to celebrate the national holiday on July 22, which honored the 1944 signing

99 For more details on Poland’s national and political holidays during approximately the first postwar decade, see Piotr Osęka, Rytuały stalinizmu: Oficjalne święta i uroczystości rocznicowe 1944–1956 (Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Trio, 2007), 107–108, 121–122, 146. 100 The twelve were Alfred Gradstein, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, Tadeusz Szeligowski, Stanisław Wiechowicz, Bolesław Woytowicz, Piotr Perkowski, Andrzej Klon, Zbigniew Turski, Stefan Bolesław Poradowski (1902–1967), Władysław Raczkowski, Witold Rudziński, and Kazimierz Sikorski. ZKP, 12/28, Protokół z posiedzeń Prezydium Zarządu Głównego ZKP w dniach 7, 8, i 11 kwietnia 1949 r. 101 ZKP, 12/144 (1 maj 1952 r.–22 lipiec 1952, Zobowiązania kompozytorów), Letter from Witold Rudziński to all union members, April 11, 1951. 102 Ibid. 103 Ibid. Other documented trips to visit workers occurred in 1952, when a group of composers (mostly members of the union’s Youth Circle) toured industrial centers near Kraków and Katowice. In 1952 and 1953, excursions to record folk melodies were also made. ZKP, 12/7, Sprawozdanie z działalności Zarządu Głównego (14/12.51–23.4.54), pages 16–17. Adrian Thomas has uncovered a brief article from 1950 listing mass songs and other works to be written for the May 1 celebrations. Adrian Thomas, “Panufnik’s ‘Silesian Hammers’”, https://onpolishmusic.com/2014/11/16/%E2%80%A2-panufniks-silesian-hammers/ 104 ZKP, 12/144, letters from April–May 1952.

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of the Polish Committee of National Liberation Manifesto. In 1952, a new Constitution, a Soviet-style document renaming the country as the Polish People’s Republic, was adopted on that date. As with the requests pertaining to the May 1st holiday, for this occasion composers replied with vague statements about writing a choral piece, finishing works in progress, or conducting orchestras. Again, many of the best composers of art music ignored this opportunity.105 There was no obvious desire to celebrate the new constitution; only Tadeusz Szeligowski responded in kind, with his Charter of Hearts (Karta serc) cantata that took that document as its subject.106 These requests conveyed by the Composers’ Union carried no demands or restrictions on them. Most likely, the union was asked by the government to respond to specific commemorations with music, but with no funds with which to entice composers, there was little to no leverage that the union’s leadership wished to exert. It is conceivable that in 1948, many union members may have been interested in writing new music for popularization purposes if new funds were forthcoming, as seen with the mass song competition that year. By 1952, they were not so inclined, nor were most of them coerced to compose anything that honored the government, although they willingly wrote pedagogical works and a substantial number of choral works, many of which could be performed by Poland’s plethora of amateur vocal ensembles. In reality, the Composers’ Union performed a delicate balancing act during these years. While officially accepting the government’s policies regarding socialist realism in music composition, its actions taken in support of its primary constituents—composers—reveal its laissez-faire attitude that permitted at least some measure of compositional freedom. By publicizing calls for composing works for competitions, anniversaries, and public holidays, but not pressuring composers to participate, they were able to appease officials in various ministries. At the same time, the Union and the composer-dominated Commissions Committee were free to negotiate the terms of individual funding opportunities. In doing so, they accepted almost everything suggested by composers. The Committee and/or the Union approved funds for composers who planned works that fit into the government’s call for vocal and/or folk-based compositions (for example, Tadeusz Paciorkiewicz’s Ten Silesian Songs [Dziesięć pieśni 105 Although no record of Lutosławski’s responding to this call for music for the July 22, 1952 celebrations exists, Adrian Thomas has noted that a piece the composer suggested for the upcoming Festival of Polish Music, July Garland (Lipcowy wieniec) was actually written with the same holiday in 1949 in mind. Thomas, “File 750”; ZKP, 12/144, letters from June–July 1952. 106 “Życie muzyczne w kraju: Kraków,” Muzyka 4, nos. 3–4 (1953): 96.

Negotiating a New Path 1949–1953

śląskich] for a capella choir and Piotr Perkowski’s Ten Folk Songs [Dziesięć pieśni ludowych] for a capella choir and for voice and piano), but they also willingly granted monies for more abstract pieces that, at least according to the commission details, were not among the most representative of socialist realist compositions (for example, Artur Malawski’s Piano Trio and Stefan Kisielewski’s Symphony no. 2).107 The outright bans placed on composers living abroad represented the actions of other governmental agencies, not the desires of the union or its individual composers. Nevertheless, there were grumblings in the ranks. As Witold Lutosławski noted in 1952, composers did not earn enough from commissions to live on, which resulted in some compositions not being completed on time. To supplement their income, composers turned to what he called “marginal work,” presumably a reference to radio commissions, film music, and theater work.108 Zofia Lissa, on the other hand, accused the Commission Committee in 1950 of accepting everything that had been funded, without considering either the technical or ideological advantages of the new compositions, thus confirming the thesis that composers maintained some degree of stylistic flexibility even if others wanted tighter controls over composition.109 Kazimierz Wiłkomirski complained the same year that commissioned compositions that had been completed should not “lay uselessly in the closets at the Composers’ Union.”110 He agreed with Zofia Lissa and Piotr Perkowski that these new, unperformed pieces should be heard at auditions (przesłuchania), which in reality were listening sessions, either live or from tape, followed by discussion. If the reaction was positive, these works could be offered for public performance.111 These events became an integral part of musical life in Poland for the next several years.

107 ZKP, 12/29, Protokół z zebrania Prezydium Zarządu Gł. ZKP w dn. 7 grudnia 51 r., Protokół z zebrania Prezydium Zarządu Gł. ZKP w dn. 2 kwietnia 1951; ZKP, 12/54, Protokół nr 10 [November 27, 1952]; AKP, Artur Malawski Collection, Korespondencja, I. Listy do Artura Malawskiego—autor Z–, Letter from ZKP to Malawski, May 7, 1951 (K-XLI/10), Letter from ZKP to Malawski, May 16, 1951 (K-XLI/14). 108 ZKP, 12/22, Stenogram z zebrania rozszerzonego Plenum Zarządu Głównego Z.K.P. w Poznaniu w dniu 11 grudnia 1952 r., pages 25–26. Lutosławski’s name is written in pen in this archival document, replacing that of Mieczysław Mierzejewski. 109 AAN, MKiS, 366/XII 241, Lissa’s speech. 110 ZKP, 12/5, Protokół z obrad Zwyczajnego Walnego Zgromadzenia członków Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 16, 17, 18 i 19 czerwca 1950 r., page 8. 111 ZKP, 12/5, Protokół z obrad Zwyczajnego Walnego Zgromadzenia członków Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 16, 17, 18 i 19 czerwca 1950 r., page 11; AAN, MKiS, 366/XII 241, Lissa’s speech. The term “przesłuchanie” translates literally to audition and is used today for such events as tryouts for orchestral positions. In the context of musical composition from mid-1949 to 1955, however, it referred to a collective activity involving a

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Composers Resist: Łagów Auditions The first auditions had been held almost a year earlier, at an August 1949 conference held in a medieval castle in Łagów Lubuski, a small town in western Poland. Attended by approximately twenty-five composers, musicologists, and cultural officials,112 this four-day-long gathering was planned by the Ministry of Culture and Art as a means of discussing formalism and realism in contemporary music. The sessions included several concerts of works that, from the Ministry’s point of view, embodied either formalist or realist compositional styles.113 Włodzimierz Sokorski, then the Ministry’s second in command, was the only person to declare that any composition heard at Łagów was formalist. Although not a musician, he willingly offered opinions that, given his governmental position, potentially affected the careers of his constituents. Zbigniew Turski’s Symphony no. 2 Olympic and Artur Malawski’s Variations for orchestra had been targeted in advance for presentation as examples of formalism. The symphony’s generally dissonant harmonies within a solemn expressive framework meant, in Sokorski’s view, that it did not “reflect the spirit of our times.”114 The selection of Malawski’s Variations, a student composition from the interwar period, signalled an official intent to vet compositions written during the “decadent” interwar era in an attempt to prevent undesirable pieces from being heard by postwar audiences. Sokorski also branded Andrzej Panufnik’s Nocturne for Orchestra and Piotr Perkowski’s Violin Concerto as formalist, the latter for its alleged melodic disintegration.115 Sokorski praised other pieces as being emotionally expressive (Zygmunt Mycielski’s Silesian Overture and Jan Ekier’s Piano Concerto, movement 1), useful for popularization efforts (Kazimierz Sikorski’s

hearing of a piece followed by critical discussion of its merits. Other scholars have translated the term as “audition concerts” or “listening sessions.” Tompkins, Composing the Party Line, 34; Vest, Awangarda, 37. 112 Stefan Kisielewski, Piotr Rytel, Antoni Szałowski, and Michał Spisak were not invited and Andrzej Panufnik was among others who avoided the meeting. AKP, Witold Rudziński Collection, Teksty osobiste, August 7, 1949. 113 AAN, MKiS 366/I 469, Sprawozdanie Departamentu Twórczości Artystycznej za III kwartał 1949 roku. 114 Sieradz, ed., Adolf Chybiński - Józef Michał Chomiński, 191; “Konferencja kompozytorów w Łagowie Lubuskim,” 18–19. 115 Panufnik’s piece was printed in 1949 by Polish Music Publishers with the title Notturno. Andrzej Panufnik, Notturno (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1949); “Konferencja kompozytorów w Łagowie Lubuskim,” 24.

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Overture), or refreshing (Tadeusz Baird’s Sinfonietta), all seemingly acceptable characteristics of new Polish compositions.116 Composers pushed back against these charges. For Perkowski, Turski’s symphony was not a mistake, for it captured the tragedy of war, which had to be understood in order to build a better life. Witold Rudziński (who normally agreed with Sokorski) and Tadeusz Szeligowski supported this opinion, praising the piece’s emotional impact. Bolesław Woytowicz described Panufnik’s Nocturne as difficult but a composition that deserved a good future.117 Roman Palester, who had come to Łagów from France, was treated to Sokorski’s statement that many of his musical works contained “traits of insurmountable . . . formalism.”118 Years later, the composer described the unusual scene: “I noticed some sort of strange reserve in my colleagues . . . They did not look at each other’s eyes, did not speak honestly about everything . . . Neither side took seriously what they said to each other . . . Colleagues who, during a break, wondered how best to oppose this attack of lies, after resuming the meeting stood up one after another to thank the minister for . . . sensitizing his audience to the danger that Americans posed to our music.”119 Although this interpretation may represent an exaggeration of actual events, especially since it was voiced decades later, in 1988, it does illustrate Palester’s opinion about that era. Months after the Łagów conference, the composer opted to stay in France. In reality, at the end of this four-day conference, the distinction between formalism and realism in music was still not clear to composers. It is tempting to wonder if the lack of concrete criteria for producing so-called socialist realist pieces and the ability of composers to contradict Sokorski could account for the types of commissions that were granted in subsequent years. If Sikorski’s Overture could be described as accessible, overly easy, or less accessible, which were the opinions of three of the composer’s colleagues, while Panufnik’s Nocturne, with its lack of clear melody and non-triadic harmonies, could be both formalist and understandable by everyone, then perhaps the leadership and general membership of the Composers’ Union felt less encumbered to produce pieces in any given compositional style or genre. Without clear guidance from the organizations that provided commission funding, composers 116 Wisłocki agreed to withdraw his own Piano Concerto from the program so that Krenz could conduct Baird’s Sinfonietta with two days’ notice. Stanisław Wisłocki, Życie jednego muzyka (Warsaw: Oficyna Wydawnicza Rytm, 2000), 67; “Konferencja kompozytorów w Łagowie Lubuskim,” 18–19, 24, 30. 117 “Konferencja kompozytorów w Łagowie Lubuskim,” 19, 24; Vest, Awangarda, 40–42. 118 “Konferencja kompozytorów w Łagowie Lubuskim,” 13. 119 Tarnawska-Kaczorowska, ed., Muzyka źle obecna, 1: 33.

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took advantage of the opportunity to continue business mostly as usual, with an occasional deviation to produce mass songs or Stalinist cantatas. A relatively large number of folk-inspired compositions did emerge, but such pieces had also been characteristic of the interwar period. What did not transpire, however, was the creation of markedly novel compositions such as those that had recently emerged in Western Europe.

Łagów Retributions Before leaving our discussion of the Łagów conference, the question of retribution against the composers whose compositions had been declared formalist should be considered. Given that composers’ output in general during these years generally lacked pieces that overtly pushed the envelope on stylistic innovation, the risk of composing outside of governmental guidelines must have been perceived as a significant threat to their livelihood, even if the Composers’ Union itself does not appear to have exerted such leverage. Several composers experienced reprisals for compositions that authorities (in particular, Włodzimierz Sokorski) disliked, which in effect meant that such actions could be applied to any of their colleagues. Turski’s symphony, which had earned a gold medal at the 1948 Olympic Art Competition in London,120 received its Polish premiere in January 1949. In April, the composer received 200,000 zlotys in recognition of this international award. Performances planned for May and on the inaugural concert of the 1949– 1950 season never occurred, however, and the piece subsequently remained off Poland’s stages until 1956.121 This remembrance of the Holocaust—for Turski had described it “as if the smoke of the crematorium was blowing when the Olympic torch was lit”122—had quickly become unacceptable in a country recently ravaged by battle. Karolina Bindel has argued that Turski’s symphony was chosen for denunciation because it had received recognition in the form of an award in a Western country, despite the fact that he had been compensated

120 Medals for architecture, literature, music, painting, and sculpture were awarded at these competitions, which took place in conjunction with the Summer Olympic Games from 1912–1948. 121 ZKP, Zbigniew Turski folder, Letter from ZKP to Turski, April 6, 1949, Letter from Capital Philharmonic to MKiS, undated but prior to fall 1949—catalog number Ldz. 3419/49, Letter from ZKP to Capital Philharmonic, June 17, 1949. 122 “Konferencja kompozytorów w Łagowie Lubuskim,” 18.

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financially in Poland for the same honor.123 The other so-called formalist composers at Łagów (Artur Malawski, Roman Palester, Andrzej Panufnik) had also enjoyed international success during the postwar period.124 In Poland at that time, it had thus become almost impossible to be identified as an international figure with a following in the West and also be a true Polish patriot, willing to aid one’s country in—to borrow the official jargon used then by the Communist authorities—the battle against imperialism and for the working masses. Malawski’s Variations had an equally unfortunate history. Printed by Polish Music Publishers in 1950, it apparently was never performed publicly in Poland during the first postwar decade. Just a few months prior to the Łagów conference, as mentioned above, it had received an award at the 1949 Chopin Year composers’ competition. Zygmunt Mycielski marvelled at Malawski’s prize, telling him privately that “your success is tremendous . . . This is not the end, only the beginning of ‘shouts’ about the results . . . Not to speak of ‘official’ repercussions!”125 Whether these backlashes involved more than the lack of performances is not known. In any case, Mycielski’s comments point to a divisive character pervading at least a portion of the musical community as it reckoned with encroaching restrictions being applied to composition. Malawski, as will be discussed further below, chose to disregard most if not all calls to follow governmental prescriptions regarding new music. Panufnik’s Nocturne, honored at the 1947 Karol Szymanowski Composers’ Competition, had been performed in Poland at least four times prior to the Łagów conference. It was heard again (on radio) in November 1949, but was presented only once more during the first postwar decade, in May 1954 on a Warsaw Philharmonic concert just prior to the composer’s escape to Great Britain (which will be discussed in more detail below). As mentioned earlier, Panufnik’s Sinfonia Rustica had won first prize at the 1949 Chopin Year composers’ competition. Its use of folk melodies from the Kurpie region of northeast Poland, quoted almost verbatim within a classically oriented symphonic structure, and its musical dialogues enhanced by a symmetrical re-arrangement of the typical orchestra constituted a fresh approach to the problem of integrating

123 Karolina Bindel, “Dwie strony olimpijskiego medalu - kontrowersje wokół II Symfonii ‘Olimpijskiej’ (1948) Zbigniewa Turskiego: Przyczynki do analizy,” Kwartalnik Młodych Muzykologów UJ no. 1 (2017): 79–90. 124 Bolesławska, The Life and Works of Andrzej Panufnik, 91; “1948 Amsterdam, Scheveningen,” https://iscm.org/wnmd/amsterdam-scheveningen/; Zofia Helman, “New Reality,” trans. Anna Kijak and Zofia Weaver, http://palester.polmic.pl/index.php/en/zycie/new-reality. 125 AKP, Artur Malawski Collection, Korespondencja, I. Listy do Artura Malawskiego—autor T–Z, Letter from Zygmunt Mycielski, April 22, 1949 (K-XL/75).

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folk music into a composition for the orchestral stage.126 This seemed to be a successful solution that would please advocates of socialist realism in music. Not everyone agreed with this assessment. At Łagów, Turski pointed out that Sinfonia Rustica had been “the subject of irresponsible attacks”127 in the press while simultaneously being honored at the Chopin Year competition. For him, it was not surprising that composers seemed disoriented about expectations regarding new composition. The negative appraisal had come from music and theater critic Jerzy Kuryluk (1905–1989), who in May 1949 had declared that Sinfonia Rustica failed to respect the reigning socialist ideology.128 Włodzimierz Sokorski praised Panufnik in June 1950 as someone who had produced “outstanding” pieces but, regarding Sinfonia Rustica, he lamented that the composer did “everything to lose the village . . . How quickly the piece ended.”129 Soviet composer (and head of the Union of Soviet Composers) Tikhon Khrennikov’s presence at that session may have prompted Sokorski’s condemnation of this piece. The composition did not disappear from concert halls, however, despite Panufnik’s claim that it had been banished. At least ten performances, including three scheduled radio broadcasts, took place between June 1950 and the end of 1953, with the participation of Poland’s leading orchestras.130 Witold Lutosławski, who had remained silent during the official portion of the Łagów conference, was nonetheless chagrined by the proceedings. After a subsequent meeting with Sokorski, he felt that composition was to return to nineteenth-century styles and that only his “applied”131 works would now be performed. These he described as pedagogical pieces or such folk-related

126 Bolesławska, The Life and Works of Andrzej Panufnik, 88–89, 97–99. 127 “Konferencja kompozytorów w Łagowie Lubuskim,” 17. 128 Jerzy Kuryluk, “Skutki otrzeźwienia?,” Dziennik Ludowy, no. 168 (May 31, 1949): 4. 129 Panufnik’s anecdote in his autobiography concerning Sokorski’s pronouncement that “‘Sinfonia Rustica’ has ceased to exist!’” may have alluded to the last of Sokorski’s statements (“Jak szybko utwór się skończył”); the composer’s comments match the details of the meeting. ZKP, 12/5, Protokół z obrad Zwyczajnego Walnego Zgromadzenia członków Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 16, 17, 18 i 19 czerwca 1950 r., 30, 58; Panufnik, Composing Myself, 194. 130 BN Collection, 1950–1953 programs, passim; Łódź Philharmonic Collection, 1951_09_07 i 09_Pr_zas_Apwl_kopia Bpils_plyta 48; ZKP, 12/127 (Recenzje prasowe o twórczości kompozytorskiej Andrzeja Panufnika 1950–55 r.), passim; “Symfonia wiejska A. Panufnika,” Radio i Świat 6, no. 16 (1950): 8; “Audycje Polskiego Radia od 16.VI do 22.VI.1952 r.,” Radio i Świat 8, no. 24 (1952): 11; “Audycje Polskiego Radia od 13.III.1953 do 4.IV.1953 r.,” Radio i Świat 9, no. 13 (1953): 12. 131 Irina Nikolska, Conversations with Witold Lutosławski (1987–92), trans. Valeri Yerokbin (Stockholm: Melos, 1994), 37.

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compositions as his Little Suite (Mała suita) for orchestra.132 Clearly, he (like Panufnik and others) preferred to maintain a more adventurous outlook. His own Symphonic Variations had been sharply criticized by Jerzy Kuryluk in early 1949, but as Sławomir Wieczorek has recently stated, since these reviews did not appear in one of the main publishing organs of cultural policy, such as Odrodzenie or Kuźnica (Ironworks), they did not represent official governmental opinions. The same could be said of Kuryluk’s comments about Panufnik’s Sinfonia Rustica, mentioned earlier.133 In Ruch Muzyczny, on the other hand, Lutosławski was supported. There, composer and music critic Henryk Swolkień (1910–1990) tried to assuage the situation by noting that although the Variations might be difficult, Lutosławski also wrote songs and arranged folk melodies, thus “solving the problem of popularization [of music] with means of authentic artistry.”134 Lutosławski, at least for this writer, had achieved a balance of serious music (which might not appeal to all) and music for the masses. These sentiments had been published prior to the Łagów conference, however, and well before the composer’s fortunes changed following a performance of his First Symphony (see chapter 3). The Symphonic Variations were not heard in Poland from June 1949 until October 1953. What about Grażyna Bacewicz, however? Her works had been performed in Western Europe, with her Olympic Cantata (Kantata olimpijska) receiving an award at the 1948 Olympic Art Competition in London, alongside Zbigniew Turski’s Symphony no. 2. She had also toured that region as a violinist. As an international figure and one of Poland’s leading composers, regarded on a level with Witold Lutosławski, Roman Palester, and Andrzej Panufnik, she certainly could have faced the same sort of threats and retributions from Poland’s Communist authorities as had her male colleagues. Yet nothing happened. At Łagów, two movements of her Violin Concerto no. 3 had been heard, with only one comment—about a folk theme—from the participants. Panufnik’s use of folk music in Sinfonia Rustica had not saved him from criticism, however. Although her Symphony no. 3 would be lambasted by a conservative critic in 132 Ibid, 36–39. 133 The critiques of Symphonic Variations were published in two Warsaw newspapers: Jerzy Kuryluk, “Filharmoniczne ostatki,” Dziennik Ludowy ( June 23, 1949): 6, and Jerzy Kurylyk, “Słuchajmy razem muzyki,” Express Wieczorny ( June 20, 1949): 2. Those pertaining to Sinfonia Rustica were also printed in Dziennik Ludowy. The two reviews of Lutosławski’s music are quoted in Sławomir Wieczorek, “Od ‘kakofonii dźwiękow’ do ‘wielkiej muzyki’: Krytyka muzyczna socrealizmu o muzyce Witolda Lutosławskiego,” Res Facta Nova 14 (2013): 219–220. 134 Henryk Swolkień, “Życie muzyczne w kraju: Warszawa,” Ruch Muzyczny 5, nos. 11–12 (1949): 56.

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1953 for its “atonal deformations”135 and its overall effect akin to music for a war film, even governmental officials expressed their displeasure with this “defaming”136 of a fine work by an outstanding composer. The reasons behind the relative lack of criticism directed at Bacewicz from cultural officials and critics during this time have long been the subject of scholarly speculation. Perhaps it was because she was also a well-known performer or because her husband was a prominent medical doctor. Perhaps it was because she continued her interwar predilection to use folk music in many of her compositions or because she contributed numerous pedagogical pieces to the violin repertoire, thus fulfilling a perceived obligation for works that could be disseminated throughout society. Perhaps she simply composed as she wished without regard to any prescriptive ideology swirling around her.137 She wrote string quartets, violin concerti, and symphonies during these years; while many of her pieces were often folkinspired, she continually emphasized compositional excellence. As she wrote to a colleague in 1954, she had been “stubborn” in her “opposition to orders to not play so-called formalist music.”138 Most likely, her safety net was due to a combination of all these factors.

Auditions and Reviews 1950–1953: Discussions Without Decisions The Ministry of Culture and Art declared in late 1949 that the Łagów audition model would be continued in the future. Such events already occurred in the Soviet Union, making it almost inevitable that the same procedures would be adopted in Poland.139 The plan approved by the Composers’ Union called for all of its commissioned pieces to be auditioned to determine their suitability for

135 Kazimierz Nowowiejski, “W muzykalnym Poznaniu: 32 koncert symfoniczny,” Głos Wielkopolski 9, no. 41 (1953): 4, quoted in Tomasz Tarnawczyk, “Symfonie Grażyny Bacewicz na tle sytuacji społeczno-politycznej w powojennej Polsce,” in Grażyna Bacewicz: Konteksty życia i twórczości, ed. Marta Szoka (Łodź: Akademia Muzyczna im. Grażyny i Kiejstuta Bacewiczów, 2016), 121. 136 AAN, MKiS 366/III 36 (Rada Kultury i Sztuki, Stenogram posiedzenia w dn. 10 kwietnia 1953 r.), 22/3–22/4. 137 Gąsiorowska, “Grażyna Bacewicz: Life - Difficult Times of Socialist Realism”; Gąsiorowska, Bacewicz, 179–180, 184–185; Tarnawczyk, “Symfonie Grażyny Bacewicz,” 123–124. 138 Gąsiorowska questioned whether Bacewicz had compromised her artistic ideals during these years, but avoided providing a definitive answer. Gąsiorowska, Bacewicz, 212–218; Letter from Bacewicz to Maria Dziewulska, December 21, 1954, quoted in Gąsiorowska, Bacewicz, 251. 139 ZKP, 12/53, Wytyczne działalności Sekcji pieśni masowej ZKP.

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performance in the new socialist realist era. The results were to be forwarded to the organizers of the 1951 Festival of Polish Music for their consideration as potential festival pieces.140 This plan was put together in large part by Witold Rudziński, who became the union’s president in June 1950. Most members of the union’s executive board also favored the implementation of auditions but saw Rudziński’s blueprint as overly broad and perhaps impossible to implement.141 The union was comprised almost entirely of musicians who were not members of the Polish United Workers’ Party (Rudziński was one of the non-members). As such, unlike other creative unions, it did not host a Party “cell” that attempted to bend decision-making to match government priorities. The Łagów goals, designed to determine which works displayed the requisite ingredients of socialist realism and which failed to do so, were ignored by many audition participants. Although attributions of formalism were leveled against a few pieces, most comments concerned their suitability for professional performers, the need for technical corrections, or the presence of Polish folk influences in a given composition. Rarely mentioned was a work’s relevance to Poland’s current reality; seldom were opinions unanimous. In fact, only infrequently were final decisions made about a composition’s worthiness for performance. Instead, these sessions seemed to be merely an opportunity to react to but not judge compositions. Many composers showed their reluctance to participate by attending only when pieces by leading composers were to be heard. Similarly, although workers from factories and other industrial enterprises were often invited, they were also usually “missing in action.” Attendees typically included a few composers (asked by the union to participate), one or more musicologists (often including Zofia Lissa), the performers, and perhaps governmental officials. It was the cultural elite, then, who participated in evaluating new compositions, not the workers for whom (in the government’s view) these auditions were intended. Given that the creation of mass songs was a primary goal of the government, it is not surprising that the first union-sponsored audition, in early September 140 At least twelve groups, or sections, eventually were created to assist with these auditions: those for mass songs, music for children, amateurs, wind ensembles, chamber ensembles, orchestras, and vocal groups, as well as opera (combined with operetta and ballet), vocal stage pieces, light and entertainment music, pedagogical works, and compositions suitable for community centers. ZKP, 12/28, Protokół z posiedzenia Plenum Zarządu Głównego ZKP w dn. 27 czerwca 1950; ZKP, 12/29, Protokół z posiedzenia Zarządu Głównego Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniu 14.XII.1951 r.; ZKP 12/116, passim. 141 Witold Rudziński, “Program pracy Związku Kompozytorów Polskich,” Muzyka 1, nos. 3–4 (1950): 9–13; Łódź ZKP, Protokół zebrania Łódzkiego Koła Z.K.P. 2.X.1950 r.; AKP, Witold Rudziński Collection, Teksty osobiste, December 18, 1950.

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1950, pertained to this new genre. Adrian Thomas, in his thorough review of this session, noted the variety of responses regarding both texts and music. Witold Lutosławski’s Nowa Huta and Henryk Swolkień’s Golden Path of Friendship (Przyjaźni złocista droga) had been heard earlier in 1950 on Polish Radio programs dedicated to mass songs, yet neither was deemed a true mass song at this initial audition. Nevertheless, despite this judgment, Nowa Huta was recorded the month after this session and was featured in Polish Radio’s weekly magazine, Radio i Świat, as a “Mass Song of the Week” in November of that year. As Thomas declared, “This would indicate that such peer reviews [auditions] were not all-powerful in authorising or denying life to a composition.”142 Three other auditions of mass songs took place in 1950, each offering a gloomy verdict. In late September, participants debated, but did not resolve the question of the differences between mass songs and folk-inspired vocal pieces. The rationale for holding another session a week later seems weak, since all of the pieces programmed had already received awards at the mass song competition held for the 1951 Festival of Polish Music.143 After 1950, Czytelnik, the publisher of music for popularization goals, took over as the organizer of most mass song auditions.144 Auditions organized by the Composers’ Union for chamber, symphonic, pedagogical, children’s, amateur, wind ensemble, light and entertainment, and vocal stage music also occurred.145 In 1950 and 1951, a total of 220 pieces are known to have been auditioned, but over the following two years, fewer than ninety appear to have undergone the same process. Interestingly, only about a quarter

142 Thomas, “Mobilising Our Man,” 150–152, 168; “Audycje Polskiego Radia od 3.VII. do 9.VII.1950 r.,” Radio i Świat 6, no. 27 (1950): 14; “Audycje Polskiego Radia od 14.VIII. do 20.VIII.1950 r.,” Radio i Świat 6, no. 33 (1950): 14. 143 These auditions occurred on September 29, October, 4, and December 19. F. H., “Z życia Związku Kompozytorów Polskich, Muzyka 2, no. 1 (1951): 55; ZKP, 12/116, Protokół z II przesłuchania Sekcji Pieśni Masowej, Protokół z pierwszej Audycji Sekcji Pieśni Masowej odbytej w Poznaniu w dniu 19 grudnia 1950 r. 144 Information on the monthly Czytelnik auditions was not available for examination. The ZKP Mass Song Section and the Union of Polish Youth (Związek Młodzieży Polskiej) also organized a February 1951 audition in Warsaw where fifteen pieces by six composers were heard. ZKP, 12/53, Sprawozdanie z działalności Sekcji Pieśni Masowej Związku Kompozytorów Polskich za okres: wrzesień 1950–wrzesień 1951 r.; Alina Sawicka, “Przesłuchanie dyskusyjne (materiał sprawozdawczy),” Muzyka 4, nos. 3–4 (1953): 74–75. 145 Vocal stage pieces were more complicated than mass songs and were meant to be performed on stage rather than sung by amateurs. They were not, however, artistically at the level of classical art. Light and entertainment pieces are generally for orchestra (in the United States, a pops orchestra) or smaller ensembles; they are popular in character, unlike most standard symphonic repertoire.

Negotiating a New Path 1949–1953

of all compositions commissioned by the Composers’ Union received an audition prior to public performance, at least at Union-organized events.146 Those held for orchestral music, where a total of seventeen pieces were heard between September 1950 and March 1951, generated many complaints about the music, yet the compositions were scheduled for public performances, thus circumventing the official guidelines. Those compositions considered problematic or overly simplistic were simply directed by composers to be heard by the masses instead of typical concert audiences. And not just composers, for Zofia Lissa fell into the same trap: in the fall of 1950, she recommended Włodzimierz Kotoński’s Highlander Dances for popular concerts, even though, in her opinion, it lacked appropriate “regional stylizations.”147 Stefan Bolesław Poradowski’s Symphonic Prelude was, according to Witold Rudziński, “ideologically lacking,”148 but another participant determined it could be used for popularization purposes; it was performed at least once, in 1951. The composer noted that his piece was intended to be a remembrance of wartime occupation, making this yet another example of a commemorative piece being criticized by postwar commentators ( Jan Adam Maklakiewicz’s Grunwald and Zbigniew Turski’s Symphony no. 2 are other examples).149 The desired traits of a new Polish composition remained something of a mystery. The use of folk elements was sometimes questioned, although at times they were welcomed, as at the audition of Bolesław Woytowicz’s cantata The Prophet (Prorok). Simplicity was rejected (Stanisław Prószyński’s Symphony no. 2), complicated forms were not wanted (Tadeusz Baird’s Symphony no. 1), challenging music was also problematic (Bolesław Szabelski’s Suite for orchestra was “too difficult and unconvincing for broad sectors of society,” although its Toccata movement, often performed separately, had “glimmers of realism”150), and the question of influences seemed almost impossible to resolve (Stefan Kisielewski’s

146 Other organizations held their own auditions, including publishers (Polish Music Publishers, Czytelnik), the military, the Union of Polish Youth, and Polish Radio, although detailed information about them was not available for this study. Rudziński mentioned an audition sponsored by Polish Radio that included some of his mass songs. He also cited a Warsaw audition co-organized with the Union of Polish Youth in which songs by Edward Olearczyk, Witold Lutosławski, Władysław Szpilman, Alfred Gradstein, and Bolesław Woytowicz were heard. AKP, Witold Rudziński Collection, Teksty osobiste, May 30, 1950, October 10–11, 1950, February 1, 1951; ZKP, 12/116, passim. 147 “Z życia Związku Kompozytorów Polskich, Muzyka 1, nos. 7–8 (1950): 86. 148 ZKP, 12/53, Protokół z pierwszej audycji sekcji muzyki symfonicznej odbytej dn. 22.ix.50 r. 149 Ibid. 150 ZKP, 12/116, Protokół przesłuchania sekcji symfonicznej w ramach Festiwal Muzyki Polskiej 18.iii.51.

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motoric Symphony no. 2 bore traits of Stravinsky, while incorporating nothing new, and his Concerto for chamber orchestra lacked Polish elements; Tadeusz Paciorkiewicz’s Kurpian Suite [Suita kurpiowska] was not convincingly linked to folk music). Władysław Walentynowicz’s Gdynia Cantata (Kantata gdyńska) was approved for the 1951 Festival of Polish Music only because, as one commentator said, these types of pieces were needed on the program, not because it was a valuable composition.151 Complaints arose from within the union, however. Rudziński recalled that participants who praised particular pieces during an audition voiced different opinions privately.152 Kazimierz Wiłkomirski, having conducted the audition of Zygmunt Gross’s Symphony about 1939 (Symfonia o roku 1939) in 1951, was outraged at having wasted both rehearsal time and money copying orchestral parts for “a completely valueless work.”153 In late 1952, Tadeusz Szeligowski asked if composers were supposed to interrupt their own work to attend auditions.154 In Stanisław Wiechowicz’s opinion, “criticizing a composer is an extremely sensitive matter. With some practice, a composer knows what he wants and it is difficult to impose one’s own point of view on him.”155 Artur Malawski agreed, saying auditions were useful for new composers, but that it was necessary to respect the “individuality” of those who were more established.156 Although suggestions for abolishing these auditions were made, this did not happen. In 1953, Tadeusz Baird declared they needed to continue, lest the Composers’ Union be accused of a “lack of vigilance” for permitting unapproved compositions to be on symphonic programs.157 Starting in 1951, an alternate system of reviewing was implemented, which required written assessments of compositions to be submitted to the Composers’ Union. These evaluations would theoretically determine whether any given 151 ZKP, 12/116, Protokół z przebiegu dyskusji przeprowadzonej po przesłuchaniu utworów Prószyńskiego i Młodziejowskiego w Filharmonii Poznańskiej 4.ii.1951 r., Protokół z dyskusji odbytej po przesłuchaniu w dniu 11 września 1952, Protokół z przesłuchania utworów kompozytorów łódzkich w Państwowej Filharmonii Łódzkiej w dniu 27 czerwca 1951 r. 152 AKP, Witold Rudziński Collection, Teksty osobiste, September 25, 1951, “O krytyce w ZKP” (undated, unsigned typed comments included with 1953 materials). 153 Wiłkomirski refers to Gross not by name, but as a lawyer who was also a member of the Polish Composers’ Union. He also alluded to the title of Gross’s symphony. Wiłkomirski, Wspomnień ciąg dalszy, 212; “Kronika,” Muzyka 2, no. 8 (1951): 57. 154 ZKP, 12/22, Stenogram z zebrania rozszerzonego Plenum Zarządu Głównego Z.K.P. w Poznaniu w dniu 11 grudnia 1952 r., pages 23–24. 155 AKP, Artur Malawski Collection, Dokumenty I, Protokół z przesłuchania, które odbyło się w Sali Filharmonii Krakowskiej w dniu 30 października 1952 r., page 1. 156 Ibid. 157 ZKP, 12/30, Protokół nr 14 z zebrania Prezydium Zarządu Gł. ZKP w dniu 6 maja 1953 r.

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piece would need to be auditioned, sent directly for performance, or rejected as unacceptable. The Composers’ Union spent a considerable amount of time assigning reviewers and examining more than 420 written appraisals.158 The reality was that these reviews were used primarily to decide if a commission had been fulfilled, not whether the piece should be performed or even auditioned. Many pieces were accepted after just one positive review instead of the two specified in the guidelines. (After two positive reviews, a piece was to be forwarded to the Ministry of Culture and Art to schedule a performance, skipping the audition step.)159 For example, Kazimierz Jurdziński’s Five Songs for soprano and piano were accepted as a completed commission on the basis of Zygmunt Mycielski’s assertion that they filled a gap in vocal literature, despite sounding as if they had been written almost thirty years earlier. These songs were performed at least once, in May 1953, but apparently were never given an audition. Other pieces were accepted after one positive review and still received an audition, often the same day as its premiere. Tadeusz Baird’s Giocoso Overture (1952) and Grażyna Bacewicz’s Symphony no. 3 were among the approximately thirty that fit into this category. Negative reviews did not always lead to rejection. Andrzej Dobrowolski’s Cantata in Honor of Peace (Kantata na cześć pokoju), a student composition reviewed negatively by both Zygmunt Mycielski and Eugeniusz Dziewulski, was nevertheless accepted and sent for an audition, where it received a positive rating.160 Completed in 1951, it was performed at least twice in 1954. Accusations of formalism did not prevent compositions from being performed; only Włodzimierz Sokorski’s condemnations resulted in such prohibitions. For example, Stanisław Wisłocki’s Symphonic Ballad (Ballada symfoniczna), called a “classic example of formalism”161 by Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, one of the piece’s three reviewers, was nevertheless accepted, auditioned, and performed, all in 1952. 158 Of the 400 or so written reviews, only about 250 had also received commissions from the union or Ministry, according to available evidence. In some cases, the Ministry asked the Composers’ Union to offer opinions about pieces written by non-union members. ZKP, 12/117 (Recenzje utworów zamawianych przez ZKP 1951–53 r.), 12/118 (Recenzje utworów zamawianych przez ZKP 1953–55 r.), and 12/119, passim. 159 According to available information, these rules were not changed after they were formulated in 1951. ZKP, 12/6, Sprawozdanie Zarządu Głównego Związku Kompozytorów Polskich za czas od 1 lipca 1950 roku do 1 grudnia 1951 roku. 160 The first movement of Dobrowolski’s cantata had been performed at a student concert in 1951. BN Collection, 1951 and 1954 programs; ZKP, 12/117, July 7, 1951; ZKP, 12/118, April 26, 1953; ZKP, 12/116, Protokół z dyskusji po komisyjnym przesłuchaniu w dn. 15 stycznia 54 r. 161 ZKP, 12/117, May 30, 1952, June 24, 1952; ZKP, 12/116, Sprawozdanie Sekcji Przesłuchań za okres od 1.VII do 30.IX.[1952].

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Lissa continued to be sharply opinionated, if not always helpful in her comments about specific pieces. She described several mass songs by Stefan Bolesław Poradowski, Edward Bury, and Michał Świerzyński as “good for nothing.”162 Another one, by Irena Garzteczka, at least had “Polish character”163 and thus should be published. Alfred Gradstein’s Song of the Party (Pieśń Partii) gained her approval for maintaining the “framework”164 of a mass song even though it was so repetitive as to be boring. In reviewing larger pieces, she was less caustic. She and others disparaged Bolesław Szabelski’s Heroic Poem (Poemat bohaterski) for choir and orchestra at its audition despite positive written reviews submitted earlier by Tadeusz Szeligowski and Tadeusz Baird. Szabelski’s biographer noted that this was not a simple piece. Zofia Lissa might have agreed, for she complained at its audition that the Composers’ Union wanted even difficult works to be presented to an unprepared public.165 After its premiere on April 9, 1953, Heroic Poem was not performed again in Poland during the first postwar decade. Lissa did appreciate Kazimierz Serocki’s Symphony no. 2 “Symphony of Song” (Symfonia nr 2 “Symfonia pieśni”) for choir and orchestra, however, calling it “one of the most interesting works of the decade” and applauding its “original folk texts with very strong social accents.”166 With its modal inflections, changing meters, and colorful orchestration, this piece was not a epigonic use of earlier musical models or an arrangement of folk melodies (for there were folk texts but no original folk tunes) such as seemed to be fairly common in Polish music of the early 1950s if reviewers’ comments are to be believed, but a legimately imaginative creation of new music set to folk texts.167 As such, Lissa’s interpretation of the piece showed her desire for composers to not limit themselves to mimicking past musical styles as they simultaneously incorporated folk models into their repertoire. Whether she considered it a suitable representation of a national “spirit” is not known, although perhaps this piece would have come close to earning such a commendation. 162 ZKP, 12/118, Pieśni masowe pisane z okazji II Zjazdu PZPR, December 1953. 163 Ibid. 164 Ibid. 165 The text of Heroic Poem, Szabelski’s most overt attempt at writing a socialist realist-style piece, was dedicated to Felix Dzerzhinsky (1877–1926), the first head of the Soviet secret police. The piece was criticized for its harmonic clashes and “fading ideology.” Thomas places it stylistically with the composer’s Symphony no. 3 and Concerto Grosso. Markiewicz, Bolesław Szabelski, 45–47; ZKP 12/116, Protokół z przesłuchania utworu Bolesława Szabelskiego pt. “Poemat bohaterski” w dn. 9 kwietnia 1953 r. w Filharmonii Krakowskiej; ZKP, 12/117, October 4, 1952, Letter from Tadeusz Baird, undated, probably 1952; Thomas, Polish Music, 117. 166 ZKP, 12/118, September 18, 1953. 167 The Symphony originally included five movements; its revised version, premiered in 1959, contains four. Iwona Lindstedt, ‘Piszę tylko muzykę’: Kazimierz Serocki (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 2020), 152–184.

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What was the purpose of going through these time-consuming exercises, which involved the Composers’ Union’s presidium, multiple union members who served as reviewers and audition participants, cultural officials who assisted in organizing auditions, and the musicians who performed at live sessions? Fewer than ten of the more than 400 pieces given written reviews were rejected for not fulfilling their commissions, while there seems to be little to no correlation between the comments provided at auditions or in reviews and whether a composition was performed. However, these evaluations allowed the Composers’ Union to report to their government patrons that compositions were being vetted, even if in reality they were an example of time-consuming administrative work that took many composers away from their profession of writing music. They may have provided some educational value to some composers but, in general, comments seemed to be more negative than constructive.

Witold Rudziński as Socialist Realist Advocate and Composer: Yanko the Musician The most intriguing of Witold Rudziński’s own opinions regarding auditions and written reviews come from his personal diaries, where he described the prolonged path that his opera Yanko the Musician ( Janko Muzykant) took from its conception to its premiere. Many of his experiences were almost certainly the same as many others had encountered. Others, however, expose heretofore unplumbed details of his tenure as Composers’ Union president concerning these evaluations, relationships among union members, and affiliations between the union and the Ministry of Culture and Art. As such, his diaries, while undeniably one-sided, reveal, to a greater degree than official documentation does, the internal turmoil that pervaded this period. Yanko the Musician was subjected to two official auditions and numerous other deliberations involving both officials and fellow composers. Initially conceived in 1948 as a one-act piece, but later expanded to three acts, it was substantially complete in 1950. Its first full production occurred in June 1953. The plot, based on a novella by Polish writer Henryk Sienkiewicz (1846–1916), revolves around the politically acceptable themes of social injustice and class differences, depicting a musically gifted but mute peasant child in nineteenthcentury Poland enduring unfair treatment.168

168 Information about this opera and its auditions comes from AKP, Witold Rudziński Collection, Teksty osobiste, January 1950–June 1953, passim.

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The opera was initially projected for a fully staged production at the 1951 Festival of Polish Music. Excerpts were auditioned by the Silesian Opera in late January 1951 (some with piano accompaniment, some with orchestra). At that time, issues with the libretto, written by Tadeusz Borowski (1922–1951) and Stanisław Wygodzki (1907–1992), were noted and Rudziński agreed to make several changes to the music. A few days later, Rudziński was told a full audition of the opera with orchestra would need to be held in Warsaw. To do that, a recording of the piece with the complete ensemble was necessary. In late February, however, Rudziński was asked by a Ministry official, Jerzy Jasieński, to forego an opera production in favor of a smaller presentation. Rudziński opposed that idea but realized that the Ministry, not wanting to present the opera at all, was searching for a way out of a sticky situation. Rudziński, after all, was at that time the head of the Composers’ Union. How do you tell someone in his position that his composition is not acceptable? Jasieński mentioned that two arias needed rewriting. Rudziński retorted that he had already reworked those sections. Jasieński further claimed that those who had spoken at the January audition had made different, presumably negative comments in more private settings. With that, Rudziński declared he would make no further changes before discussing everything with Włodzimierz Sokorski, then the Vice-Minister of Culture and Art. Unfortunately for us, records of that conversation have not surfaced. Work on the opera continued. The text of its final act was reworked to satisfy Sokorski’s apparent complaint that it was socially unacceptable: the opera could not end on echoes of hopelessness and lament. By May 1951, Sokorski had accepted the revised libretto, but Polish Music Publishers had stopped its work on copying parts.169 How could the second audition occur if the orchestral parts were not ready? In a July meeting, Sokorski accused Rudziński of hindering the production of his own opera. In his view, the Ministry was not at fault. Criticism of the libretto continued into 1952, despite the Ministry’s earlier stamp of approval. The second audition was finally held in October of that year. Both the music and the libretto were disparaged. While at least some of the details concerning scheduling and revisions are undoubtedly typical for such a large, complex piece, others draw our attention as being exceptions to the norm. One wonders why a tape with orchestral accompaniment needed to be made and then sent to Warsaw, which only delayed the proceedings, especially if the opera was to be performed at the 1951 Festival 169 AKP, Witold Rudziński Collection, Korespondencja polska P–Z, Letter from Rudziński to Jasieński, April 2, 1951.

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of Polish Music.170 Why was the libretto revised after it had been approved? In Rudziński’s telling of the tale, it was the Ministry that caused most of the problems, not he or his librettists. Of course, his rendition would quite naturally be slanted toward portraying his actions as proper and those of others as obstructive. The question is: why did all this happen? To respond, we return to 1950. Zygmunt Mycielski, as mentioned earlier, had decided not to return as Composers’ Union president. Although the union’s statutes called for the president to be chosen at the organization’s annual congress, in practice this decision was made prior to the actual voting, with the Ministry’s input. Union members and Ministry officials approached Rudziński about accepting the presidency. Rudziński refused the offer, believing that he was already involved in too many activities. (Serocki also withdrew his proposed candidacy for the executive board, but was then told the Ministry would not allow him to go abroad if he did not accept the nomination.) Sokorski explained that the plan to select Rudziński had come from the Polish United Workers’ Party, not the Ministry, and that declining the position might mean that Yanko the Musician, which at that time was considered an example of socialist realism, might be recognized as formalist within a year. Rudziński reluctantly accepted the presidency; Serocki joined the executive board.171 This is not the first time such arm-twisting and threats are known to have happened. Earlier incidents with Lutosławski and Baird have already been discussed. Although the Composers’ Union provided funding and other amenities to all composers, there is no evidence to suggest that it fully supported Rudziński as he struggled to get his opera presented publicly. One explanation for this hesitation concerns Rudziński’s actions as the Union’s president. His strong interest in writing music for the musically uneducated as well as his public rejections of interwar modernism in music were well known. In his 1950 comments at the Composers’ Union congress (also alluded to earlier), which he made just prior to being elected as the union’s head, he had questioned why composers still “indulged in abstract themes,”172 criticized Witold Lutosławski’s popular wartime Variations on a Theme by Paganini for “suddenly transporting us back to . . . the formalism of the occupation,”173 (a reference to performances 170 A taped orchestral version was never made to my knowledge; both official auditions eventually occurred in Bytom, the home of the Silesian Opera. 171 AKP, Witold Rudziński Collection, Teksty osobiste, March 25, 1950–March 31, 1950, passim. 172 “Sprawozdanie z obrad V Walnego Zgromadzenia Związku Kompozytorów Polskich,” Muzyka 1, no. 5 (1950): 55. 173 Ibid.

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of this piece during the war), and declared that in Andrzej Panufnik’s Hommage à Chopin for soprano and piano, “the heartlessness of [its] folk element was frankly embarrassing” while his Nocturne for orchestra expressed “unlimited pessimism.”174 Furthermore, he said that in Zygmunt Mycielski’s Flowers on the Track (Kwiaty na tor) for a cappella choir, the musical setting emphasized the text’s poetic weaknesses, while Bolesław Woytowicz’s Symphony no. 2 and Symphonic Sketches (Szkice symfoniczne) did not represent a step forward.175 Thus even before he was officially the union’s president, he had alienated several of its leading members. By the end of 1950, any collegial atmosphere within the union was in danger of disappearing entirely, despite its reputation for flexibility with regard to commissions and competitions. According to Rudziński, his fellow composers did not have a strong desire to integrate elite and mass culture, a position that he advocated.176 As mentioned above, some union members were unhappy with the course of the auditions that Rudziński had helped to initiate. Rudziński also claimed that he was accused of favoring two of his executive board members (Faustyn Kulczycki and Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, both of whom were members of the Polish United Workers’ Party), although his diaries also refer to numerous discussions with Zygmunt Mycielski, Zofia Lissa, and others.177 Andrzej Panufnik, Grażyna Bacewicz, and Jan Adam Maklakiewicz had resigned from the executive board. A Ministry official allegedly told Rudziński there were complaints that he was “autocratic, authoritative, overbearing, etc.”178 Rudziński attempted to defend himself. In his view, if composers did not want to “battle openly” (presumably with the Composers’ Union executive board, Włodzimierz Sokorski, and/or the Ministry of Culture and Art), they targeted an individual instead, namely him.179 If he proposed something that was in line with Ministry policy, then the union’s membership did not support it. Moreover, it was the Music Department (part of the the Polish United Workers’ Party’s

174 Ibid. 175 Rudziński cited Folk Suite, which was the original name of Hommage à Chopin. Ibid.; Bolesławska, The Life and Works of Andrzej Panufnik, 99. 176 Erhardt, ed., 50 lat Związku Kompozytorów Polskich, 58. 177 AKP, Witold Rudziński Collection, Teksty osobiste, November 12, 13, and 29, 1950, December 13–14, 1950, February 2, 1951; KC PZPR 237/XVIII 143, Lista wybitniejszych muzyków polskich—członków Polskiej Zjednoczonej Partii Robotniczej [probably from 1955]; AKP, Zofia Lissa Collection, Korespondencja Z. Lissy 1945–1955, Letter from Zofia Lissa to Centr. Komisja Kontroli Partyjnej Komitetu Centralnego PZPR, September 5, 1950; Erhardt, ed., 50 lat Związku Kompozytorów Polskich, 17. 178 AKP, Witold Rudziński Collection, Teksty osobiste, December 10, 1950. 179 Ibid., December 18, 1950.

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organizational structure), not the Ministry (a governmental entity), that controlled the union’s agenda and even interfered in such trivial matters as purchasing coffee for the office.180 Rudziński resigned from the union’s presidency in July 1951, well before his tenure was scheduled to end.181 In October of that year, he wrote ‘“there is no doubt that if I were not the president of the Composers’ Union, ‘Yanko’ would have been presented long ago.”182 While there is little to no direct proof of this linkage, the circumstantial evidence is compelling. Rudziński had become caught up in politicized maneuvering just as others had. The opera’s second audition was not held until well after he had resigned. This tit for tat strategy of delaying the opera due to ministerial and Party displeasure with the turmoil in the Polish Composers’ Union while Rudziński was its president undermined what at that time was still the desire of these political and governmental entities to promote socialist realism in music.183 Yet these bitter disagreements can also be seen as a sampling of the complex undercurrents that pervaded musical life during those years.184 At the same time, we should acknowledge that Rudziński was never known as one of Poland’s finest composers. Perhaps this saga would not have occurred if Yanko the Musician had been a world-class opera; it was staged nineteen times from 1953–1955 before being withdrawn from the repertoire.185 Rudziński, we should note, does not appear to have prevented any composition from appearing on stage or receiving a commission. Despite this, the overall lack of support among members of the Composers’ Union for Rudziński’s situation demonstrates their aversion to the implementation of socialist realism in music, and in particular, his attempts to realize the government’s desires.

180 Ibid., July 24, 1951. 181 Rudziński claimed that Zygmunt Mycielski, Tadeusz Baird, and Kazimierz Serocki did not want him to resign, but that the union’s presidium (which included Baird, Serocki, Faustyn Kulczycki, Andrzej Panufnik, Anna Maria Klechniowska, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, Grażyna Bacewicz, and Tadeusz Szeligowski) and other members did not support him. Ibid., July 25, 1951. 182 Ibid., October 5, 1951. 183 According to Rudziński’s diaries, Włodzimierz Sokorski said that the actions of the Composers’ Union’s presidium had been manipulative and supportive of formalism, which caused great concern in the Ministry and the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party. Sokorski recognized that Rudziński aligned his ideas with those of the government, but that composers continued to pursue their own separate path. Ibid., July 25, 1951. 184 Rudziński’s diaries, in which he frequently use the term “socialist realism,” encompass many details of conversations at meetings of the union’s presidium that are not included in the official minutes of these sessions as well as documentation of other consultations and informal gatherings. 185 “Echa naszych spostrzeżeń,” Życie Warszawy 13, no. 7 ( January 10, 1956): 5.

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From this point of view, then, the implementation of auditions and written reviews was, at least in part, no more than a facade used by the Ministry to prevent or delay certain compositions from being heard in public. They were not merely a means of providing constructive criticism to composers or judging whether a given piece was suitable for performance. If many composers proved to be willing to declare that commissions were fulfilled in order to provide funding for their colleagues, other organizations (in Rudziński’s case, the Ministry and the Polish United Workers’ Party) treated the same processes as a way to impede the normal flow of activity from commission to performance. What was the end result of the massive efforts undertaken to support auditions and other reviews? Did these efforts, which seemed unnecessary to many composers, achieve the goals announced by cultural officials who proclaimed that all musicians should provide the workers and peasants of Poland with understandable music that was related to their daily lives? For that, we need to examine Poland’s concert life.

Programming Policies and Organizations Performances are, of course, the end goal for nearly all composers. Of the approximately 600 pieces known to have received commissions,186 perhaps 150 may have never been completed; no information is available for either their year of completion or date of performance. The remaining compositions, their composers hoped, would find their way to the stage. This process typically required negotiations among composers, musicians, and, in Stalinist Poland, governmental institutions. From 1949 into the 1950s, the Composers’ Union, after officially accepting orchestral compositions, formally requested that the Ministry of Culture and Art arrange performances. Through 1951, most of this correspondence went to the organizers of the 1951 Festival of Polish Music. Thereafter, the union communicated primarily with the Central Board of Operas, Philharmonics, and Music Institutions (CZOFIM). But this agency, embedded within the Ministry of Culture and Art, was not responsible for programming decisions made by ensembles such as orchestras and opera companies, which were managed by the General Department of Theaters, Opera and Philharmonics (GDTOiF) and

186 Some of these pieces received commissions in more than one year. For this approximation, I have counted these pieces only once.

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the Office of Foreign Cultural Cooperation (BWKZ).187 Hence, a disconnect regarding contemporary music programming existed even within the governmental apparatus, which could not have benefitted composers. State-funded philharmonics were expected to program a contemporary Polish work at least twice a year. At least in 1950, their programs over the course of each concert season were to consist of twenty-five percent contemporary music and also emphasize Polish music of past eras, Soviet compositions, and music from the “People’s Democracies,” a reference to the Communist-controlled countries of Eastern Europe. Compositions that had a cosmopolitan character or were based on jazz were to be avoided.188 In reality, however, orchestral conductors retained a great deal of influence over the programs they led, even if they and their advisory boards were not completely independent of other governmental agencies. Grzegorz Fitelberg, for example, corresponded frequently with composers about programming their works with his radio orchestra, although his suggestions were subject to the approval of Roman Jasiński, who managed Polish Radio’s Music Department, and at times, his supervisors, Wilhelm Billig and Romuald Gadomski, who were the chief executives of Polish Radio during this time. Artur Malawski, a conductor as well as a composer, also negotiated with various orchestras about both programs he would lead and performances of his own compositions.189 Other conductors and composers almost certainly had similar experiences. Although in theory, each state-funded orchestra was required to plan repertoire a year in advance, in practice this rarely happened. Lack of coordination between various agencies often resulted in musicians’ parts not being available (this resulted in the cancellation of Jan Krenz’s Symphony no. 1 in Katowice in 1949 and Artur Malawski’s Popular Suite [Suita popularna] in 1953), or contracted soloists being directed elsewhere at the last minute. Musicians were sent abroad, sometimes just prior to a planned performance in Poland, and foreign

187 In 1948, the Music Department within the Ministry of Culture and Art was dissolved. In its place, a Music Division was created as part of the Department of Artistic Production (DTA), which funded the Composers’ Union, and GDTOiF, the latter of which worked directly with state-funded musical ensembles. From 1952–1955, a Central Board of Theaters, Opera and Philharmonics (CZTOiF) replaced GDTOiF, while CZOFIM handled relations with the Composers Union and its members. Beginning in 1955, this was replaced by a Central Board of Music Institutions (CZIM). 188 AAN, MKiS 366/I 739, DTA (Wydział Muzyki, Orkiestry Symfoniczne 1950 r.), Instrukcja repertuarowa na rok 1950 dla Państwowych Filharmonii. 189 Markiewicz, ed., Korespondencja Grzegorza Fitelberga, 195, 239, 244–245, 249, 256, 261, 300, 340–341, 346, 408; AKP, Artur Malawski Collection, Korespondencja, passim; Jasiński, Nowe życie, 139.

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artists arrived in the country without advance warning being given to orchestral management.190 Although details about specific orchestral program choices are mentioned in private correspondence, they were often not explained in available governmental documents, except when a composition was canceled or postponed (in which case the ensemble was expected to explain why in its regular reports to the government), or if a piece was banned from performance by other entities. The situation regarding the scheduling of chamber music and choral compositions is even less clear. The Composers’ Union occasionally arranged for soloists and chamber ensembles to perform its members’ works. In other cases, chamber pieces were sent to CZOFIM, Polish Radio, and Artos (the successor to the postwar Central Concert Bureau) with requests to arrange performances.191 With few permanent chamber ensembles in Poland, performances of new chamber works were difficult to procure. One organization that consistently presented public performances of such pieces was Polish Music Publishers. Continuing its presentations from the late 1940s, it programmed more than one hundred compositions over the next few years. While Grażyna Bacewicz, Witold Lutosławski, and Stanisław Wiechowicz garnered the most performances (each receiving more than ten), a wide range of other composers (Alfred Gradstein, Maria Dziewulska, Tadeusz Szeligowski, and others) was also represented. Reports sent to the Ministry by individual state philharmonics substantiate the government’s requirement to promote music from eastern Europe and the Soviet Union.192 For the Silesian and Kraków philharmonics, for example, more than half of the programmed works from 1949–1952 were by composers from Poland, Russia or the Soviet Union, and the countries of Eastern Europe. Of these, anywhere from fifteen to twenty-five percent were compositions by living Polish composers.193 190 AKP, Artur Malawski Collection, Korespondencja - autor A–F, Letter from Cegiełła to Malawski, September 30, 1953 (K-XXXV/119); AAN, MKiS 366/I 2402 (GDTOiF, Oddział Rachunkowości i Bilansów, Państwowa Opera i Filharmonia w Warszawie 1949–1951 r.), Sprawozdanie za miesiące wrzesień, październik, listopad i grudzień 1949, Sprawozdanie za miesiąc styczeń 1950 r.; AAN, MKiS 366/I 2388 (GDTOiF, Oddział Rachunkowości i Bilansów, Filharmonia Śląska w Katowicach 1948–51 r.), Sprawozdanie z działalności Państw. Filharmonii Śląskiej w Katowicach za okres wrzesień, październik, listopad i grudzień 1949 r. 191 ZKP, 12/30, Protokół nr 30 z zebrania Prezydium Zarządu Głównego ZKP w dniu 7 listopada 1953 r.; ZKP, 12/54, Protokół Komisji Zasiłków Twórczych z dnia 23.VI.51. 192 Szałowski was listed as a Polish composer despite his foreign residence. AAN, MKiS, 366/I 2388; AAN, MKiS 366/I 2402; AAN, MKiS 366/I 2765 (CZTOiF, Wydział Symfoniczny. Państwowa Filharmonia w Warszawie 1952 r.), passim. 193 AAN, MKiS 366/I 2758 (CZTOiF, Wydział Symfoniczny, Państwowa Filharmonia Śląska w Katowicach 1952–53 r.); BN Collection, 1951, 1952, and 1953 Kraków programs.

Negotiating a New Path 1949–1953

This balance of programming, which distinctly favored performances of compositions from Soviet-bloc countries, did provide space for contemporary Polish music. According to available documention, each year from 1949–1953, more than 400 performances of contemporary Polish works (orchestral and otherwise) were offered throughout the country. This represents an increase from 1947 and 1948, when 300–400 compositions are known to have been heard each year. The actual numbers are undoubtedly higher, since the repertoire offered by travel orchestras (small ensembles of musicians from state philharmonics who performed in nearby cities and towns) and amateur ensembles is largely unknown, as is that offered for many celebrations as well as holiday and school programs. The content of radio programs is known only in part from weekly listings in Radio i Świat, which were frequently changed after printing.194 As one critic remarked in 1949, For what and for whom does Polish Radio print its program [in Radio i Świat] if it does not follow it? Can Polish Radio truly not establish what the exact program of its broadcasts will be a week in advance and announce it to the audience? . . . Polish Radio does not even feel obliged to announce the more important program changes during broadcasts . . . For example, on October 4, a very interesting program was scheduled that included a premiere of contemporary Polish music by the Great Polish Radio Symphony Orchestra from Katowice. This announcement brought great interest in the Polish musical world . . . Various efforts were made to find the time and be able to listen to this concert. Meanwhile, Polish Radio broadcast a concert from tape with a completely different program . . . The incompatibility of the programs printed in Radio i Świat with the [actual] radio programs is happening more and more often.195 194 Many radio programs were listed in Radio i Świat as “mass songs,” or “contemporary Polish music,” to name just two of the generic titles unaccompanied by specific repertoire listings. 195 “Po co i dla kogo Polskie Radio drukuje swój program, jeśli nie stosuje się do niego. Czy rzeczywiście Polskie Radio nie jest w stanie ustalić na tydzień naprzód dokładnego programu swych audycji i podać do wiadomości słuchaczy? . . . P. R. nie poczuwa się nawet do obowiązku zawiadomienia w swych audycjach informacyjnych o ważniejszych zmianach programów . . . Tak np. dnia 4. X. miał odbyć się koncert symfoniczny w wyk. Wielkiej Orkiestry Symf. Polskiego Radia z Katowic o bardzo ciekawym programie zawierającym również prawykonania współczesnej muzyki polskiej. Zapowiedź tego koncertu wywołała wielkie zainteresowanie w polskim świecie muzycznym . . . poczyniono różne zabiegi, aby tylko zdobyć czas i móc wysłuchać tego koncertu. Tymczasem Polskie Radio nadało koncert, ale z taśmy

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Not every commissioned work that was completed was performed in Poland. Only in 1951 did more than three-quarters of such works receive a performance, undoubtedly due to initiatives related to the 1951 Festival of Polish Music. For other years between 1949 and 1953, no more than half of the commissioned pieces that were completed are known to have been performed.196 Although information about commissions and performances of Polish music may never be known in full, we can still offer an educated view about which compositions by the country’s living composers were heard by the public and how ensembles and other musicians dealt with the official push to expand offerings for purposes of popularization and accessibility.

Performing Socialist Realism: Travel and Popular Concerts Professional orchestras offered frequent performances in nearby small towns, using the smaller ensembles mentioned above. Encouraged by the government as an effective means of popularization through performances of “special repertoire,”197 the audiences for these concerts were not expected to appreciate typical concert fare, so programs were tailored to meet their hypothetical needs. Extant programs for events that involved orchestral musicians from Kraków and Katowice find them typically performing vocal works (including mass songs) and short orchestral pieces in factories, industrial plants, and schools under less than ideal conditions: performing spaces were inadequate and personnel at factories and other enterprises did not always know musicians were arriving.198 These concerts were often the only places where mass songs could be heard in live performance (with the exception of the 1951 Festival of Polish Music); such pieces were otherwise mostly limited to radio programs. As with the Sunday morning concerts mentioned in chapter 3, program planners thus attempted to cater to what they perceived as a less refined musical taste in the audiences expected at these events. In some sense, this correlated with Lissa’s distinctions

magnetofonowej i o zupełnie innym programie . . . Niezgodność programów drukowanych w tyg. ‘Radio i Świat’ z programami radia staje się coraz częstsza.” W. V., “Muzyka z głośnika radiowego,” Ruch Muzyczny 5, no. 15 (1949): 39. 196 These numbers exclude commissions that were not completed within the time frame of this study. 197 AAN, MKiS 366/I 719, Protokół nr 4, Kolegium Muzyczne z posiedzenia w dniu 21.II.1950 198 AAN, MKiS 366/I 2390 (GDTOiF, Oddział Rachunkowości, Państwowa Filharmonia w Krakowie 1949–50 r.), Charakterystyka koncertów, które się odbyły w miesiącu kwietniu 1950 r.; AAN, MKiS 366/I 2388, passim.

Negotiating a New Path 1949–1953

in the late 1940s between music for new listeners and those who were more accustomed to hearing complicated works, while at the same time emphasizing the government’s call to popularize music in society by offering shorter, more accessible compositions. These presentations formed a significant part of orchestral activities. The Silesian Philharmonic in 1949 reported sixty-one such events held outside of its home base of Katowice, including forty two for workers. In 1950, the same institution held fifty-eight concerts in seventeen towns.199 One typical concert format might look like the one presented by Kraków Philharmonic musicians in three small towns in southern Poland, which attracted an average attendance of 1,300 and bore the slogan “Musicians Battle for Peace”:200 Piotr Perkowski: Song of Unity (Pieśń jedności) Stanisław Moniuszko: Mazurka from the opera Halka Isaak Dunayevsky: Song about the Homeland Isaak Dunayevsky: Sports March Witold Krzemieński: Song about the Oder River (Pieśń o Odrze) Antonin Dvořák: Slavonic Dances Aram Khachaturian: Saber Dance Witold Krzemieński: The March of Silesia (Marsz Śląska) Such combinations of primarily Polish and Russian works were repeated in other towns, often featuring the same pieces. Krzemieński’s Song about the Oder River for choir and orchestra was heard at least fourteen times from 1950 to 1953 in Kraków and neighboring cities, while Perkowski’s Song of Unity, a mass song for choir and orchestra, was performed four times in less than a year. The Silesian Philharmonic’s repertoire for travel concerts was similar. One such event on the occasion of Miner’s Day in 1952 featured Krzemieński’s March of the Miners (Marsz górniczy) for orchestra (which was also performed seven times from August to October 1953) alongside works by Stanisław Moniuszko, Pyotr Ilych Tchaikovsky, and Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov.201 Although a variety of other mass

199 AAN, MKiS 366/I 2388, Sprawozdania za rok 1949, Sprawozdanie z działalności za lata 1950 i 1951. 200 AAN, MKiS 366/I 2390, Sprawozdanie z działalności artystycznej Państwowej Filharmonii w Krakowie za miesiąc sierpień 1950 r. 201 AAN, MKiS, 366/I 2390; AAN, MKiS, 366/I 2391 (GDTOiF, Oddział Rachunkowości i Bilansów, Państwowa Filharmonia w Krakowie 1951 r.); AAN, MKiS, 366/I 2751 (CZTOiF, Wydział Symfoniczny, Państwowa Filharmonia w Krakowie 1952–55 r.); AAN, MKiS, 366/I 2758.

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songs or simpler pieces by Polish composers could have been programmed on various concerts, this repetition of compositions resulted in audiences not being exposed to a wide range of their compatriots’ attempts to contribute to society. Most composers were likely not upset with this situation, since they were not enthusiastic contributors to the mass song genre. So-called popular concerts were also among those offered by travel ensembles. At one such event in Olesno, Grażyna Bacewicz’s Suite of Polish Dances and one of Tomasz Kiesewetter’s suites of Polish dances were played along with pieces by Frédéric Chopin, Karol Kurpiński (1785–1857), Carl Maria von Weber, Stanisław Moniuszko, Antonin Dvořák, and Wojciech Dankowski (c. 1760–d. after 1800). Similar concerts held throughout the country included pieces by Andrzej Panufnik (Jaworzyna March), Jan Krenz (Rural Serenade [Serenada wiejska]), Stanisław Wisłocki (Robber’s Dance [Taniec zbójnicki]) and choral works such as Kazimierz Sikorski’s Little Kurpian Waltz (Walczyk kurpiowski) and Stanisław Wiechowicz’s Where Have My Tulips Gone (Gdzie mi się podziały tulipany), many of them infused with Polish folk elements and suitable for smaller, perhaps less experienced ensembles.202 Other concerts served governmental needs at holiday and anniversary celebrations. To entice the public to attend events that bore more than a trace of political expediency, entrance was often free. Silesian Philharmonic musicians, for example, took part in concerts held in 1952 for such occasions as the commemoration of Lenin’s death, Labor Day (May 1st, an outdoor concert that attracted 20,000 people), International Children’s Day (an outdoor event for 1,200), Miners’ Day, Days of Education, Books and Press, the rebuilding of Warsaw, and a Polish United Workers’ Party’s Congress. The repertoire for these was similar to the concerts described above. Contemporary Polish works were not always included, although Soviet and Russian music and pieces by Frédéric Chopin and Stanisław Moniuszko were mainstays of every program.203 The attempt to

202 The excerpts from Dankowski’s Symphony in D were most likely from the version arranged by Jan Krenz in 1951. AAN, MKiS, 366/I 2758, Sprawozdanie za m-c sierpień 1952 r.; AAN, MKiS, 366/I 2766 (CZTOiF, Wydział Symfoniczny, Filharmonia Narodowa w Warszawie, Sprawozdania kwartalne i miesięczne z działalności 1953–1955 r.), Sprawozdanie artystyczne za m-c wrzesień 1953 rok; AAN, MKiS, 366/I 2751, Sprawozdanie artystyczne z działalności Państwowej Filharmonii w Krakowie w miesiącu sierpniu 1952 r., Sprawozdanie z działalności artystycznej Państwowej Filharmonii w Krakowie w miesiącu wrześniu 1953 r. 203 An example of an exception to this type of programming occurred in late 1949, when the Great Polish Radio Symphony Orchestra traveled to Chorzów, a city near Katowice, to perform at the unveiling of a bust of Chopin. The program included Panufnik’s Tragic Overture and pieces by Frédéric Chopin, Stanisław Moniuszko, and Mieczysław Karłowicz. Thomas, “Panufnik Revised: Tragic Overture”; AAN, MKiS, 366/I /2758, Sprawozdanie za rok 1952.

Negotiating a New Path 1949–1953

demonstrate a link between Poland and the Soviet Union was unmistakable. The average Polish citizen may not have felt so comfortable, especially (but not only) those in Silesia who had been forcibly removed from their homes in what before 1939 had been eastern Poland, but was now part of the Soviet Union. Some of the contemporary Polish compositions on these concerts had been written immediately after the end of the Nazi occupation, but before the wholesale effort to implement a socialist realist branding of music had occurred. Stanisław Wisłocki had composed his Robber’s Dance in 1945 to enhance the repertoire of Warsaw’s newly formed Polish Radio Chamber (or Folk) Orchestra.204 Andrzej Panufnik’s brief folk-based Jaworzyna March from 1946, with its melodic repetitions and prominent percussion part, was intended for amateur performers.205 Such offerings, completed without any pressure from governmental officials, bear witness to the prevalence of folk-inspired classical music in Poland well before rhetoric about joining the battle for new listeners and a socialist reality was in vogue. They also demonstrate composers’ interest in providing new music that was not intended for virtuoso performers. These authors did not need to listen to lengthy speeches or participate in competitions devised by governmental patrons. During these early postwar years, however, these same composers were still able to compose freely, as Panufnik had demonstrated in 1947 with his Nocturne, which two years later was deemed a formalist creation.

Popularizing Art Music: Artos Since organizing recitals and chamber concerts was one of the responsibilities entrusted to Artos (also known as Państwowa Organizacja Imprez Artystycznych, or the State Organization for Artistic Events), some responsibility for any inadequacies in these areas has to be assigned to that organization.206 Charged with producing cultural events throughout Poland, it organized hundreds of performances. For the first quarter of 1950, for example, 882 events

204 Wisłocki, Życie jednego muzyka, 50. 205 A 1949 Polish Radio recording is available at “Marsz jaworzyński na mały zespół orkiestrowy,” https://ninateka.pl/vod/muzyka/marsz-jaworzynski-na-maly-zespol-orkiestrowy/. The score was published in 1946 by Czytelnik. 206 Although Iwona Miernik indicates Artos was created in 1950, it began organizing concerts in 1948. It was the successor to the Central Concert Bureau and the interwar ORMUZ. Iwona Miernik, Państwowa Organizacja Imprez Artystycznych “ARTOS” 1950–1954: Monografia historyczna (Toruń: Europejskie Centrum Edukacyjne, 2005), 5–6; PZPR 237/VIII 85, Sprawozdanie z akcji koncertów masowych w miesiącu grudniu 1948 r.

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were planned, of which 437 were vocal recitals and 272 were solo piano presentations. Only five involved chamber ensembles.207 Prior to signing contracts with Artos as artists, some performers were vetted both for their artistic competence and their knowledge of contemporary social issues. One such example of the latter occurred with Zygmunt Suchodolski, a vocalist who satisfactorily answered questions such as “Who is our most powerful friend? . . . What did the Soviet Union provide us immediately after the Uprising? . . . Which party do we call ‘leading’?” Although his musicality was considered weak, he was accepted as an Artos artist.208 In general, however, decisions about qualifying these musicians were based on artistic considerations, not their knowledge about contemporary Polish politics. High-caliber professional musicians were not among those auditioned.209 Although Artos’s policy was to present compositions that appealed to the general public, it appears that no oversight was given to actual program content. Some musicians provided composition titles as part of their negotiations with Artos, while others either remained silent on that issue or simply stated they would perform Russian, Polish, and Soviet pieces, demonstrating their awareness that such music was highly desired by authorities. Some performers just sent a list of pieces in their repertoire; these occasionally included pieces by living Polish composers, for example, Stanisław Kazuro and Kazimierz Wiłkomirski. However, of the hundreds of suggested or real programs submitted from 1952–1955 that exist in archives related to Artos, only rarely were pieces by living Polish composers presented. One such sample appears on an undated program presented in Lublin, when chamber pieces by Tadeusz Szeligowski, Piotr Perkowski, and Grażyna Bacewicz were heard. Another undated program includes works by Witold Friemann in addition to those by Johannes Brahms, Ludwig van Beethoven, Claude Debussy, and others.210 Grumblings about problems behind the scenes threatened to disrupt the officially endorsed discourse about Polish musical life as a blossoming cultural environment accessible to all.

207 AAN, POIA 357/77 (Dział Muzyczny, Posiedzenie Komisji Kwalifikacyjnej ‘Artosu’. Protokoły 1950–1952 r.), Protokół nr 17 z posiedzenia Komisji Muzycznnej ARTOS’u z dn. 9.II.1950 r. 208 AAN, POIA 357/77, Protokół nr 11 z posiedzenia Komisji Kwalifikacyjnej przy “Artosie” z dnia 15 września 1951 r. 209 Among the professional musicians who performed under the auspices of Artos were Grażyna Bacewicz, Kazimierz Wiłkomirski, Stanisław Szpinalski, and Ewa Bandrowska-Turska. 210 AAN, POIA 357/99 (Programy koncertów 1952–1954 r.), passim; POIA 357/100 (Programy koncertów 1952–1954 r.), passim; POIA 357/149 (Umowy z artystami o dzieło 1951–1952 r.), passim.

Negotiating a New Path 1949–1953

These complaints often concerned Artos’s disinterest in taking responsibility for ongoing organizational problems.211 If contemporary compositions by Poland’s composers were virtually ignored by the institution responsible for bringing music to the country’s smaller towns and villages, this meant that many citizens who theoretically formed the audiences for new music were treated to programs heavily weighted toward nineteenth-century and Soviet repertoire (for example, works of Dmitry Kabalevsky and Aram Khachaturian). Perhaps, however, such programming proves that authorities preferred the musical styles of earlier centuries and its more ideologically promising neighbor to the East despite their call for Polish composers to create new works that embraced their own Communist country.

Polish Radio: Disseminating Mass Songs and Cantatas In his position as head of Polish Radio’s music department, Roman Jasiński was expected to eliminate all formalist works from broadcasts aired during the country’s Stalinist years, although as he recalled, there were no clear guidelines about what realism and formalism were with regard to music. In place of forbidden works, mass songs and cantatas became the priority, followed by compositions based on folk motives. As Jasiński reflected, mass songs were treated seriously by Party authorities even though “no reasonable person believed in the radiant future of this kind of numb song in Poland. . . . With the strength of money, many of these songs emerged, . . . but they were certainly not the best . . . and people preferred to sing the old way . . . [not] these state-created, commonplace elaborations.”212 Beginning in 1950, programs devoted to Polish mass songs were aired weekly, while broadcasts of other contemporary Polish works often featured cantatas and folk-based suites. Cantatas in that time and place were expected to function as an expansion of the mass song. They were heard on stage relatively rarely, despite the fact that they were frequently overtly socialist realist in nature. Such pieces were brief, perhaps ten to fifteen minutes long and consisting of multiple movements or sections. As with mass songs, many adhered to the thematic line of praising the supposed benefits of Poland’s Communist system. Alfred 211 AAN, POIA 357/81 (Dział Muzyczny, Zebrania dyrekcji Artos z artystami współpracującymi przy organizacji audycji, Protokoły, listy obecności, 1951–1952 r.), Protokół z narady wytwórczej artystów współpracujących z “ARTOSEM” odbytej w dniu 4 lutego 1952; Miernik, “Państwowa organizacja imprez artystycznych ‘ARTOS’ w latach 1950–1954 i jej funkcjonowanie,” 133; Mieczysław Drobner, “Życie muzyczne w kraju: Łódź,” Muzyka 3, nos. 3–4 (1952): 103. 212 Jasiński, Nowe życie, 110.

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Gradstein’s A Word about Stalin and Jan Adam Maklakiewicz’s Silesia Works and Sings were two of the most frequently heard cantatas on radio. A series devoted to a “Polish Mass Song of the Week” appeared in Radio i Świat from mid-1950 to the end of 1951. More often than not, the featured song seemed to be chosen for the politicized nature of its text, which was printed alongside the melody. Thus, listeners could be inspired by Zbigniew Turski’s Song for the First of May (Piosenka pierwszomajowa), Edward Olearczyk’s Song about Stalin (Pieśń o Stalinie), and Witold Lutosławski’s Nowa Huta, along with his folksy I Would Marry (Wyszłabym ja).213 Although mass songs continued to be broadcast after 1951, they were deemphasized in favor of more frequent airings of compositions based on Polish folk music. Also heard were pieces that had fallen into disfavor as of 1950, such as Lutosławski’s Symphonic Variations, aired in October 1953. His Symphony no. 1 was heard for the first time in nearly five years in August 1954. Both works were broadcast on late-night radio programs whose frequency was limited to the Warsaw area, which was the favored way to “showcase” contemporary Polish music other than mass songs and cantatas without taking up more popular broadcast times.214 In a similar manner, essays about socialist realism published in Radio i Świat disappeared by 1953; they were replaced by praise for formerly questionable musical works. One of these, Andrzej Panufnik’s Sinfonia Rustica, was described in April 1953 as one of his best pieces, particularly for its unusual instrumentation, thus reflecting its restoration to official favor.215 The appearance of this essay just a month after Stalin’s death illustrates that a softening of socialist realist policies may have already started, if only to a minimal degree.216

Festival of Polish Folk Music in 1949 Despite the clear indication of composers’ previous interest in Polish folk music, Poland’s cultural authorities felt it necessary to further enhance the availability 213 “Polska pieśń masowa: Pieśń o Stalinie,” Radio i Świat 6, no. 43 (1950): 4; “Polska pieśń masowa: Nowa Huta,” Radio i Świat 6, no. 47 (1950): 4; “Polska pieśń masowa: Wyszłabym ja . . .,” Radio i Świat 6, no. 49 (1950): 4; “Polska pieśń masowa: Do roboty,” Radio i Świat 7, no. 1 (1951): 1. Nowa Huta, a new city built near Kraków and now part of that metropolis, was designed to house workers from the nearby steel plant. 214 “Audycje Polskiego Radia od 12.X.1953 do 18.X.1953 r.,” Radio i Świat 9, no. 41 (1953): 12; “Audycje Polskiego Radia od 23.VIII.1954 do 29.VIII.1954 roku,” Radio i Świat 10, no. 34 (1954): 10. 215 “Tydzień muzyczny w Polskim Radiu,” Radio i Świat 9, no. 13 (1953): 2. 216 See chapter 5 for more details on this cultural thaw.

Negotiating a New Path 1949–1953

and dissemination of art music inspired by these native sources. Folk-related art music had become an important facet of nationalism in Polish composition and a politicized one as well. Following in the footsteps of the 1947 celebration of Slavic music came the Festival of Polish Folk Music in May 1949. From available programs, it seems that in smaller towns folk troupes, wind ensembles, and choirs from school, factories, and community centers performed mostly anonymous folk songs. Excluding radio listeners, about 500,000 people attended these performances.217 Many of the Festival’s compositions written by members of the Composers’ Union were choral pieces performed in larger cities. Stanisław Wiechowicz was represented by at least twenty such works. These and many other songs by a variety of other composers (for example, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, Tadeusz Paciorkiewicz, Kazimierz Sikorski, and Tadeusz Szeligowski) had originated during the interwar period. Paradoxically, these choral arrangements of folk songs, while embodying the spirit of the organizers’ goals to promote folk music, had originated in the time period frequently described in postwar Poland as a hotbed of formalist composition. Among the many newer pieces presented at the Festival were Andrzej Panufnik’s Sinfonia Rustica, Grażyna Bacewicz’s Violin Concerto no. 3, and Tadeusz Szeligowski’s Lublin Wedding (Wesele lubelskie) for soprano, choir, and orchestra, all written in 1948. The first two were described by at least some contemporary critics as being successful (thus contradicting Włodzimierz Sokorski’s later messaging critical of Panufnik’s work) and, more importantly, as sincere attempts to organically blend folk elements and contemporary musical means.218 These thus contributed to the call for a national musical style that avoided mere quotations of folk music. Panufnik’s and Bacewicz’s compositions also require professional musicians and a listener’s appreciation for dissonant harmonies; both had been commissioned by the Composers’ Union. While appreciated by professional critics, they are not known to have been presented on travel concerts or holiday and anniversary programs intended for wider audiences.

217 According to Witold Rudziński, Zofia Lissa was one of the festival’s primary organizers, along with Roman Jasiński, Jerzy Kołaczkowski, Henryk Swolkień, Stanisław Wiechowicz, Zygmunt Mycielski, and Józef Lasocki. Witold Rudziński, “Festiwal Muzyki Ludowej,” Odrodzenie 6, no. 25 (1949): 4; BN Collection, 1949 programs, passim; AAN, MKiS 366/ XVII 19 (Biuro Amatorskiego Ruchu Artystycznego, Wydział Domów Kultury, Festiwal Polskiej Muzyki Ludowej 1949), passim. 218 See, for example, Roman Haubenstock, “Symfonia wiejska,” Dziennik Literacki 3, no. 27 (1949): 5; Stefan Kisielewski, “Po Festiwalu Polskiej Muzyki Ludowej,” Tygodnik Powszechny 5, no. 22 (1949): 9.

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Herein lies an example of the complexities facing those who wished to promote music that was accessible to broader sections of society in postwar Poland. First, many composers for years had been actively involved in incorporating folk songs into their own compositions. The claim voiced by Piotr Rytel and others that interwar musical styles of some Polish compositions were overly modernist and thus needed to be avoided to attract larger audiences is dubious, since many of these pieces were already, at least by Western European standards, quite conservative in their musical language. Those that were a bit more adventurous (by Bacewicz and Panufnik, for example) were still praised by progressive Polish critics (in this case, Konstanty Regamey and Stefan Kisielewski) during the months immediately preceding the Łagów composers’ conference. Furthermore, the success of the government’s popularization effort was somewhat thwarted by technology. Although many of the pieces on the Festival of Polish Folk Music could be heard live in Poland’s major cities, in its smaller towns and villages they would have been available only via radio broadcasts transmitted through loudspeakers of questionable quality placed on streets and in other public places, since ownership of radios was still quite limited.219 So while city residents could take advantage of the opportunity to hear good performances of the festival’s offerings, elsewhere this would have been more difficult.

Festival of Polish Music 1951 The 1951 Festival of Polish Music, discussed earlier in the context of competitions, commissions, and evaluations, proved to be a massive undertaking involving multiple committees and cultural institutions. As David Tompkins has noted, the Composers’ Union’s participation was marginalized while various other governmental agencies and unions bore the bulk of the organizational efforts. Divided into three stages from April to December, the middle portion (from May to November) was devoted mostly to music for amateurs, while the other sections concentrated more on professional-level performances and compositions.220 As with the earlier folk music festival, this event was designed to

219 Radio i Świat 5 (1949): April–July issues. 220 Tompkins, Composing the Party Line, 171–172; AAN, MKiS 366/IV 39 (Departament Imprez Artystycznych i Obchodów, Zespół Realizacji, Festiwal Muzyki Polskiej 1950–51 r.), Plan pracy Biura Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej na I kwartał 1951 r., Plan pracy w II etapie Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej /1.V–30.XI.51/.

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promote the government’s goals relating to socialist realism and the popularization of music. Perhaps signalling its ongoing relative disinterest in genres such as mass songs and music for amateurs, the Composers’ Union chose to concentrate on the selection of generally more complex forms such as symphonic works, oratorios, cantatas, and chamber works. While this was posited in the musical press as a logical division of responsibilities due to the tremendous organizational effort required for the Festival, the Union’s leadership also claimed that such a distribution would allow it to influence the repertoire selection in a way that reflected its own desires.221 This demarcation of duties also raises the question about why the union, then under Witold Rudziński’s leadership, organized auditions for mass songs, music for clubs and community centers, and light music if it would not be involved in making decisions about performances of these works. Admittedly, cooperation between institutions is always desirable, but from the union’s perspective, such collaboration was frequently lacking with respect to the festival’s preparation.222 Despite the relative disengagement of composers in the Festival’s overall organization, their compositions were far from ignored. More than fifty members of the Composers’ Union were represented at the Festival, with more than 175 of their pieces performed at least once.223 During planning sessions for the first stage, Vice-Minister of Culture and Art Włodzimierz Sokorski had argued that its focus should not be on Poland’s leading composers, whose newest works still allegedly reflected formalist habits despite signs of gradual transformation. Instead, compositions that “lay along the precise line of battle for a new artistic direction” should be included, even if “they were artistically weaker.”224

221 Alina Sawicka, “Z życia Związku Kompozytorów Polskich. Plenum Zarządu ZKP,” Muzyka 2, no. 2 (1951): 40. 222 Three of the eleven members of the Festival’s Repertoire Commission active from January 1951 were members of the Composers’ Union (Witold Rudziński, Faustyn Kulczycki, and Zygmunt Mycielski). They were frequently absent from meetings, although other composers attended occasionally. AAN, MKiS 366/I 751 (DTA, Wydział Twórczości Muzycznej, Festiwal Muzyki Polskiej, Kolegium Repertuarowe 1951), Protokół z I-ego posiedzenia Kolegium Repertuarowego Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej 20.i.51. 223 Included in stage 2, the section oriented primarily towards works for amateurs, were orchestral compositions by Grażyna Bacewicz (the premiere of her Cello Concerto), Tadeusz Baird, Tomasz Kiesewetter, Włodzimierz Kotoński, Zygmunt Mycielski (the premiere of his Polish Symphony), Andrzej Panufnik, Ludomir Różycki, Stanisław Skrowaczewski, Bolesław Szabelski, and Bolesław Woytowicz. Reviews of the festival can be found in Muzyka, Radio i Świat, Nowa Kultura, ZKP, 12/121 (Festiwal Muzyki Polskiej. Recenzje, wycinki prasowe 1951 r.) and 12/122 (Festiwal Muzyki Polskiej. Recenzje, wycinki prasowe—1951 r.) 224 AAN, MKiS 366/I 719, Protokół nr 11.

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Furthermore, concerts should not be designed only for “elite” members of the public.225 Artistic quality of the sort advocated by Stefan Kisielewski and Zygmunt Mycielski was not his top priority. His advice, likely taken as a directive given his authoritative position, was followed to some extent. The festival’s first stage featured 200 performances of pieces by composers who were union members, including those who either were young or rarely received performances of their music—for example, Florian Dąbrowski (1913–2002), Jan Gawlas (1901–1965), Włodzimierz Kotoński, and Stanisław Popiel (1902–1970).226 Established composers were not ignored, however, for compositions by Grażyna Bacewicz, Witold Lutosławski, Andrzej Panufnik, Tadeusz Szeligowski, and Stanisław Wiechowicz were heard frequently. Many Festival concerts, especially during the first stage, consisted of mass songs and/or folk-inspired pieces.227 Such programming seemed to be regarded by concert organizers and government officials as a quintessential response to the repeated calls for socially relevant compositions that preferably included vocal parts and displayed a nationalist flavor. One such program is perhaps typical. On April 19, 1951, the Polish Radio Orchestra and Choir in Warsaw offered the following:228 Itinerant Musician (Wędrowny grajek), suite of mazurkas for tenor, choir, and orchestra (arranged by Feliks Rybicki) Stanisław Wiechowicz: Katie (Kasia), folk suite for two clarinets and string orchestra Zbigniew Turski: Suite on Kurpian Themes (Suita na tematy kurpiowskie) for soprano, choir, and orchestra Witold Friemann: Mazovian Rhapsody for soprano, choir, and orchestra Feliks Rybicki: Silesian Suite (Suita śląska) for choir and orchestra Zygmunt Noskowski (1846–1909):

225 Ibid. 226 Dąbrowski was also a music critic and administrator, Gawlas was an organist and choral director, and Popiel was a pianist and conductor. 227 Festiwal Muzyki Polskiej, Program otwarcia, Kwiecień 1951 (Warsaw, s.n.,1951); BN Collection, 1951 programs. 228 In the program, Friemann’s work is listed as being for women’s choir, but current sources cite the use of a mixed choir. BN Collection, 1951 Warsaw programs, April 19, 1951 concert; https://polmic.pl/index.php?option=com_mwosoby&id=761&litera=7&view=czlowiek& Itemid=5&lang=pl.

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Mass songs— Edward Olearczyk: Witold Lutosławski: Tadeusz Sygietyński: Alfred Gradstein: Władysław Szpilman:

Millions of Hands (Miliony rąk) Nowa Huta Song about the Six-Year Plan (Piosenka o planie 6-letnim) On the Right a Bridge, On the Left a Bridge (Na prawo most, na lewo most) To Work (Do roboty)

According to the program notes for this concert of all Polish music, authentic folk tunes were used in the pieces by Wiechowicz, Turski, Friemann, and Rybicki, while Noskowski’s suite was folk-inspired. The selection of mass songs would most likely have pleased Włodzimierz Sokorski, Zofia Lissa, Witold Rudziński and others, with their current topics related to Poland (preferably glorifying the Party’s work) and a standard form based on verse and refrain that was relatively easy to sing. One commentator claimed “all of Warsaw” was singing Gradstein’s On the Right a Bridge, On the Left a Bridge and Lutosławski’s Nowa Huta.229 Stanisław Wygodzki’s text for Nowa Huta, while never naming the emerging city, expresses hopes for a Poland with no wastelands, where flowers bloom and a strong country emerges. Gradstein’s jaunty piece celebrates the rebuilding of a bridge over the Vistula river, reconnecting the two sides of Warsaw for the first time since the end of the war. Olearczyk’s Millions of Hands was one of the most popular mass songs in Poland. Its text, set to a march rhythm, speaks of hands working together to build a “sunny and independent home for the people,” with its refrain “let work and song unite us.”230 That this “sunny and independent home” did not truly reflect Polish society in the early 1950s was irrelevant, at least to Polish authorities. Socialist realism was always more of a utopian ideal than a depiction of the real world, despite official rhetoric to the contrary. This contradiction in goals could not have been lost on the musical community. Composers were repeatedly challenged to renounce a modernist musical language in favor of turning toward styles that were considered to be proven commodities, even as the Polish government rejected—at least theoretically—the past and aspired for something new and different. Moreover, 229 Krystyna Grosicka, “Po trzecim Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej,” Po Prostu, no. 5 (1952). 230 Witold Lutosławski, Nowa Huta: Na głos z fort. (Warsaw: Czytelnik, 1952); Alfred Gradstein, Na prawo most, na lewo most: Na głos z fortepianem (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1950); Edward Olearczyk, Miliony rąk: Na głos z fortepianem (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1951).

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composers for generations had been interested in folk music and pieces playable by amateurs, but this was not considered sufficient evidence of loyalty toward the general populace and, by extension, to the Polish nation. They should now concentrate fully on producing compositions that could be understood immediately by everyone. The Festival’s December finale was designed to feature the best compositions written in recent years. For the Composers’ Union, this meant showcasing symphonic and chamber pieces, not mass songs and pieces for amateur performers. For example, Bacewicz’s first two symphonies and String Quartet no. 3 were heard, not her smaller works for violin. One critic-composer, Wawrzyniec Żuławski, described the quartet as one of her first pieces in which emotion played an important role, while her Symphony no. 2 was also expressive, but regrettably avoided a “national style” due to its lack of folk reminiscences.231 Both pieces, then, portrayed some but not all elements of the acceptable parameters for new Polish music. Another concert emphasizing folk-flavored pieces included Stanisław Skrowaczewski’s Overture in Classic Style (Uwertura w stylu klasycznym), Henryk Czyż’s Symphonic Variations on a Polish Theme (Wariacje symfoniczne na temat polski), Kazimierz Wiłkomirski’s Symphony Concertante for cello and orchestra, and Jan Ekier’s Colorful Melodies (Kolorowe melodie), in an arrangement for choir and orchestra. Only the overture, a student work composed during the war, lacked any emphasis on folk music.232

Andrzej Panufnik: Symphony of Peace Among the remaining pieces heard during the Festival’s final month, Andrzej Panufnik’s Symphony of Peace (Symfonia pokoju) for choir and orchestra had already garnered much attention in the media and inside the Polish government. In the composer’s recounting of its history, while in Moscow in 1950 as part of an official Polish artistic delegation, he had impulsively announced that he would write a symphony on the theme of peace. This undertaking, perceived (erroneously) as the first composition on such an ideologically significant topic, was viewed as important news by Soviet and Polish authorities, and its 231 Wawrzyniec Żuławski, “Z Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej: Kwartet Szymanowskiego,” Express Wieczorny, no. 314 (1951); AAN, MKiS 366/I 723 (DTA, Wydział Twórczości Muzycznej, Komisja Oceny Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej [Protokoły] 1951), Protokół z II-go posiedzenia Centralnej Komisji Ocen Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej w dniu 21.iv.51. 232 Wawrzyniec Żuławski, “Zakończenie finałów Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej,” Nowa Kultura 3, no. 2 (1952): 11.

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composition was not something he could ignore, even though he claimed to have almost immediately regretted his statement.233 His previous commission to write a Revolutionary Symphony (Symfonia rewolucyjna) for the 1951 Festival of Polish Music was now transformed into this new composition.234 He also could not fail to remember that his Sinfonia Rustica had been sharply criticized (and also supported) over the previous two years and that his Heroic Overture (Uwertura bohaterska) had been performed in December of the same year, after which it had been called formalist by at least one critic.235 Against this backdrop of vague, yet caustic critiques, he wrote Symphony of Peace. The symphony’s premiere in May 1951 was heralded as an important cultural event. Zofia Lissa’s lengthy program note proclaimed that it was the first postwar Polish composition to fit so readily into the nation’s life. That Lissa contributed this essay, instead of the Warsaw Philharmonic’s normal author of program notes, attests to the importance of the occasion. For Lissa, the symphony’s musical language was more concerned with melody and tonal harmonies than Panufnik’s earlier works had been. These features, combined with the work’s divisions into memories of and protests against war, ending with a hymn of peace sung by unison choir, led reviewers to praise its ideological backdrop and accessibility. Yet it was not an overwhelming success. Some critics wanted a more joyous ending

233 Panufnik, Composing Myself, 200. This was not the first postwar Polish composition about peace. Stanisław Prószyński had composed a Peace Suite (Suita pokoju) for soprano, choir, trumpets, and orchestra in 1949, although no performance of it is known to have occurred. 234 Tompkins, Composing the Party Line, 140; AAN, MKiS 366/I /750, Letter from Panufnik to Zarząd Główny Związku Kompozytorów Polskich, April 21, 1950; Panufnik, Composing Myself, 200–205; Thomas, Polish Music, 67. 235 The overture had been scheduled to be presented live and broadcast on radio in Warsaw by Katowice’s Great Polish Radio Symphony Orchestra on May 5, 1950 in a version titled Jubilee Music (Muzyka jubileuszowa). This performance likely did not take place; no reviews of the concert are known to have been published. The Kraków Philharmonic presented the piece as Heroic Overture on December 15, 1950. It was revised by 1952, when it was highly praised at its audition. Panufnik’s description of this latter event does not match the hand-written notes taken from that session, which occurred in Warsaw, not Katowice, as he claimed. He also stated that Grzegorz Fitelberg was present, but the conductor was not listed as an attendee at the Warsaw event. To my knowledge, none of Panufnik’s compositions were auditioned in Katowice. ZKP, 12/139, March 31, 1950; ZKP, 12/5, Protokół z obrad Zwyczajnego Walnego Zgromadzenia członków Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 16, 17, 18 i 19 czerwca 1950 r., page 13; Stefan Kisielewski, “Życie muzyczne,” Tygodnik Powszechny 7, nos. 1–2 (1951): 11; BN Collection, 1951 Kraków programs; “Audycje Polskiego Radia od 30.IV do 7.V.1950 r.,” Radio i Świat 6, no. 18 (1950): 14; BP, “Filharmonia Krakowska poświęcała ostatnie koncerty twórczości polskiej,” Echo Krakowskie, no. 350 (1950): 5; ZKP, 12/116, Protokół z przesłuchania Uwertury bohaterskiej i Koncertu gotyckiego Panufnika w dn. 16.V.52 r.; Andrzej Panufnik, Composing Myself, 209; Adrian Thomas, “Panufnik: Heroic Overture,” https://onpolishmusic.com/prog-notes/%e2%80%a2-2009-panufnik-heroic-overture/.

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that would mobilize listeners. Zygmunt Mycielski, Panufnik’s close friend, wondered if the work’s “constant monody”236 contributed to what he felt was a lack of musical depth in the first two movements.237 Others regretted the influence of medieval music in the first movement and its predominantly mournful mood.238 Although Panufnik received a 1951 State Award in Music for this piece, he was given only a second place ranking. According to the awards committee, the Symphony was not “ideologically pure” due to its use of “medieval motifs, which have always been religious.”239 Thus Panufnik, regarded at that time as perhaps Poland’s leading composer following Palester’s decision to remain abroad, did not enjoy unanimous approval from cultural officials. As a favored artist whom the government viewed as obligated to represent its policies at home and abroad, he frequently but grudgingly signed politicized statements and attended meetings unrelated to music. He was expected to travel abroad for the government. Since travel beyond the countries of the Soviet sphere was tightly restricted,240 his most publicized trips were to the Soviet Union, China, Mongolia, Hungary, and East Germany, although he also went to Helsinki in 1952, to Belgium in 1953 for the quartet competition in Liège, and the same year to Vienna for a Congress of Nations in Defense of Peace. Although he tried to satisfy the demand to write accessible music through his mass songs (of which there were eight)241 and his frequently performed arrangements of early Polish music (Old Polish Suite [Suita staropolska], Divertimento after Trios for Strings by Feliks Janiewicz), he was not protected from

236 Bolesławska-Lewandowska, ed., Zygmunt Mycielski - Andrzej Panufnik: Korespondencja, Część 1, 4. 237 By 1954, Mycielski had changed his opinion about this piece, describing it as “in a sense, Beethovenesque.” Ibid., 4, 9. 238 The original plan was for the Polish Radio choir and an amateur choral group to perform at the premiere, but contract issues and the radio ensemble’s refusal to sing with amateurs prevented that from occurring. (ibis), “Dziś po raz pierwszy usłyszymy ‘Symfonię Pokoju’,” Życie Warszawy 8, no. 143 (May 25, 1951): 3; BN Collection, 1951 Warsaw programs, Warsaw Philharmonic, May 25, 1951; Aleksander Jackowski, “Po pierwszym etapie Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej,” Muzyka 2, no. 7 (1951): 5. 239 Quoted in Bolesławska, The Life and Works of Andrzej Panufnik, 112. 240 Panufnik was not permitted to attend meetings of UNESCO’s International Music Council even though he was one of its members. Bolesławska, The Life and Works of Andrzej Panufnik, 114, 241 The Polish Music Information Centre (POLMIC)-hosted website devoted to Panufnik does not mention Onward Working People (Naprzód ludu roboczy) or Song of Unity (Pieśń jedności), two of the songs he submitted for the 1948 PZPR competition; the music for them is not extant. AAN, MKiS, 366/I 499, Pieśni nadesłane na Konkurs Pieśni Zjednoczonych Partii Robotniczych; Beata Bolesławska-Lewandowska, “Mass Songs and Symphony of Peace,” trans. Anna Kijak and Zofia Weaver, http://panufnik.polmic.pl/index.php/en/ tworczosc/omowienia-utworow/128-mass-songs-and-symphony-of-peace.

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continued criticism that seemingly could come at any time, even for a piece such as Symphony of Peace that was ostentatiously prepared as an example of music that adhered to the country’s new ideological guidelines. In reality, there were no clear guidelines for composers to follow if they wished to satisfy governmental desires. They depended on the whims of the Party and governmental officials in place at any given time to make decisions about the fate of their compositions. Panufnik preferred to be left alone to compose rather than spend time carrying out public activities. Yet as Michał Głowiński has pointed out, he received amenities such as housing provided by the government for his honeymoon in exchange for acquiescing to these demands.242 Prestige was accompanied by financial incentives. In hindsight, it is perhaps easy to make such statements, but in the early 1950s political changes were not on the horizon. Panufnik and others should perhaps not be blamed for trying to earn money and further their careers, even if some artistic compromises were necessary.

Witold Lutosławski: Gebrauchsmusik As discussed earlier, Witold Lutosławski had already been subjected to negative critiques directed at his compositions. His fortunes changed, however, with the performances of his music at the 1951 Festival of Polish Music. Omitted from the festival program were his Symphony no. 1 and Symphonic Variations, which had been met with varying degrees of censure. What audiences heard instead were his mass songs and two folk-based orchestral works, the Little Suite and Silesian Triptych (Tryptyk śląski), the latter with soprano solo. Much to the composer’s chagrin, he was awarded second prize at the festival for his mass songs (Nowa Huta and Service to Poland [Śłużba Polsce]) and children’s songs (Straw Chain [Słomkowy łańcuszek]) and first prize for Silesian Triptych.243

242 Debate still continues about the extent to which Panufnik willingly acquiesced to governmental demands. In Głowiński’s view, Panufnik could have refused to cooperate with authorities and not experienced retributions. Bolesławska believes he had to do as bidden in order to provide for his family and to keep the Composers’ Union in good standing. He likely hoped in return for a calmer life and time to compose, although that never happened. Michał Głowiński, Rytuał i demagogia: Trzynaście szkiców o sztuce zdegradowanej (Warsaw: Open, 1992), 95–103; Bolesławska, The Life and Works of Andrzej Panufnik, 106–117; Thomas, Polish Music, 65–69; Tompkins, Composing the Party Line, 252. 243 Varga and Lutosławski, Lutosławski Profile, 8–9.

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The Little Suite, originally written in 1949 for a small Polish Radio orchestra that played light music, was revised two years later for a larger symphonic ensemble. Using folk tunes from the Machów region northeast of Kraków,244 Lutosławski created a playful piece with clear textures and clashing harmonies that garnered glowing accolades from the musical press and cultural authorities. As Sokorski noted, both Little Suite and Silesian Triptych demonstrated a “unity of idea and form”245 reflected in their ideological and emotional strength. Using a folk text and tunes from Silesia, an area located mostly in southwestern Poland, Silesian Triptych is more dramatically expressive than Little Suite and features a somewhat more complicated orchestral setting. Although performed only once at the 1951 Festival of Polish Music, it was immediately labeled a success by both cultural officials and music critics.246 Both compositions were praised for the nationalist character created by their innovative settings of folk music. As a result, Lutosławski was restored to prominence in the eyes of cultural officials and lauded as a composer of socialist realist music. As Sokorski remarked in 1953, Lutosławski was among those who made a “serious effort . . . to raise the ideological and artistic quality of their works . . . These testify to the open participation of Polish creators and artists in building a new socialist culture.”247 Only Stefan Kisielewski, writing in mid-1952, lamented that these two pieces represented a somewhat marginal position in comparison to what he called “the ‘great’ creative line” of Lutosławski’s Symphony no. 1 and Symphonic Variations.248 As Danuta Gwizdalanka and Krzysztof Meyer noted decades later, the popularity of these two works meant that they were among the only Polish compositions that, in the eyes of many officials in the early 1950s, bore the attributes of true socialist realist compositions: melody was paramount, folklore was present, and overall they were simple but not excessively so.249 The Little Suite would be 244 Lutosławski heard music from this area at the 1949 Festival of Polish Folk Music; at some point, he had written down some of the melodies. Zofia Lissa, “‘Mała suita’ i ‘Tryptyk’ Witolda Lutosławskiego,” Muzyka 3, nos. 5–6 (1952): 12–13; Adrian Thomas, “Mat. Ludowe: The Lutos File,” in Lisa Jakelski and Nicholas Reyland, eds., Lutosławski’s Worlds (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2018), 236–238. 245 Włodzimierz Sokorski, “Festiwal Muzyki Polskiej w świetle obrad zjazdu kompozytorów polskich,” Radio i Świat 8, no. 3 (1952): 3. 246 Sokorski, “Festiwal Muzyki Polskiej w świetle obrad,” 3; A. H., “Pokłosie Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej: Nowe polskie utwory symfoniczne i kantatowe,” Życie Warszawy 8, no. 332 (1951): 2; Żuławski, “Z Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej: Kwartet Szymanowskiego.” 247 Włodzimierz Sokorski, “O dalszy rozwój sztuki polskiej,” Przegląd Kulturalny 2, no. 6 (1953): 1. 248 Stefan Kisielewski, “Życie muzyczne,” Tygodnik Powszechny 8, no. 24 (1952): 12. 249 For Gwizdalanka and Meyer, the musical style of these pieces represented a continuation of had already been heard in Lutosławski’s other folk-inspired works. In part through their

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performed approximately fifty times before the end of 1956, including about twenty times on radio); Silesian Triptych was heard about twenty times, of which six were on radio. Lutosławski called these and other pieces such as Folk Melodies (Melodie ludowe) and his children’s music “functional” works à la Hindemith’s Gebrauchsmusik that allowed him to work in a limited way on the development of his personal musical language. They also filled an important need for such compositions in the aftermath of the war. They conveniently fit into the government’s scheme to bring music to the masses, even though the politicization of popularization efforts in Polish music had not occurred when Lutosławski began such compositional activity immediately after the war. Although he wrote such politically-oriented songs as Nowa Huta and Service to Poland, apparently in response to Swolkień’s warning that he needed to write a few mass songs to stay in the good graces of Polish Radio (where he was employed), he drew the line at glorifying the personalities who enforced the existing political system: he refused to write music for a film extolling the life of Karol Świerczewski (1897– 1947), a Pole who became a Soviet general during World War II and later the Deputy Defense Minister in Poland. The film was released in 1953 with music by Piotr Perkowski; although as early as 1950, one critic had announced that Lutosławski would be the composer.250 Although Lutosławski’s interest in song writing predates the official postwar push for simpler, more accessible music, his claim that he chose texts that had no political meaning is something of an overstatement, given the mass songs mentioned above. While it is true is that he did not write odes to Stalin or to Poland’s Six Year Plan, as Edward Olearczyk, Alfred Gradstein, Henryk Swolkień, and others had, he did work on a cantata titled July Garland (Lipcowy wieniec), using a text that celebrated the political holiday of July 22, 1949. Its three movements were titled Battle, Reconstruction, and Song of the Defenders of Peace, all almost certainly references to recent Polish history and socialist ideology.251 unusual orchestral colors, they were also related to Symphony no. 1. Gwizdalanka and Meyer, Lutosławski, 1: 243–244. 250 Nikolska, Conversations with Witold Lutosławski, 37–39, 41–42; Tadeusz Marek, “Jak rosła muzyka pracy, przyjaźni i pokoju (w przededniu Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej),” Muzyka 1, nos. 7–8 (1950): 13; Gwizdalanka and Meyer, Lutosławski, 1: 228. 251 Another song, About the Armored Weapons (O broni pancernej) was reset, without Lutosławski’s approval, to a text about Stalin. It is possibly related to the July Garland cantata, although no direct evidence of that connection exists. Fragments of the instrumental parts have been located in Warsaw. Adrian Thomas, “WL 100/51: July Garland (1949)—the Music,” https://onpolishmusic.com/?s=july+garland; AAN, MKiS 366/I 750, Letter from Lutosławski to Zarządu ZKP, April 8, 1950.

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Adrian Thomas has also pointed out, however, that Lutosławski probably composed mass songs in order to protect his family from recriminations: some of its members had maintained wartime connections with the Home Army and in 1918 his father and uncle had been murdered by the Bolsheviks in retribution for their political and family connections.252

Stanisław Wiechowicz: Unsung Composer of Accessible Music Perhaps one of the most overlooked heroes of Polish music during the first postwar decade was Stanisław Wiechowicz. With more than thirty performances of his music at the 1951 Festival of Polish Music, he was the most frequently performed living composer at that event. During the first postwar decade, his works were performed more than 300 times, rivaling the more internationally known Grażyna Bacewicz. Based in Poznań during the interwar period, he moved to Kraków in 1945, where he taught at the Higher School of Music and edited a series of choral compositions printed by Polish Music Publishers. He was known almost exclusively for his choral pieces, many of which were based on folk music and/or texts. Audiences heard his most popular works at the festival in 1951. These included On a Clay Vase (Na glinianym wazoniku), which incorporates krakowiak and oberek rhythms (an excerpt is shown in Figure 8) and perhaps his most popular song, Where Have My Tulips Gone (Gdzie mi się podziały tulipany). Katie (Kasia), an acclaimed suite for two clarinets and strings based on folk material, was presented more than thirty-five times by professional orchestras during the first postwar decade, including at least six performances at this event. Given Wiechowicz’s enthusiasm for composing folk-based choral music that featured clear-cut rhythms and tonal harmonies, one would think that he would have been lifted up as an example of an exemplary composer who wrote according to socialist realist principles. During his decades of working with amateur choirs in the Poznań region, he had demonstrated his support for bringing music to the general public—in other words, for the popularization of music. Although Wiechowicz was granted the annual Composers’ Union award for 1953 for his entire output,253 he was generally ignored by critics. Most journalists mentioned 252 Thomas, Polish Music, 55; Gwizdalanka and Meyer, Lutosławski, 1: 21–25. 253 ZKP, 12/77 (Nagrody Związku Kompozytorów Polskich od r. 1949 corocznie do 1977 r.), Protokół z posiedzenia Jury Dorocznej Nagrody Z. K. P. przyznawanej w dniu 17 stycznia.

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Figure 8.  Stanisław Wiechowicz, On a Clay Vase (Na glinianym wazoniku), measures 62–85, from Stanisław Wiechowicz, Z pieśni chóralnych. Courtesy of Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, Kraków, Poland, 1987

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performances of his works on professional stages only in passing. Critics usually avoided discussing concerts of amateur musicians, which meant that many presentations of his music were overlooked. Admittedly, Wiechowicz was not the most cooperative of composers. In a September 1950 letter addressed to the Composers’ Union president (Witold Rudziński), he pleaded to not be burdened with the questionnaires and other requests the organization frequently sent. He had disparaged the need to compose differently for general society; he wrote only one mass song, the choral Work Song (Pieśń pracy) in 1949, which received at least eleven performances in 1951 and 1952.254 Also in 1950, he had rejected the idea of being on the Union’s executive board, citing his lack of qualification to help in “such an extremely difficult and complex moment as this.”255 (Typical of many composers, he also asked the Composers’ Union for assistance in improving his living situation. In 1951, he described his apartment as being three rooms, with two students living in one of them, he and his wife in another, and the third being his work area. A “domestic helper” lived in the common kitchen.)256 Wiechowicz’s residency in Kraków instead of the capital city of Warsaw probably kept him out of the spotlight and beyond the notice of influential decisionmakers. Certainly others in similar positions were also relatively ignored by both the media and the government. Bolesław Szabelski in Katowice, for example, was acknowledged by his colleagues as an accomplished composer, but remained in the background otherwise.

Young Composers React: Group 49 Personal relationships were sometimes exploited by the Polish government for its own ideological purposes. The most conspicuous instance of this within the musical community involved three young composers: Tadeusz Baird, Jan Krenz, 254 ZKP, Stanisław Wiechowicz folder, Letter from Wiechowicz to the Composers’ Union’s president, September 25, 1950; Wiechowicz, “Wydawnictwa ‘Czytelnika’,” 14; Wiechowicz, “Kompozytor w dobie dzisiejszej,” 6–7. For sample performances of Work Song, see AAN, MKiS 366/I 2390, Sprawozdanie z działalności artystycznej Państwowej Filharmonii w Krakowie za miesiąc sierpień 1950 r.; BN Collection, 1951 programs, A–K, Festiwal Muzyki Polskiej Gościnny występ Chóru Chłopięcego i Męskiego przy Państwowej Filharmonii w Poznaniu, April 18, 1951, Warsaw. 255 ZKP, Stanisław Wiechowicz folder, Letter from Wiechowicz to the Composers’ Union’s president, June 28, 1950. 256 ZKP, Stanisław Wiechowicz folder, Letter from Wiechowicz to the Composers’ Union’s presidium, June 6, 1951.

Negotiating a New Path 1949–1953

and Kazimierz Serocki. At the 1949 Łagów conference, these men had banded together, asserting—as Serocki said—that as part of the youngest generation, they would find it easier to compose “simple, clear music”257 than those who had been active during the interwar period. This may seem like they were challenging the generation of their teachers (who included Piotr Rytel, Kazimierz Sikorski, Piotr Perkowski, and Bolesław Woytowicz). As Baird later described it, however, after hearing the heated discussions at Łagów, he, Serocki, and Krenz decided to help each other as they made their way through a “difficult, complicated, foreign, and dangerous world.”258 Krenz was also a conductor and Serocki a talented pianist, which proved helpful when arranging joint performances. Their common bond immediately paid dividends. In December 1949, Serocki performed the solo part of Baird’s brand-new Piano Concerto with the Łódź Philharmonic. The piece was repeated a month later at the first concert billed as a Group 49 (Grupa 49) event, this time performed by the Warsaw Philharmonic, Krenz conducting, which also included the latter’s own Symphony no. 1 and his arrangement of Wojciech Dankowski’s Symphony in D as well as Serocki’s Four Folk Dances (Cztery tańce ludowe).259 Although another joint concert would not be held until 1952, the Group 49 moniker was still attached to each of these composers in program notes and press reviews related to nearly all performances of their compositions, which undoubtedly indicates governmental interest in promoting their manifesto.260 The program in May of that year, again with Krenz conducting the Warsaw Philharmonic, featured Baird’s Colas Breugnon suite, Krenz’s Rhapsody (Rapsodia) for string orchestra, xylophone, tam-tam, timpani, and celesta, Serocki’s Symphony no. 1, and Krenz’s reconstruction of parts of Antoni Milwid’s Sinfonia Concertante.261 Five months later, the final joint concert of this

257 “Konferencja kompozytorów w Łagowie Lubuskim,” 28. 258 Quoted in Literska, Tadeusz Baird, 36. 259 BN Collection, 1950 Warsaw programs, Warsaw Philharmonic, January 13, 1950; Łódź Philharmonic Collection, 1949_12_02-04 Pr XI Konc Symf (December 2, 1949). 260 A joint concert was planned for November 1950, but was canceled due to Serocki’s travels. AAN, MKiS 366/I 2390, Sprawozdanie z działalności artystycznej Państwowej Filharmonii w Krakowie za miesiąc listopad 1950 r.; BN Collection, 1950 and 1951 Kraków programs, 1951 Warsaw programs, 1951 A-K programs, passim; A. H., “Inauguracja sezonu Filharmonii Warszawskiej,” Życie Warszawy 8, no. 18 ( January 18, 1951): 3. 261 MKiS 366/1 2765, Sprawozdanie artystyczne za m-c maj 1952 r. Milwid (c. 1755–1837) was probably the music director and composer at a monastery in the Polish village of Czerwińsk on the Vistula. Krenz conducted only because the scheduled conductor, Witold Rowicki, went to Prague instead.

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short-lived group included Serocki’s symphony alongside Krenz’s Concertino for piano and small orchestra and Baird’s Giocoso Overture. Overall, the critical response to these pieces was less than ideal for either its composers or those cultural officials hoping to champion overtly socialist realist compositions. Krenz’s symphony, completed in 1949 and premiered the following year, was rebuked by one critic for failing to fulfill socialist realist postulates;262 it was, as another said, a “catastrophic tragedy.”263 Serocki’s symphony, premiered in 1952, was the most widely acclaimed. Its somewhat bombastic nature and highly chromatic harmonies—Tarnawczyk notes its opening theme uses a twelve-tone scale—did not deter this praise.264 By early 1953, in fact, one critic declared it had no formalist traits and was one of the most mature symphonic pieces of recent years.265 It is difficult to imagine the same reaction would have occurred between 1949 and 1951, the years of the most stringent emphasis on producing compositions for the masses. Strikingly, despite the desire of the Group 49 composers to “write emotional music that does not resign from contemporary means of expressions, but that, however, is intended for a wide audience,”266 combined with the official governmental promotion of folk music, their musical language for the most part did not include such native elements. Serocki’s Four Folk Dances, one of few such pieces on these joint concerts to be overtly related to folk music, was not enthusiastically received; its “sharp harmonic language” led to accusations that the piece “bordered on [being an] experimentation” with folk music.267 Of course, the literal quotation of folk tunes had been sharply discouraged by officials and critics, which meant that transformations such as Serocki had attempted should have been appreciated. Baird’s Piano Concerto also incorporated folk-like themes, as did one movement of Serocki’s symphony, but the concerto was faulted for its eclecticism and thematic problems; it received only a handful of performances (all but one with Serocki as soloist) within the next few years.268

262 P, “Z krakowskiej Filharmonii,” Gazeta Krakowska 5, no. 214 (September 8, 1953): 4. 263 Marek, “Grupa 49 (Próba charakterystyki),” 47. 264 Tarnawczyk, Optymistyczna i monumentalna: Symfonia w muzyce polskiego socrealizmu, 156. 265 “Przegląd Muzyczny. XVII koncert filharmoniczny,” Dziennik Zachodni, no. 29 (February 3, 1953). See also Stefan Kisielewski, “Recenzja niedoskonała,” Tygodnik Powszechny 8, no. 26 (1952): 10. 266 Tadeusz Marek, “Grupa 49,” in BN Collection, 1952 Warsaw programs, Warsaw Philharmonic concert, May 30 and June 1, 1952. 267 Marek, “Grupa 49 (Próba charakterystyki),” 49–50. 268 Stefan Kisielewski, “Życie muzyczne: ‘Grupa 49’,” Tygodnik Powszechny 6, no. 5 (1950): 7; Ksi [Stefan Kisielewski], “Na przykładzie pewnego koncertu,” Muzyka 1, no. 1 (1950): 37–40.

Negotiating a New Path 1949–1953

Most of the remaining works by these composers were sometimes characterized as failing to advance their authors’ compositional development.269 The stylized reconstruction of music from earlier centuries heard in Krenz’s remakes of symphonies by Dankowski and Milwid as well as Baird’s arrangement of sixteenth-century French music in Colas Breugnon (originally written as music for a radio play) brought a reaction from at least one critic who thought such musical revivals did little to contribute to the creation of music for current society.270 Others, however, praised this compositional technique, especially if folk tunes were involved, precisely because it involved the application of music from earlier Polish traditions to new composition. The term “stylization” was frequently used by Polish critics to describe anything that was strongly reminiscent of some earlier genre, composition, or musical language. For example, the final movement of Krenz’s Conversation of Two Cities (Rozmowa dwóch miast) was described as a “stylization of a broadly extended mass song”271—which seems bizarre given the recent introduction of that socialist genre—and Włodzimierz Kotoński’s Highlander Dances (Tańce góralskie) as an “imaginative stylization of folklore.”272 For composers, such pieces were in line with the publicized desire to write music accessible to the general public that took advantage of music from their own country. Such pieces also became relatively popular ways for composers to earn money. Krenz, for example, also arranged J. S. Bach’s Art of the Fugue, created a suite of dances from a collection originally composed by the sixteenth-century Polish composer John of Lublin, and composed a Classical Serenade (Serenada klasyczna) à la Haydn. These arrangements and stylizations became part of Krenz’s reaction (along with his socialist realist cantata Conversation of Two Cities) to the backlash he received for his “gloomy” and “foreign”273 Symphony no. 1, formalist Quartet for winds, and “arid, cold, and ugly”274 Suite of Nocturnes (Suita nokturnów) for orchestra. Krenz soon chose to concentrate more on his conducting activities than his composing. Andrzej Panufnik also took advantage of this type of writing. His Old Polish Suite (Suita staropolska) consists of arrangements of sixteenth-century dances from Polish tablatures, while his Gothic Concerto (Koncert gotycki) for trumpet, 269 Stefan Kisielewski, “Życie muzyczne,” Tygodnik Powszechny 8, no. 50 (1952): 6. 270 A. H., “‘Grupa 49’,” Życie Warszawy 9, no. 135 ( June 6, 1952): 4. 271 Józef Chomiński, “Dwa miasta—kantata Jana Krenza,” Muzyka 2, nos. 3–4 (1951): 9. 272 Henryk Swolkień, “Po pierwszym etapie Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej w Warszawie,” Muzyka 2, no. 7 (1951): 36. 273 Marek, “Grupa 49 (Próba charakterystyki),” 47. 274 Ibid., 51.

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timpani, harp, and string orchestra, originally written to accompany a film about Kraków’s iconic St. Mary’s Church, makes use of Polish tunes from the fifteenth to seventeenth centuries. As the composer later said, one benefit of writing such pieces was that “even the most accomplished experts in dialectic sloganry had difficulty in finding any derogatory labels to apply.”275 As discussed earlier, he too had been frustrated by governmental initiatives and directives and turned to such compositional techniques as a way to try to appease authorities, only to face continued criticism. The co-opting by cultural officials of the three young composers in Group 49 as a homogenized group whose music would please audiences and authorities must be deemed a failure. These composers did not work consistently toward an innovative blend of folk and serious music and they flirted with danger by—in Baird’s case—repeatedly delaying the composition of his Ballad of the Soldier’s Mug and—in Krenz’s case—by writing a wind quartet (completed in 1950) that did not make it a concert stage due to its alleged formalist baggage. Serocki’s Romantic Concerto (Koncert romantyczny) for piano and orchestra had been widely criticized following its premiere in January 1951.276 As early as 1950, these composers’ colleagues realized they were friends who helped each other with performances more than they shared a common view of contemporary composition. Yet references to Group 49 are found in Polish concert programs and other publications at least through 1956, a signal that they were still in the good graces of governmental authorities despite the relatively biting assessments of their compositions. In the 1950s, condemnations by governmental officials of new compositions by composers residing in Poland no longer occurred, even if pieces banned from performance earlier in the postwar period still could not be heard in public. Baird, Serocki, and Krenz may have benefitted from this relaxation of censorship.277 Despite this apparent lessening of governmental strictures, however, composers could not be sure that their new pieces would not be treated to official rebukes. As late as 1952, composers such as Lutosławski and Serocki tried to protect themselves from recrimination by composing mass songs (respectively, Comrade [Towarzysz] and Anti-Tankers

275 Panufnik, Composing Myself, 191. In 1955 Panufnik remade Gothic Concerto into Concerto in modo antico, with an added harpsichord part. 276 Wawrzyniec Żuławski, “Otwarcie Filharmonii Warszawskiej,” Nowa Kultura 2, no. 4 (1951); Zofia Lissa, “O krytyce muzycznej,” Muzyka 2, no. 2 (1951): 9–14; A. H., “Inauguracja sezonu Filharmonii Warszawskiej.” 277 BN Collection, 1955 Stalinogród programs, Silesian Philharmonic, March 25, 1955; Sierp [Zdzisław Sierpiński], “‘Grupa 49’ w roku 1956,” Życie Warszawy 13, no. 297 (December 11, 1956): 3.

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[Przeciwpancerniacy]) whose texts reflected a socialist realist outlook, even as they were also working on other more complex pieces (for Lutosławski, his Concerto for Orchestra and for Serocki, his Suite of Preludes [Suita preludiów] for piano).

Summarizing Socialist Realism in Polish Music As discussed above, the years from 1949–1953 marked a period in which, according to many cultural officials, all activities related to music composition were to be extended toward accommodating the ideals of socialist realism. In practice, the system of commissions and auditions assured a plethora of new compositions of various styles and reasonably frequent performances of new Polish music, most often on various festivals. Where the process failed, as with Artos’s lack of new compositions on its own concerts, organizations such as Polish Music Publishers and the Composers’ Union picked up the slack by producing their own events. The push to popularize music among a broad circle of citizens meant, according to the government, that mass songs, cantatas, and folk-based pieces would be favored. Fortunately for composers, their professional union maintained a laissez-faire attitude that permitted them to maintain some degree of compositional freedom. Witold Rudziński’s humiliating experience as the Union’s president demonstrated that his compositional colleagues would insist on promoting this “live and let live” demeanor. The union could assist with housing, medical care, and commissions, but it should refrain as much as possible from insisting on any particular compositional style or language, despite speeches and competitions promoting such mandates. Many composers did, however, produce pieces inspired by folk music, which in the postwar era had become nearly synonymous with national music. In part, this compositional inclination was a legacy of interwar practices. At the same time, there is little doubt that without the specter of socialist realism and its occasional limitations on performances of allegedly formalist music, many composers would have experimented more extensively with their personal musical language.

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CHAPTER 5

Ideological Turbulence, Hopeful Composers 1954–1956

In many respects, Polish musical life in 1953 looked much the same as it had during the preceding few years. Competitions, commissions, and performances helped to maintain composers’ livelihoods even though these mechanisms failed to yield high-quality mass songs and cantatas in quantities sufficient to satisfy cultural authorities.1 Exhortations to produce compositions accessible to broad swaths of society, preferably utilizing Polish folk music in some form, continued to be articulated at meetings and in print, while Marxist-Leninist interpretations of musical aesthetics appeared in scholarly publications.2 Yet a singular event signaled opportunities for greater change than had previously been possible. Joseph Stalin’s death on March 5, 1953, announced in Poland on radio, newspapers, and via the country’s ubiquitous outdoor loudspeakers, commanded the attention, but in most cases not the sorrow of the entire country. Routine activities were altered or canceled. As Anna Czekanowska (1929– 2021), then an ethnomusicology graduate student in Poznań, has recounted, her previously scheduled meeting with Zofia Lissa did not take place that day. Arriving at the older musicologist’s apartment, she found her teacher unusually preoccupied, dressed in mourning clothes and, at least in Czekanowska’s recollection, accompanied by Julia Bristiger (1902–1975), a fellow Jew and Communist Party member employed in the Ministry of Public Security. At Polish Radio headquarters, where Czekanowska went next, she encountered “great chaos.” She finally realized what had happened, after having ignored the

1 2

Sokorski, “Festiwal Muzyki Polskiej w świetle obrad,” 3. For example, Zofia Lissa, “Niektóre zagadnienia estetyki muzycznej,” 11–154; MKiS 366/III 36, 2/8–3/3.

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pronouncements made incessantly on loudspeakers. In her opinion, Polish society seemed mostly indifferent to the news, preferring to remain silent, at least in public.3 Roman Jasiński went a step further, claiming that many Poles “breathed a sigh of relief.”4 Such reactions are similar to those noted by other observers of Polish society during the requisite mourning period, when solemn faces were absent, replaced by laughter or disinterest while sirens blared and church bells tolled in official remembrance of the Soviet leader.5 State media was not permitted to be silent or carry on as usual, however. At Polish Radio, all programming was revamped. News updates from Moscow were aired every half hour. According to Jasiński, the radio’s music department had to broadcast only the “saddest”6 compositions for at least a week. Fearful that someone would choose something inappropriate, upper management created a special repertoire committee, which included Polish Radio’s president, to preview everything that seemed the least bit doubtful.7 Among the compositions whose broadcasts were canceled were Kazimierz Serocki’s mass song titled Song of Youth (Pieśń młodości), Tadeusz Baird’s jaunty Colas Breugnon suite, and Grażyna Bacewicz’s Violin Concerto no. 3. In addition to the eulogies printed in Radio i Świat and elsewhere, Lissa penned an essay on the portrayal of Stalin in Soviet music, ignoring similar efforts made by Poland’s own composers in recent years.8 Memorials continued even after the funeral, which was held on March 9th. One series of radio broadcasts that began in April consisted of songs from various nations that had been dedicated to Stalin. In contrast to the placement of many contemporary Polish compositions on late evening broadcasts, these were aired in the afternoon, apparently in hopes of attracting more listeners.9 Concert programs were also canceled or modified. In Kraków and Katowice (renamed Stalinogród on March 8th), Philharmonic concerts were canceled for the days immediately following Stalin’s death; the Silesian Philharmonic

3 Czekanowska, Ku niedalekiej przeszłości, 52–53. Bristiger was renowned for her harsh interrogations for the Ministry of Public Security during the Stalinist era in Poland. Audrey Kichelewski, “Imagining ‘the Jews’ in Stalinist Poland: Nationalists or Cosmopolites?,” European Review of History 17, no. 3 (2010): 515. 4 Jasiński, Nowe życie, 154. 5 Sławomir Wieczorek, “Sacred Silence: The Soundscape of Mourning,” trans. Agata Klichowska, Glissando, no. 26 (2015): 107–111. 6 Jasiński, Nowe życie, 155. 7 For example, Romuald Gadomski, president of Polish Radio, disallowed Rachmaninov’s Island of the Dead, saying it was macabre. Ibid., 154–155. 8 Zofia Lissa, “Postać Wielkiego Stalina w muzyce i pieśni radzieckiej,” Radio i Świat 9, no. 11 (1953): 2–3. 9 “Tydzień muzyczny w Polskim Radiu,” Radio i Świat 9, no. 15 (1953): 2.

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noted that this occurred per the orders of the Polish United Workers’ Party. The Łódź Philharmonic held its scheduled concert, albeit with a modified program. Instead of performing works by Sergei Prokofiev and Gioachino Rossini, the orchestra offered Ludwig van Beethoven’s funeral march from his Symphony no. 3 and the Coriolan Overture. On a Warsaw chamber concert, compositions by Manuel De Falla, Claude Debussy, and Henri Duparc were replaced by offerings from Sergei Rachmaninov, Pyotr Ilych Tchaikovsky, and Giuseppe Verdi.10 Perhaps surprisingly, Frédéric Chopin’s famous funeral march from his Piano Sonata no. 2 was not presented on stage, although it was heard over Kraków’s loudspeakers during the requisite five-minute silence demanded on the day of the funeral.11 Newspapers and periodicals were also expected to pay their respects to Stalin. Tygodnik Powszechny, the only such publication to refuse to do so and the home of many of Stefan Kisielewski’s censorious essays, ceased to exist in its current form as a result.12 Even the bi-monthly journal Muzyka opened its next issue with an obsequious tribute in which the deceased was described as “the Leader of progressive humanity, the Standard-Bearer of Peace, the Teacher of the era - the Friend of Nations, the Father.”13 A similar essay, most likely provided by the government or the Polish United Workers’ Party, appeared in the Warsaw Philharmonic’s program book for March 27th. This accolade included the words 10 AAN, MKiS 366/I 2751, Sprawozdanie opisowe z działalności artystycznej Państw. Filharmonii w Krakowie za miesiąc marzec 1953 r.; AAN, MKiS 366/I 2758, Komentarz opisowy do sprawozdania z wykonania planu usługowego Państw. Filharmonii Śląskiej w m-cu marcu 1953 r.; AAN, MKiS 366/I 2766, Sprawozdanie artystyczne za miesiąc marzec 1953 r.; AAN, MKiS 366/I 2754 (CZTOiF, Wydz. Symfoniczny, Państwowa Filharmonia w Łodzi [Sprawozdania miesięczne z działalności] 1952–55 r.), Sprawozdanie artystyczne za m-c marzec 53 r. 11 Chopin’s music, widely recognized as a symbol of Polish nationalism, was not always considered appropriate for mourning a Soviet icon. As Kallberg has suggested, his funeral march could be associated with the 1830 Polish uprising against the Russians, which if this connection were known to Polish authorities in the early 1950s, would certainly have kept the piece in the drawer during the mourning period for Stalin. Jeffrey Kallberg, “Chopin’s March, Chopin’s Death,” 19th-Century Music 25, no. 1 (2001): 24: Wieczorek, “Sacred Silence,” 110. 12 This weekly newspaper reappeared under the same name later in 1953 but was run by PAX, a nominally Catholic but pro-Communist organization. This version of the publication was known colloquially as Tygodnik Paxowski, to distinguish it from the Tygodnik Powszechny that had first appeared in 1945, but was banned from publishing from mid-1953 to late 1956. 13 Ironically, the delay in printing this publication, typical at the time, made it seem as if the tribute appeared before the leader’s death, since the eulogy appeared in the first issue of the year, which at least theoretically represented the months of January and February. Tadeusz Marek, the editor of Muzyka, was questioned about this by security officials. See “W wielkiego Stalina wsłuchani głos po jasny idziemy, szczęśliwy los . . .,” Muzyka 4, nos. 1–2 (1953): 5–6; Gwizdalanka and Meyer, Lutosławski, 1: 274.

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“the brilliant, heroic figure of Joseph Stalin will forever be an inspiration for Polish composers.”14 Most Polish composers would not have agreed with that statement. Even Witold Rudziński noted in his diary only that “yesterday Stalin died,”15 offering no opinion on the Soviet leader’s meaning for Polish music. Andrzej Panufnik made no mention of this time in his autobiography. A moment of silence held at the March meeting of the Composers’ Union’s executive board honored not only Stalin but also Czech Party leader Klement Gottwald (1896–1953), Sergei Prokofiev, and Polish composer Ludomir Różycki.16

Shifting Strategies Following Stalin’s death, expectations of change were in the air. A loosening of what in some areas of the Soviet Union had been a reign of terror ensued, as some prisoners were released and dogmatic ideological principles were softened over the next few months.17 By the end of 1953 Soviet composers began calling for less stringent directives about the goals and musical language of new composition.18 In Poland, similar shifts came more slowly. In March 1954, the autocratic Party leader and prime minister, Bolesław Bierut, was replaced in the latter position by Józef Cyrankiewicz. At the same time, hints of official criticism of the actions taken in preceding years appeared. In the field of music, this occurred within the Ministry of Culture and Art, the Composers’ Union, and the cultural press, where discussions focused on topics that had not surfaced publicly for several years. These included access to knowledge of modern compositions from beyond Poland’s western border and a modification, if not a rejection, of the demand to produce a new national musical style heavily dependent on the country’s own folk music. Although the Union had already demonstrated its willingness to protect its members from the harshest of governmental entreaties, now, through its youngest composers and those who had opposed socialist realism, it eventually succeeded in asserting its own priorities on the Polish 14 BN Collection, 1953 Warsaw programs, Warsaw Philharmonic, March 27, 1953. 15 AKP, Witold Rudziński Collection, Teksty osobiste, March 6, 1953. 16 “Plenarne zebranie Zarządu Głównego ZKP,” Muzyka 4, nos. 5–6 (1953): 90. 17 Paczkowski, The Spring Will Be Ours, 263; Marta Fik, Kultura polska po Jałcie: Kronika lat 1944–1981 (London: Polonia Book Fund Ltd, 1989), 179. 18 Boris Schwarz, Music and Musical Life in Soviet Russia 1917–1981, enlarged edition (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1983), 273–276.

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musical world, shifting the focus from policies of exclusion to more inclusive stylistic approaches. These demands were similar to what some composers had wanted immediately following the Nazi occupation as well as during the interwar years. Change was not forthcoming quickly or easily, however. Whereas in 1953, as mentioned earlier, Zofia Lissa had somewhat softened her earlier views by at least theoretically allowing for some degree of compositional freedom and Radio i Świat had published an essay praising Panufnik’s Sinfonia Rustica, Włodzimierz Sokorski, by then the Minister of Culture and Art, continued to maintain his rigorous stance of previous years throughout most, if not all of 1954. Speaking at a Composers’ Union plenum just a week after Stalin’s funeral, he asserted, at least according to one attendee, that the battle for socialist realism—and in opposition, against cosmopolitanism—was still in force.19 More than a year later, he warned that the current goal was to produce better socialist realist works, not to “open the gate for a relapse into formalism,” not to remove the Polish United Workers’ Party and governmental Ministries from artistic matters, but to improve and increase its influence: “whoever understood our discussion differently at creative meetings . . . was mistaken.”20 Not until early 1955 did Sokorski acknowledge that “excessive centralization . . . did not permit people to blossom.”21 Later that year, he offered a positive spin on music of the past decade instead of bemoaning purported compositional errors. In his view, a Polish school of composition characterized by “a direct emotional and musical contact with the widest audience”22 had already emerged. These pieces included not only those that were folk-based but also “difficult”23 works, such as unnamed pieces by Bacewicz, that were emotionally strong. In making this statement, Sokorski seemed to be assuaging both advocates and opponents of a musical language based almost exclusively on national musical traditions by claiming the existence of a distinctive character in recent Polish compositions. Zofia Lissa, meanwhile, had relaxed—at least in public—her stance on socialist realism in music earlier than Sokorski had. In April 1954, she reiterated her belief that bringing accessible music to workers and peasants was an appropriate

19 Sokorski’s comments were not included in the minutes of the meeting kept at the Composers’ Union. St[anisław] Kołodziejczyk, “Plenum Zarządu Głównego Związku Kompozytorów Polskich,” Przegląd Kulturalny 2, no. 13 (1953): 5; ZKP, 12/22, Protokoły surowe obrad rozszerzonego plenum Związku Kompozytorów Polskich [March 17–18, 1953]. 20 Włodzimierz Sokorski, “Doświadczenia ostatnich dwóch lat w dziedzinie upowszechnienia i wytyczne na okres najbliższy,” Przegląd Kulturalny 3, no. 26 (1954): 1. 21 Włodzimierz Sokorski, “Rok obrachunków,” Przegląd Kulturalny 4, no. 1 (1955): 1. 22 ZKP, 12/8 (VIII Walny Zjazd 4, 5, 6.VI.1955), page 66. 23 ZKP, 12/8 (VIII Walny Zjazd 4, 5, 6.VI.1955), pages 72–73.

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goal and that Polish composers were still overly interested in symphonic works and interwar compositional techniques at the expense of “the varied needs of different groups of consumers of music.”24 But while maintaining this socialist realist position, she admitted, as Sokorski still did not, that in the past decade there had been official efforts “to ‘command creativity’ . . . certain attempts at thematic and—even worse—stylistic pressure that irritated many of our colleagues so much.”25 She blamed the government for introducing terms such as formalism and realism, which had quickly become nothing more than slogans. Furthermore, “the false identification of difficult art with formalism and easy with realism . . . permitted the advancement of [unnamed] opportunists and careerists . . . [and] resistance and distrust of the . . . ‘official command’ [the government and the Polish United Workers’ Party].”26 A year later she again blamed non-musicians (perhaps alluding to Sokorski and other Ministry functionaries) for demanding a uniform compositional “trend” (nurt) across all new Polish music, when not all social needs were equally invariable. In the recent past, she claimed, new compositions had been considered successful only if they exhibited no innovations of the sort seen in twentieth-century Western European music. Now, she refined her views by asserting that “novel works are needed . . . even if they are not accessible to everyone . . . An individual style . . . is one of the highest praises we can give a composer.”27 Earlier, composers had been pressured to include all of society as their potential audience, which meant— for socialist realist purposes—excluding certain compositional techniques, but now it might be expedient to broaden the scope of possibilities in new music. She did not, however, overtly suggest that international compositional influences could bring positive results to Polish music. As had Sokorski, Lissa declared victory in the battle to create suitably nationalist works, which she associated with the imaginative use of folk themes in music. Discounting compositions that used “cheap citations of folklore,”28 she listed the achievements of Lutosławski (Little Suite), Mycielski (Polish Symphony), Bacewicz (Violin Concerto no. 3), and others as proof of success in the quest for individualized approaches to folk art and national style.29 Composers also heatedly discussed the issues that had faced them in recent years. This included directing recriminations at others. While much of the 24 Lissa, “Z perspektywy dziesięciolecia,” 5. 25 Ibid., 7. 26 Ibid., 11. 27 Zofia Lissa, “Koncert na orkiestrę W. Lutosławskiego,” Przegląd Kulturalny 4, no. 8 (1955): 4. 28 Lissa, “Z perspektywy dziesięciolecia,” 19. 29 Ibid.

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March 1953 Composers’ Union’s executive board session had been devoted to an animated debate about the relationship of a national musical style to folklore, in subsequent union meetings talks revolved around defending the organization’s past actions and placing as much blame as possible on other institutions and people, including the Ministry, performers, and Lissa herself, the latter for her allegedly overbearing role in activating Polish composition in recent years.30 Lissa’s reports and correspondence sent to the Polish United Workers’ Party in 1955 support this allegation. In these documents, she comes through not as someone interested in participating in an easing of ideological restrictions, but as the sole person in the Composers’ Union intent on preserving the status quo as it was prior to Stalin’s death. Accusing composers of lacking a proper ideological attitude, she placed the blame for this largely on Włodzimierz Sokorski, then the Minister of Culture and Art.31 Lissa also claimed that Polish composers were returning to their formalist interwar ways, castigating Grażyna Bacewicz’s Piano Sonata no. 2 for its virtuosity and describing Kazimierz Serocki’s Suite for four trombones (Suita na cztery puzony) as a “failed experiment.”32 Whether others agreed with her is not known, but her views were not aligned with what the Minister of Culture and Art was saying, at least publicly, and they were not in agreement with what she claimed in more open settings. While she remained a Party member, this marked the end of her influence in the Union’s posturing toward socialist realism.33 She had, in fact, resigned from its executive board earlier in 1955 and would

30 Congresses of the full Composers’ Union did not occur in 1952 and 1953, although numerous other organizational sessions occurred. ZKP, 12/22, Protokół surowy obrad rozszerzonego plenum Związku Kompozytorów Polskich [March 17–18, 1953], pages 1–18, and minutes from subsequent meetings; ZKP, 12/8, Sprawozdanie stenograficzne z obrad Walnego Zgromadzenia Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 4, 5 i 6 czerwca 1955 roku, passim. 31 AAN, KC PZPR 237/XVIII 120 (Komitet Centralny, Wydział Kultury 1954–1956), Sytuacja ideologiczna w środowisku kompozytorów polskich, Notatka z dnia 12.iii. [1955, following that year’s Festival of Polish Music]. 32 AKP, Zofia Lissa Collection, Korespondencja Z. Lissy 1945–1955, Letter to P. Hoffmann, Wydział Kultury KC PZPR, November 27, 1955. 33 Sławomir Wieczorek has recently described Lissa as someone who presented the ideas and opinions expressed by “mentors,” whom he named in this case as Włodzimierz Sokorski in the Ministry of Culture and Art. In his view, she was not supposed to criticize Sokorski, although Sokorski could critique Lissa. Given the evidence provided in this project about the differences of opinion between Lissa and Sokorski, I hesitate to advance Wieczorek’s theory beyond the assertion that Lissa’s position as a musicologist and Party member was subordinate to that of Sokorski. On several occasions, she advocated for her own positions in Sokorski’s presence and finally tried to place nearly full blame on him for the lack of ideological rigor in the Composers’ Union. Wieczorek, Na froncie muzyki, passim.

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concentrate on her musicological activities thereafter. In later years, she was highly respected in Poland and internationally for her work in this field. She also admitted, presumably referring at least in part to the first postwar decade, that she had made many mistakes in her life.34 As they had with the topic of nationalism, by 1954 most composers steered clear of discussing the need to write pieces for popularization purposes, although they maintained an interest in raising society’s appreciation for contemporary Polish music.35 Rather than listening to appeals to help the general public become musically literate, some composers by mid-decade claimed that the consumers they were supposed to satisfy through simpler, more accessible compositions did not even try to understand new music and, furthermore, could not explain what they would like to hear.36 Composers and critics such as Bolesław Woytowicz and Zygmunt Mycielski had already questioned how to produce high-quality art music that would satisfy authorities’ notions about what workers would appreciate. As mentioned earlier, Woytowicz favored a less rigid approach to the government’s call for accessible music, suggesting that complex works might appeal to some audiences. Mycielski reiterated these assessments in a 1955 speech summarizing the achievements and failures of the past decade in Polish musical life. He opened with a broadside against any evaluation of Polish music that did not take into account its place in the broader picture of international composition. In his opinion, “all art withers” without the ability to explore a wide variety of compositional techniques and languages. Poland in recent years had become “isolated from the artistic world surrounding us” and, harkening back to the interwar internationalist attitudes held by some composers and critics, its musical life was becoming “provincial.”37 Tadeusz Baird perhaps summed up the feelings of many composers in a 1954 article titled “We Will Not Popularize Music This Way.” Here he took Polish Radio to task for the poor quality of its recordings and broadcasts. As Baird put it, “a careless performance of the most valuable work . . . can remove all artistic 34 Joanna Wnuk-Nazarowa, “Spotkanie Muzyczne w Baranowie,” in Muzyka polska 1945–1995, ed. Krzysztof Droba, Teresa Malecka, and Krzysztof Szwajgier (Kraków: Akademia Muzyczna, 1996), 325. 35 ZKP, 12/8, Sprawozdanie stenograficzne z obrad Walnego Zgromadzenia Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 4, 5 i 6 czerwca 1955 roku, pages 30–31. 36 ZKP, 12/7, Protokół surowy Walnego Zgromadzenia członków Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 24, 25 i 26.IV.1954, page 8; ZKP, 12/8, Sprawozdanie stenograficzne z obrad Walnego Zgromadzenia Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 4, 5 i 6 czerwca 1955 roku, page 17. 37 Zygmunt Mycielski, “O twórczości muzycznej dziesięciolecia,” Muzyka 6, nos. 7–8 (1955): 8, 20.

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meaning.”38 After hearing the poor quality of the concerts that were transmitted over loudspeakers in a small town, he realized why radio listeners had sent letters asking that symphonic concerts not be broadcast via this medium. His appeal for improved technology as a way to achieve a high level of popularization, while not an ideological statement per se, undoubtedly resonated with his colleagues who were frustrated with persistent demands to produce simpler works that would satisfy listeners in these smaller towns and villages. Even if these locales were served occasionally by Artos, music by loudspeaker was still one of the only ways to hear a wider variety of music than what could be offered by a local amateur choir or an orchestra comprised of workers and students. Yet the poor quality of the broadcasts meant these efforts went unappreciated and, even worse, they were unwanted.

Panufnik Escapes Andrzej Panufnik chose not to wait for any possible relaxation of policies regarding new Polish composition. In July 1954, as part of an elaborate ruse devised by his wife Scarlett and musician-friends Rolf Liebermann and Konstanty Regamey, he was invited to Zurich to record his Sinfonia Rustica and other Polish compositions. From there, he flew to England and requested political asylum. As Poland’s most favored composer, at least in the eyes of the government, Panufnik’s escape seemed at first glance to be unnecessary. By then, his compositions were among the most frequently performed in Poland and he had recently been given a fine apartment in Warsaw. However, frustrated with the politically motivated critiques of his music, the frequency with which he was expected to sign his name to governmental statements or speak in support of Party policies, and the lack of opportunities for foreign travel, particularly to Western countries, he made the difficult decision to leave his homeland.39 The news was known in Poland almost immediately, although it was not announced by authorities for several weeks. As Maria Dąbrowska (1889–1965), a novelist, essayist, and playwright, recounted in her diary, it was “the sensation of the day . . . Everyone who speaks of it condemns it, but with an ‘unhealthy’ gleam of joy in the eyes . . . Do people escape from happy, free countries?”40 38 Tadeusz Baird, “W ten sposób nie upowszechnimy muzyki: Dyskusja,” Przegląd Kulturalny 3, no. 26 (1954): 6. 39 Bolesławska, The Life and Works of Andrzej Panufnik, 113–136. 40 Maria Dąbrowska, Dzienniki powojenne 1945–1965, vol. 2, Dzienniki powojenne 1950–1954 (Warsaw: Czytelnik, 1996), 433.

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The government could not remain silent about the departure of such a prominent artist. The Composers’ Union was forced to expel him, his compositions disappeared from the catalog of Polish Music Publishers, and his name remained mostly unmentioned in subsequent publications about Polish music (although he was cited in Stefan Kisielewski’s Z muzyką przez lata, published in 1957).41 His music was performed only a few times before the end of the decade.42 Thereafter, his music was not officially accepted in Poland again until 1977. In an unsigned and unpublished statement, but almost certainly in Zygmunt Mycielski’s handwriting43 (Figure 9), Panufnik’s action was described as a desertion and a surprise, especially since he was “one of the best situated Polish composers.” As Panufnik’s closest friend, Mycielski’s accounting (if one believes this is his handwriting) seems to reflect more fiction than fact. He was likely aware of Panufnik’s impending departure; Beata Bolesławska-Lewandowska has shown that Panufnik stored some family keepsakes in Mycielski’s basement prior to his departure.44 Their friendship did not wane in subsequent years; letters flowed between the two, albeit at times using alias names and transmitting them

41 The union’s official statement was published as Prezydium Zarządu Głównego Związku Kompozytorów Polskich, “Komunikat Prezydium Zarządu Głównego Związku Kompozytorów Polskich,” Przegląd Kulturalny 3, no. 32 (1954): 2, and Prezydium Zarządu Głównego Związku Kompozytorów Polskich, “Komunikat Prezydium Zarządu Głównego Związku Kompozytorów Polskich,” Muzyka 5, nos. 7–8 (1954): 95. See also Stefan Kisielewski, Z muzyką przez lata (Kraków: Wydawnictwo Literackie, 1957), 64. The prior expulsions of other composers (Tadeusz Zygfryd Kassern, Antoni Szałowski, and Roman Palester) from the Composers’ Union for reasons related to their emigration had not been publicly announced, which likely points to the prestige with which Panufnik was regarded by the government prior to his escape. 42 The Łódź Philharmonic presented his Nocturne, which Panufnik revised in the mid-1950s, on September 12–13, 1958; the same piece was heard in Poznań January 16–17, 1959. It seems unlikely that the revised version was presented in Poland at that time, since the composer was already in England. On November 21 and 23, 1958, the National Philharmonic in Warsaw offered performances of Tragic Overture, while his Old Polish Suite was programmed several times before the end of the decade. Bolesławska, The Life and Works of Andrzej Panufnik, 211; Adrian Thomas, “Panufnik Revised: Nocturne & Lullaby,” https://onpolishmusic. com/articles/%e2%80%a2-panufnik-articles/%e2%80%a2-panufnik-revised-nocturnelullaby-2015/. 43 For an example of Mycielski’s handwriting that is signed by the composer, see BolesławskaLewandowska, ed., Zygmunt Mycielski - Andrzej Panufnik: Korespondencja,. Część 1, facing page 1, 72. At the Zygmunt Mycielski Collection at the National Library, his unpublished memoir (Pamiętnik, catalog III 14360) is also acknowledged to be in his handwriting. Beata Bolesławska-Lewandowska, “Pamiętniki Mycielskiego,” Wydawnictwo Próby, January 11, 2021, https://wydawnictwoproby.pl/pamietniki-mycielskiego/. 44 Beata Bolesławska-Lewandowska, “Panufnik i Mycielski: przyjaźń zapisana w listach,” Wydawnictwo Próby, February 6, 2021, https://wydawnictwoproby.pl/panufnik-i-mycielskiprzyjazn-zapisana-w-listach/.

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through an intermediary in France. Panufnik also provided a cover for Mycielski via a letter sent prior to his escape in which he apologized for not informing his friend of his plans.45 Although Mycielski may have been surprised by Panufnik’s decision, he most likely would not have described it as a desertion unless he had been coerced to do so, perhaps to avoid retribution from the government. Strengthening this conclusion is the fact that the term “desertion” seems to have been an officially supported motto for this case; Jerzy Broszkiewicz’s 1954 article in Przegląd Kulturalny lambasting Panufnik’s decision to leave as cowardly and even immoral was titled About the Deserter (O dezerterze).46

Figure 9.  Polish Composers Union (ZKP), 12/138, last page. Unsigned handwritten statement, 1954. Translation of last line: “Therefore we are calling Panufnik’s action a desertion.”47 Courtesy of the Polish Composers’ Union

45 Bolesławska, The Life and Works of Andrzej Panufnik, 130. 46 In addition to being a music critic, Broszkiewcz (1922–1993) was a playwright and a writer of essays and novels. Jerzy Broszkiewicz, “O dezerterze,” Przegląd Kulturalny 3, no. 32 (1954): 2. 47 ZKP, 12/138 (Korespondencja poufna Zarządu Głównego 1950–1954 r.), Dezercja Andrzeja Panufnika.

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From abroad, Panufnik explained the reason behind his exodus. As someone who wished to concentrate solely on composing what he wanted instead of adhering to some governmental guideline, he regretted what he called the lack of “individual choice”48 in composition that had reigned in Poland for the past several years. In his opinion, in order to survive financially and also have the opportunity to hear their compositions in public, composers had had no choice but to accept commissions that fulfilled Party requirements. He also expressed the wish that Polish composers would soon experience improved conditions. Unfortunately, some composers faced retributions instead, as foreign trips planned by Baird, Serocki, and Skrowaczewski were abruptly canceled.49

Opening Musical Life to New Compositions from the West As part of his summary of postwar Polish composition, Mycielski had claimed that Polish musicians did not know the recent compositions of Béla Bartók, Sergei Prokofiev, Dmitri Shostakovich, Arthur Honegger, Igor Stravinsky, Benjamin Britten, and others, in effect saying that they were so isolated that they were not even aware of what was happening in the Soviet Union, the country Poland was supposed to emulate. Stefan Jarociński, a musicologist and critic, reminded his readers that musicians active during the interwar period knew of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring and the compositions of Arnold Schoenberg, Béla Berg, and Anton Webern, but Poland’s youngest composers could not imagine how these pieces sounded. In short, for Jarociński, the situation in Poland was “abnormal.”50 In reality, a few pieces by Béla Bartók, Bohuslav Martinů, Albert Roussel, and the Russians had been programmed, but much of their output, along with nearly all of Arthur Honegger’s and Benjamin Britten’s, remained unheard in Poland between 1949 and 1954. More experimental compositions such as those by Pierre Boulez and Karlheinz Stockhausen also awaited performance in the country.51 Compositions by some of these Western composers began re-appearing on concert programs in 1954, at least in Poland’s major cities. In Kraków, Stalinogród (Katowice), and Warsaw, audiences could hear pieces by composers such as Paul Hindemith, Claude Debussy, Maurice Ravel, Bohuslav Martinů, 48 These remarks, made at a press conference, are quoted in Bolesławska, The Life and Works of Andrzej Panufnik, 135. 49 Ibid., 133–135. 50 Stefan Jarociński, “Impresje sceptyczne (Na marginesie II Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej),” Przegląd Kulturalny 4, no. 21 (1955): 3. 51 For examples of programming, see Klubiński, Bohdan Wodiczko, Aneks 2.

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Frank Martin, and George Gershwin. Gershwin’s music was also programmed by the orchestras in Szczecin and Poznań. Works by Debussy had been heard on Polish stages during the early 1950s, even though his impressionist style had been critiqued as unworthy for Polish composers, but it was not until 1954 that major pieces such as his La Mer and Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun could be heard. Honegger was represented by his Liturgical Symphony and Symphony no. 3, among other pieces, Martin by his Little Concertante Symphony and Harpsichord Concerto, and Hindemith by his Symphony: Mathis der Maler.52 Olivier Messiaen’s music proved to be the most problematic. His only piece known to be performed in Poland during the first half of the 1950s was Les Offrandes oubliées, a work with strong religious connotations. Polish censors were offended by these references. For the September 1953 performance in Kraków of excerpts of this piece, its title was given as Symphonic Fragment. Although the program note referenced Messiaen’s compositional interests in bird songs and quarter-tone music, no description of the actual piece to be performed was provided.53 For its next known performance, in Warsaw in March 1956, the correct title was given with a brief, but inaccurate reference to the work’s “liturgical” text.54 In October of that year, the title would revert to Symphonic Fragment for a performance before international audiences at the Warsaw Autumn Festival. As Lech Dzierżanowski noted, this last change may have occurred due to the significance of the performance at the inaugural concert of what was hoped to be a prestigious international event held in an officially atheistic country. The March performance had been at a concert for Polish audiences.55 Missing from the aforementioned list of pieces were compositions by composers from Western Europe that had been written since the end of the last war. These would not be presented in Poland until the late 1950s at the Warsaw Autumn Festival. However, a few such compositions could be heard by those able to hear radio programs broadcast from Western Europe. While concerts transmitted from Czechoslovakia and other countries were sometimes audible in Poland, Munich-based Radio Free Europe (RFE) directed Polish-language broadcasts to listeners in Poland beginning in 1952. Roman Palester, who had left Poland for good shortly after the Łagów composers’ conference, hosted several series on music, literature, and cultural events in Poland and abroad. In the 52 BN Collection, 1954 and 1955 Stalinogród programs, 1954 Kraków programs, 1955 and 1956 National Philharmonic programs. 53 BN Collection, 1953 Kraków programs, Kraków Philharmonic, September 25, 1953. 54 BN Collection, 1956 National Philharmonic programs, National Philharmonic, March 23, 1956. 55 Lech Dzierżanowski, “Jak to się zaczęło,” Ruch Muzyczny 51, nos. 18–19 (2007): 14.

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area of twentieth-century music, he offered listeners information about Pierre Boulez, John Cage, Aaron Copland, Luigi Dallapiccola, Paul Hindemith, Arthur Honegger, Darius Milhaud, Pierre Schaeffer, Arnold Schoenberg, Karlheinz Stockhausen, and Edgard Varèse while presenting excerpts of pieces by Dallapiccola, Hindemith, Schoenberg, and Polish composers living abroad (in 1956, this included Roman Palester, Andrzej Panufnik, and Antoni Szałowski) who were rarely if ever heard on Polish concerts.56 The Soviet government attempted to jam RFE’s transmission into Poland, at least in part because the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) in the United States, which Soviet officials perceived as an organization hostile to the Communist cause, provided most of its operating funds. In addition, while the jamming proved to be somewhat effective, the Polish authorities’ own propaganda attacks on the station in domestic newspapers demonstrated its awareness that its citizens were listening to these programs in defiance of governmental actions. Radios were still scarce; of Poland’s nearly 25 million people in 1950, fewer than 1.5 million reportedly owned one. By 1955, about three million radios existed in a country of 27 million. Those without such equipment gathered with others to listen to RFE in secret.57 Those Polish citizens able to hear Palester listened to him frequently denounce the Communist system in Poland and what he called the “Sovietization” of Polish music. He criticized Zygmunt Mycielski and Andrzej Panufnik (before his escape) for siding with governmental policies related to socialist realism (which showed he did not have accurate information on their true feelings).58 He repeatedly deplored the artistic poverty heard in recently written Polish compositions as well as the quality of Poland’s musicians.59 Palester gathered his information from Polish Radio, newspapers, and magazines, as well as the few Polish colleagues he saw in Western Europe.60 Given the relatively one-sided pro-Communist nature of Polish Radio and the 56 A complete set of transcripts of Palester’s RFE broadcasts is available at AKP. See also Roman Palester, “Felietony Wolnej Europy,” http://palester.polmic.pl/index.php/pl/felietonywolnej-europy; Violetta Wejs-Milewska, Radio Wolna Europa na emigracyjnych szlakach pisarzy (Kraków: Wydawnictwo Arcana, 2007), 27–184. 57 Czechoslovakia and Hungary also participated in the jamming of RFE broadcasts to Poland. Paweł Machcewicz, Poland’s War on Radio Free Europe, 1950–1989, trans. Maya Latynski (Stanford: Stanford University Press and Washington, D.C.: Woodrow Wilson Center Press, 2014), 4–5, 21–23, 46–50, 57–62. 58 Palester was also quick to wish Panufnik well after he fled Poland. AKP, Roman Palester Audycje RWE, Kultura w niewoli, no. 55 ( January 21, 1954), no. 78 ( July 8, 1954), Komentarz dnia, no. 782 ( July 15, 1954). 59 AKP, Roman Palester Audycje RWE, Reflektorem po Polsce, no. 12 (October 14, 1954), Muzyka obala granice, no. 110 (November 3, 1954). 60 Tarnawska-Kaczorowska, ed., Muzyka źle obecna, 1: 34–35.

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Polish publications he was able to attain, Palester’s expressions of dissatisfaction in these broadcasts were mostly derived from his own experiences in the country and his reaction to his near banishment from his native country’s publishing and concert scene. That does not mean that composers still in Poland disagreed with him. As shown above, they too had many misgivings about the course of events in their musical community. Those who published reviews and essays on music, perhaps sensing an opportunity to broaden the scope of their writing following Stalin’s death, had begun writing about composers from beyond Poland’s western border. Panufnik did his part while still in the country, taking the opportunity to mention such contemporary composers as Ernst Krenek and Elliott Carter in his published review of a 1953 trip to Belgium.61 He also mentioned hearing Arthur Honegger’s Symphony no. 5 in Vienna the same year.62 In 1954 Bogusław Schaeffer (1929– 2019), a young composer and musicologist, spoke of Rolf Liebermann, Frank Martin, Olivier Messiaen, and Pierre Schaeffer as compositional innovators.63 That he was even aware of these names points to the type of education he received in Kraków in the early 1950s, when he studied with Artur Malawski and Zdzisław Jachimecki. The weekly Przegląd Kulturalny played a central role in pushing for continued change in Polish musical life. Its writers conveyed information about music from other countries that, practically speaking, in recent years had been inaccessible to nearly all Polish musicians. In early 1953, when official cultural policy was still firmly in the grip of advocates of socialist realism, the names of John Cage, Lou Harrison, and Pierre Schaeffer appeared in this publication, along with terms such as musique concrète and bruitism. While these musicians were described disparagingly, they were still effectively presented to a new audience.64 Beginning in 1955, Stefan Jarociński and others began devoting essays to such composers and pieces as Pierre Boulez, Paul Hindemith, Arthur Honegger, Frank Martin, Olivier Messiaen, and Dmitri Shostakovich (his Symphony no. 10). This degree of exposure to composers from capitalist countries had not been seen since 1949, when in Ruch Muzyczny Arnold Schoenberg had been described as the “liquidator of music.”65

61 Andrzej Panufnik, “Wrażenia belgijskie,” Przegląd Kulturalny 2, no. 43 (1953): 1. 62 Andrzej Panufnik, “Pokój można obronić,” Przegląd Kulturalny 2, no. 1 (1953): 1. 63 Bogusław Schaeffer, “Twórczość muzyczna w okresie dziesięciolecia,” Tygodnik Powszechny, no. 32 (1954). 64 MB, “Muzyka Nr 1–2 i 3–4,” Przegląd Kulturalny 2, no. 25 (1953): 7. 65 I. Ryżkin, “Arnold Schönberg. Likwidator muzyki,” Ruch Muzyczny 5, no. 15 (1949): 24–31.

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Muzyka, devoted mostly to contemporary music, did not react quite as quickly to these shifts in ideological temperature. In part, this was due to the typically lengthy delays in publishing each bi-monthly issue, which often amounted to several months and thus severely affected its ability to reflect current thought and events. Thus in 1954, Muzyka featured articles on Alfred Gradstein’s mass songs and a cantata by Bolesław Woytowicz, not information on Western composers—except for a summary of an article by Stefan Jarociński in Po Prostu (Plainly Speaking) that mentioned Pierre Boulez, John Cage, Olivier Messiaen, and Edgard Varèse as composers of technical experiments.66 The same is true of the 1955 issues, where Zofia Lissa published a lengthy article on Baird’s Ballad of the Soldier’s Mug.67 Other articles also concentrated on Polish music, mostly neglecting contemporary music in other countries.

Changing Priorities for Commissions For many Polish composers, the gradual shifts of official rhetoric and programming choices seen in 1954 and 1955 offered hope that a greater level of compositional experimentation would soon be permitted. What that would look like in terms of commissions, competitions, and performance for Polish composers heading into the mid-1950s was, of course, mostly unknown. In many respects, the structural framework of musical life did not change as the decade progressed. Governmental ministries and offices within the Polish United Workers’ Party still controlled nearly all of the financing related to composers and their livelihood. The Commissions Committee continued to operate within the Ministry of Culture and Art. This Committee and the Presidium of the Composers’ Union maintained its practice of approving or rejecting completed commissions based on written reviews and auditions. Yet, despite all this activity, both attitudes and actions were changing among composers and other musicians. One of the starkest differences visible to composers was the sharp decrease in the number and type of compositions that received commissions. In 1953, at least 200 pieces had been funded via the Commissions Committee, but a year later only about eighty compositions are known to have been funded. For each

66 The article, from Po Prostu no. 36 (1953) was summarized in M. A., “Przegląd prasy,” Muzyka 5, nos. 1–2 (1954): 93–97. 67 Zofia Lissa, “Ballada o żołnierskim kubku Tadeusza Bairda,” Muzyka 6, nos. 1–2 (1955): 42–54.

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of the following two years, between fifty and sixty pieces were similarly supported.68 Given that in mid-1954 some composers were already complaining that too few commissions had been allocated in previous years, often for what they considered woefully inadequate amounts, they must have been further shocked by this new situation.69 Although Zygmunt Mycielski at one point claimed that more money was available for commissions in 1954 that in 1952 (600,000 versus 475,000 zlotys), more than once members of the Commissions Committee referred to budgetary constraints and delayed its consideration of submissions until more funds became available.70 No longer were such panegyric pieces as odes to workers and the Party on the receiving end of funds. In fact, such compositions were not even submitted for consideration, at least according to available evidence. These pieces had never been among most composers’ favorite vehicles of expression. As shown earlier, they had frequently been produced only in order to provide some level of personal income. (Although Alfred Gradstein and Edward Olearczyk, the most prolific of mass song composers and the producer of panegyric works, continued to write songs in the mid-1950s, these pieces were not funded by the Commissions Committee.) Also sharply reduced in number from previous years were compositions based on folk themes. Overt displays such as cantatas and suites of folk dances were not completely absent (for example, Stanisław Wiechowicz’s Lublin Suite (Suita lubelska) and Witold Lutosławski’s Four Silesian Melodies (Cztery melodie śląskie) received funding in 1954), but these commissions were overshadowed by funding for more abstract works, such as Witold Rudziński’s Quintet for flute and strings and Kazimierz Serocki’s Piano Sonata. The latter piece, from 1955, bears the influences of Bartók and Prokofiev within an adventurous setting that hints of dodecaphony and sonorism.71 While no evidence has come forth that attests to a conscious decision by either the Ministry, Composers’ Union, or Commissions Committee to place less emphasis on obviously folk-based pieces as candidates for commissions, the union recognized that its previous practice of providing commissions to nearly 68 ZKP, 12/54, passim. 69 ZKP, 12/7, Protokół surowy Walnego Zgromadzenia członków Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 24, 25 i 26.IV.1954, pages 30–35, 47. 70 ZKP, 12/7, Protokół surowy Walnego Zgromadzenia członków Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 24, 25 i 26.IV.1954, page 46; ZKP, 12/54, Protokół nr 6 z posiedzenia Komisji Zamówień Kompozytorskich w dniach 8 i 15 sierpnia 1954 r., Protokół nr 7 z posiedzenia Komisji Zamówień Kompozytorskich w dniu 5 października 1954 r. 71 Iwona Lindstedt, “Piano Sonata,” trans. Anna Kijak, http://www.serocki.polmic.pl/index. php/en/kazimierz-serocki-s-creative-output/works-in-detail/106-sonata-for-piano; Iwona Lindstedt, ‘Piszę tylko muzykę’, 194–198.

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all union members, based on these same musicians’ requests, had produced a plethora of compositions that were ignored by Polish performers. As Mycielski, the Committee chair, said in 1954, “we commissioned a colossal number of lifeless works that were not performed because of their low quality. The Committee began to narrow the criteria, began to commission fewer pieces. We began to search for things that give hope that the work that emerges will be vital and valuable.”72 Concerns about the artistic quality of commissioned works had been an ongoing discussion manifested at least in part by the authors of written reviews (see chapter 4). As in previous years, however, many commissioned pieces continued to be accepted and fully paid even though their reviews were somewhat negative. For example, in March 1955 Kisielewski evaluated Eugeniusz Dziewulski’s Concert Overture, which had been commissioned in 1954. He described it as “neoromantic eclecticism . . . [and an] improvisational” piece that nevertheless showed “convincing thematic invention . . . [and] honesty of expression . . . Should we support typically eclectic works that are not stylistically creative?”73 In mid-1954, Kazimierz Sikorski had also alluded to the need to accept allegedly marginal compositions. Reviewing Czesław Grudziński’s Miniatures for trumpet and piano, he recommended that the commission be fully paid even though the piece had little artistic value. His rationale was that since music published abroad was unavailable in Poland, this piece could fill a gap for young wind players.74 In other words, this Polish composition was suitable for pedagogical purposes only because foreign contacts were mostly forbidden. The membership of the Commissions Committee underwent several changes in 1955. Tadeusz Baird and Włodzimierz Kotoński joined; they were young composers who along with Serocki had also been elected to the executive board of the Composers’ Union a year earlier. The lone musicologist (Zofia Lissa) departed along with Polish Radio’s representative (Roman Jasiński). The same year, the Committee for the first time included performers who were not also composers or musicologists, with the expectation that they would assist in a “more astute use of commissions.”75 At the same time, the Committee accepted Witold Lutosławski’s suggestion that commissions not be given for dance and entertainment music, given the seemingly twisted logic that since a great 72 ZKP, 12/7, Protokół surowy Walnego Zgromadzenia członków Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 24, 25 i 26.IV.1954, page 47. 73 ZKP, 12/119, March 4, 1955. 74 ZKP, 12/119, June 21, 1954. 75 ZKP, 12/54, Protokół nr 1 z posiedzenia Komisji Zamówień Utworów Muzycznych w dniu 1.II.1955.

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demand for these types of pieces existed, commissions were not needed (and even though a year earlier the Composers’ Union had created a committee to promote these same genres).76 In reality, however, other organizations had always provided the vast majority of funding for such works, not the Composers’ Union or the Commissions Committee. Yet the committee’s exclusion of these genres indicated its disinterest in encouraging union members to write such pieces. Its focus would be on more traditional classical repertoire, such as orchestral works and pieces for solo instrument with piano accompaniment. As discussed earlier, commissions for mass songs had disappeared along with competitions for these same pieces. Similarly, funding for cantatas, for which thirteen had been commissioned in 1953, was abandoned by 1955. The association of mass songs and cantatas with socialist realism made these genres unpalatable for many. The handful of cantatas that were commissioned in 1954 avoided the explicitly politicized texts that had characterized these pieces in the early 1950s. For example, the text for Kazimierz Wiłkomirski’s Gdańsk Cantata (Kantata gdańska), written for the tenth anniversary of what according to the program notes at the premiere was the “liberation” of the city, offered images of its history that culminated with peaceful scenes of the current day, but it was not an over-the-top celebration of the Polish United Workers’ Party, the Soviet Union, or Polish workers, as some earlier cantatas had been.77 Composed for a specific event, it was performed twice in 1955, both times in Gdańsk, but did not enjoy further success. In fact, performances of cantatas by Polish composers had virtually ended by 1956, when only a single presentation occurred (of Stanisław Wiechowicz’s Harvest Cantata at the inaugural Warsaw Autumn Festival).

Programming Characteristics Along with the reduced emphasis on commissioning new music, Polish composers were also dissatisfied with the number of performances they were receiving. Zygmunt Mycielski and Michał Bristiger noted in 1953 that some composers waited months to hear their music performed live, only to have these pieces disappear from the stage after their premiere. In their opinions, if consumers were 76 ZKP, 12/54, Protokół Nr 5 z posiedzenia Komisji Zamówień Kompozytorskich w dniu 25.V.55 r.; “Z życia ZKP,” Muzyka 5, nos. 7–8 (1954): 94. 77 During the interwar period, Gdańsk was officially known as the Free City of Danzig. Although under the protection of the League of Nations, Poland helped in its administration. During World War II the city was annexed by Germany. BN Collection, 1955 A–P programs, Pomeranian Philharmonic, April 1, 1955.

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to appreciate music, which after all was the goal of the government’s popularization efforts, they had to hear it.78 In Communist Poland as elsewhere, financial concerns prompted by audience attendance rates factored into the selection of pieces for concert programs. As violinist Wanda Wiłkomirska remarked in 1955, Polish listeners frequently left at intermission if a contemporary work was slated for performance after the break and they did not attend concerts consisting entirely of newer pieces.79 According to one Composers’ Union member, some blame for this situation needed to be placed on those critics who disparaged performances of contemporary Polish compositions. In his opinion, by 1953 this had led in Poznań to the local philharmonic’s decision to improve its financial picture by programming fewer selections of contemporary music.80 Such a reduction is not apparent in the available information about concert programs, however, for more than 700 performances of compositions by living Polish composers took place both in 1954 and 1955, compared to just over 500 in 1953. It was only in 1956 that the total dropped, to about 130. The orchestras in Poznań and Łódź presented similar numbers of pieces (from 1950–1956, a total of about 175 works by contemporary Polish composers were done by each ensemble, while the Silesian Philharmonic performed approximately 150 pieces). For frequent performances of contemporary Polish music, however, it was best to turn to musicians in Kraków and Warsaw. In 1954, Kraków hosted at least 170 such performances and Warsaw 135. A year later, after the Kraków Philharmonic’s conductor, Bohdan Wodiczko, replaced Witold Rowicki as the leader of the Warsaw Philharmonic, markedly fewer such pieces were heard in Kraków (about sixty-five), but Warsaw heard approximately 200, thanks in part to the finale of the 1955 Festival of Polish Music (FMP II) being held in the capital city. Warsaw thus surpassed Kraków as Poland’s premiere locale for new music. Although orchestral programs in Poland’s major cities still included an occasional nod to overtly socialist realist repertoire, for example, with presentations in 1954 of Andrzej Panufnik’s Symphony of Peace and Tadeusz Baird’s Ballad of the Soldier’s Mug, they also featured pieces that had disappeared from the repertoire due to their allegedly formalist characteristics. In May 1954 the Warsaw Philharmonic presented Andrzej Panufnik’s Nocturne, with the composer as conductor, and in 1956, Zbigniew Turski’s Symphony no. 2 “Olympic” finally 78 Michał Bristiger, “W sprawie polskich kompozycji współczesnych,” Przegląd Kulturalny 2, no. 4 (1953): 4; Zygmunt Mycielski, “Aktualne zagadnienia życia muzycznego,” Przegląd Kulturalny 2, no. 6 (1953): 1. 79 Wanda Wiłkomirska, “Muzyka współczesna to nie tylko kompozytorzy,” Trybuna Ludu no. 140 (1955). 80 AAN, MKiS 366/III 36, page 22/4.

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reappeared before audiences, also in Warsaw. Witold Lutosławski’s Symphonic Variations, not performed in Poland since 1948, was heard at least three times in 1955 in Warsaw and Stalinogród, each time conducted by Jan Krenz. At about the same time, Michał Spisak’s compositions returned to Poland, having disappeared in mid-1950. However, his newest works composed in France were not presented. Instead, pieces performed earlier in his native country were scheduled, for example, his Toccata for Orchestra and his Piano Concerto. Since Spisak had not lost his membership in the Polish Composers’ Union, he was not viewed as politically suspect in the same way that Palester, Szałowski, Kassern, and Panufnik (after his escape in 1954) were. This made it easier for his music to be heard again in Poland in the mid-1950s.

Witold Lutosławski, Concerto for Orchestra, and the Evolution of Socialist Realism Both Bohdan Wodiczko and Witold Rowicki conducted what many critics and musicians considered to be one of the finest Polish compositions of the first postwar decade, Lutosławski’s Concerto for Orchestra. Written between 1950 and 1954 at Rowicki’s request, it was presented on the inaugural concert of the 1955 Festival of Polish Music in Kraków and at the opening of Warsaw’s newly rebuilt philharmonic concert hall.81 Praised for its colorful, virtuosic treatment of the orchestra, dramatic expression, and innovative transformation of folk motives taken from a well-known collection by ethnographer Oskar Kolberg (1814–1890), the concerto also alluded to Baroque forms, not least in its titles (Intrada, Capriccio Notturno e Arioso, and Passacaglia, Toccata e Corale).82 More than any other piece written in Poland’s postwar period, it reimagined the rhetorical precepts surrounding socialist realism, using snippets of folk materials within a chromatic harmonic environment to create an organic whole that is distinctly original, neither neoclassic, neo-Baroque, nor a more typically socialist realist reconstruction or rearrangement of earlier materials. Stefan Jarociński declared the concerto a masterpiece as well as a synthesis of modern musical means and the composer’s own expressive tendencies. Fitting the piece into a quasi-socialist realist discursive framework, he alluded to its

81 Gwizdalanka and Meyer, Lutosławski, 1: 258. 82 Analyses of this concerto in English appear in Stucky, Lutosławski and his Music, 48–58; Rae, The Music of Lutosławski, 37–47; Thomas, Polish Music, 76–79. In Polish, see Gwizdalanka and Meyer, Lutosławski, 1: 258–272.

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new treatment of folk music that, while wholly innovative, retained the “mark of Polishness,” a clear reference to previous calls for creating a new national style, but also one that presaged subsequent discussions about avant-garde Polish music in the early 1960s.83 Zofia Lissa, not surprisingly, took the opportunity to discuss Lutosławski’s newest piece. Her thoughts were published in 1955 in Muzyka and in Przegląd Kulturalny, with a longer essay (104 pages) appearing the following year in Studia Muzykologiczne. While Lutosławski had recently been characterized as a socialist realist composer with his scintillating, accessible Little Suite and Silesian Triptych, now he had created a work of “tremendous emotional weight” that “breaks old habits” through a “‘novelty’ of means.”84 Moreover, the concerto was not addressed to “unprepared listeners,”85 but instead would help bring audiences to a higher level of musical appreciation. Such a characterization affirmed Lissa’s more recent theoretical statements about the possibility of compositional individuality and writing for more musically literate audiences. She also linked the piece to such traditions as the Baroque and formerly suspect music by composers such as Maurice Ravel and Igor Stravinsky. She thus accepted Lutosławski’s concerto for its individual approach to pre-existing folk music and musical traditions. This allowed her to accept Lutosławski’s creation as a legitimate representation of socialist realist music as it was portrayed in the mid1950s.86 Whether Lissa genuinely believed her complimentary public phrases about the Concerto or her more derogatory private comments about Polish music in general, discussed above, is difficult to discern. She likely thought that her internal reports made to Party officials would not come to light. During her lifetime, they did not.

Artur Malawski: Last-Minute Redemption Artur Malawski’s story is a bit different than Witold Lutosławski’s, but is one that also reflects the viccissitudes of the practical application of socialist realist policies. The latter’s legacy from this period can be construed as one in which 83 Stefan Jarociński, “Wielka muzyka,” Przegląd Kulturalny 3, no. 49 (1954): 2. 84 Zofia Lissa, “Koncert na orkiestrę W. Lutosławskiego,” Przegląd Kulturalny 4, no. 8 (1955): 4. 85 Ibid. See also Zofia Lissa, “Koncert na orkiestrę Witolda Lutosławskiego,” Studia Muzykologiczne 5 (1956): 196–299; Zofia Lissa, “‘Koncert na orkiestrę’ Witolda Lutosławskiego,” Muzyka 6, nos. 3–4 (1955): 25–52. 86 For additional discussion of the critical reception of this composition, see Vest, Awangarda, 53–56.

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he “accommodated” the expectations of authorities by writing a few mass songs and easy pieces that incorporated folk music. Although he chafed at the idea of composing on demand for propaganda reasons, he did so for financial and family reasons. Living in Warsaw, the center of political machinations, also put him within easy reach of officials who wished to confer about his current compositional plans and pressure him about unsatisfactory results. As Lutosławski put it later, his works incorporating folklore continued a trend seen in Polish music for more than a century, but such efforts were “misappropriated”87 by the government. He rejected any idea that he had compromised himself by producing works wanted by the “regime,”88 insisting, not without reason, that such works were needed in the postwar era. Yet it is also apparent that following the negative critiques directed at his Symphony no. 1 and Symphonic Variations in the late 1940s, he directed his efforts away from such abstract, large-scale forms. It was only with Funeral Music (1954–1958), written in the midst of the political and cultural thaw, that he moved away from a strict adherence to pedagogical and folk-based compositions. Malawski resided in Kraków, whose musical community was regarded by some (especially Zofia Lissa) as a “reactionary clique,” with Malawski himself among its leaders.89 As a professor at Kraków’s Higher School of Music since the end of the Nazi occupation, an occasional conductor, the chair of the Polish section of the International Society for Contemporary Music (ISCM) from 1948 to 1951, and a member of the Composers’ Union’s executive board from 1951–1954, he was actively involved in Poland’s postwar musical life. The Polish government regarded the ISCM in the early 1950s as a modernist enclave that promoted decadent compositional styles. By 1951, it had shut down the organization’s activities in Poland in favor of supporting the International Society of Progressive Composers and Musicologists, which had been created in the wake of the 1948 Prague International Conference of Composers and Music.90 Since Malawski had headed the Polish offices of ISCM most recently, he automatically came under suspicion as someone who favored the Western compositional 87 Nikolska, Conversations with Witold Lutosławski, 37. 88 Ibid. 89 AKP, Zofia Lissa Collection, Korespondencja Z. Lissy 1945–1955, Letter from Zofia Lissa to Wydział Kultury KC PZPR, November 13, 1951; Stefan Kisielewski, “O Arturze Malawskim,” Tygodnik Powszechny 14, no. 8 (1958): 4; MKiS, 366/I 312, Letter from Zofia Lissa to KC PZPR, July 30, 1948. Kraków, an intellectual hub of Poland, was also strongly anti-Communist. Connelly, Captive University, 138; Porter-Szűcs, Poland in the Modern World, 218. 90 AKP, Artur Malawski Collection, Korespondencja, I. Listy do Artura Malawskiego—autor F—M, Letter from Jackiewicz (this name was added at the top of the letter to indicate the author, whose signature is unreadable) to Malawski, January 15, 1950 (K-XXXVI/33).

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ideals that were now officially rejected in Poland. As discussed earlier, his Variations for orchestra had been declared formalist at the 1949 Łagów conference even though it had received a prize earlier the same year. As with other similarly maligned composers at Łagów in 1949, Malawski’s compositions continued to be performed, albeit relatively rarely in comparison with Poland’s most favored composers. Lutosławski’s music, for example, received at least thirty-six performances in 1951, while Malawski’s offerings were heard only eight times, according to available data. In 1953, Lutosławski received about twenty-seven performances (sixteen of which were on radio) and Malawski sixteen (including five on radio). Malawski never wrote mass songs or cantatas, which accounted for one-third of Lutosławski’s 1951 performances and approximately half of his compositions heard at the 1951 Festival of Polish Music. Malawski’s music could also not be described as pedagogical or easily accessible. The Peaks, Malawski’s composition for soprano, tenor, baritone, choir, and orchestra, written mostly from 1944–1945 and completed in 1950, was described by Stefan Kisielewski as a “tremendously difficult work”91 replete with Polish highlander flavor, but not based on authentic folk tunes.92 Under consideration for the 1951 Festival of Polish Music, the ultra-conservative Piotr Rytel labeled it as formalist, but the more tolerant Kazimierz Sikorski deemed it “a wonderful score . . . moderately modern.”93 Malawski himself had described it as reflecting a “markedly socialist realist line.”94 While in 1950, that assessment would not have been shared by many cultural officials, it did not exclude the piece from being appreciated by others. Zygmunt Mycielski, always a proponent for compositional autonomy, nominated it for a state award in 1952, declaring it one of the best Polish compositions written since the end of the war.95 After its premiere in January 1952, it was apparently not performed again until June 1954 (although it was heard on radio in the interim).96 It never enjoyed the popular

91 Stefan Kisielewski, “‘Wierchy’ Malawskiego,” Tygodnik Powszechny 8, no. 4 (1952): 11. 92 Ibid., 5, 8; Jerzy Hordyński, “Z krakowskimi kompozytorami—o muzyce,” Życie Literackie 5, no. 26 (1955): 2. 93 AAN, MKiS 366/I 750, Protokół z zebrania Komisji w dn. 24.I.51. 94 AKP, Artur Malawski Collection, Korespondencja, Letter from Malawski to ZKP and Biuro Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej, November 31, 1950 (K-XLII/96). The recipients are noted in pen, not the typescript of the actual letter. 95 ZKP, Zygmunt Mycielski folder, Letter to Prezydium Związku Kompozytorów Polskich [stamped January 14, 1952]. 96 A choral excerpt was also presented during a Kraków Philharmonic travel concert in March 1952. BN Collection, 1952 Kraków programs, Kraków Philharmonic, January 10, 1952, 1954 Kraków programs, Kraków Philharmonic, June 25, 1954; AAN, MKiS 366/I 2751,

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success of Lutosławski’s Little Suite, at least with regard to the number of performances accorded it. While The Peaks was not censured by officials, it also did not attain the same critical acclaim given, for example, to Lutosławski’s Concerto for Orchestra, which admittedly was first performed after the gradual loosening of socialist realist precepts was underway in Poland. Malawski’s compositional output in general was described in 1955 as harmonically and rhythmically complex, with a modern, “deeply individual” musical language.97 Many of these same characteristics could be applied to Lutosławski’s concerto. If The Peaks had been premiered in 1954 instead of 1951, perhaps it would have enjoyed greater recognition. Although not all of Malawski’s music at that time was equally difficult (his 1952 Popular Suite is considerably less complicated than The Peaks and Symphonic Etudes, as are his two pieces based on melodies by Feliks Janiewicz), it would be overly simplistic to state that these works reflected Malawski’s willing compliance with socialist realist precepts. It would be equally problematic to claim that he actively resisted the new ideological demands. Stefan Kisielewski, also a Kraków resident, portrayed the composer as being thoroughly indifferent to the shifting ground that represented socialist realist rhetoric and concert life. As Kisielewski put it, Malawski considered it an “absurd loss of time”98 to even discuss the commentaries of Włodzimierz Sokorski, Zofia Lissa, and others. It was more important, in his opinion, to be true to one’s artistic beliefs.99 Malawski’s refusal to respond to governmental initiatives such as competitions and political anniversaries may have been one reason behind the seeming unpopularity of his music on concert stages, although their performance difficulties were also a factor. It may also explain why only three of his pieces were printed by Polish Music Publishers during the early 1950s, which is a stark contrast to the late 1940s, when ęleven of his compositions were printed by the same company.100 Mycielski’s nomination of The Peaks for the 1952 state music award

Sprawozdanie artystyczne z działalności Państwowej Filharmonii za miesiąc marzec 1952 r.; “Tydzień muzyczny w Polskim Radiu,” Radio i Swiat 8, no. 43 (1952): 3; “Tydzień muzyczny w Polskim Radiu,” Radio i Świat 9, no. 26 (1953): 2. 97 PD, “Przed koncertem kompozytorskim Artura Malawskiego,” Gazeta Krakowska 7, no. 88 (1955): 4. 98 Stefan Kisielewski, “O Arturze Malawskim,” 4. 99 Ibid. 100 Malawski’s Variations for orchestra, deemed formalist at Łagów in 1949, were printed by Polish Music Publishers in 1950; his two Janiewicz-based pieces were printed in 1953. In 1951 this organization had asked Malawski to compose a piece on themes from Janiewicz’s Divertimento; it is likely that his Sonata on Themes of Feliks Janiewicz (Sonata na tematy Feliksa Janiewicza) and Siciliana and Rondo (Siciliana i rondo), both completed that same

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thus represented a challenge to the government: could such an uncompromising composer who was uninterested in socialist realism be honored by the state? Perhaps—he received a third place award. No first prizes were given, but three of Grażyna Bacewicz’s pieces (String Quartet no. 4, Sonata no. 4 for violin and piano, and Violin Concerto no. 4), Witold Lutosławski’s Silesian Triptych, and Andrzej Panufnik’s Gothic Concerto were named as second place winners.101 Malawski’s public fortunes changed in 1955. With the incipient cultural thaw and its increase in opportunities for presenting previously undesirable compositions to Polish audiences came a marked increase in performances of Malawski’s works. At least twenty-six concerts featured twelve compositions by this iconoclastic composer. Among them were Symphonic Etudes, unheard in Poland since 1949 and The Peaks, which now was cited as one of the decade’s best compositions.102 The 1955 Festival of Polish Music featured sixteen performances of his music, in contrast to only four having been heard at the first such festival in 1951. Unfortunately, he had little time to reap the benefits of renewed public acclaim, for he died just two years later.

A Festival of Polish Music in the Midst of Change Although the second Festival of Polish Music (FMP II) was originally scheduled for 1953, it was delayed initially until 1954 in order to coincide with the tenth anniversary of the Polish Committee of National Liberation (PKWN) manifesto, which had accompanied the establishment of a Communist government on Polish soil. The festival finally occurred between January and May 1955, when it was advertised as a review of the past decade of Polish music. Important cultural events that occurred during the same time included the opening of the rebuilt National Philharmonic hall in Warsaw and the next edition of the International Chopin Piano Competition. Unlike the earlier postwar festivals that had showcased contemporary Polish music, this one was held in the midst of a debate about improving the overall quality of composition and expanding concert repertoire to include more recently written foreign works. Just as year and both for violin and piano, were the result of this request. PWM Katalog 1945–1955 (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1955); AKP, Artur Malawski Collection, Korespondencja, I. Listy do Artura Malawskiego - autor P–R, Letter from T. Ochlewski to Malawski, December 10, 1951 (K-XXXVIII/58). 101 ZKP, 46/1 (Biuletyn informacyjny ZKP r. 1951–1952), Biuletyn informacyjny ZKP nr 4 (1952). 102 Lissa, “Z perspektywy dziesięciolecia,” 19; ZKP, 12/129, passim.

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individual members of the Composers’ Union had begun speaking more vociferously about what they perceived as deficiencies in Polish musical life, now the union itself insisted on—and received—more influence over the content of this next festival. While government officials had designed the 1951 event in part as a publicity stunt to prove that its cultural policies had successfully prompted the composition of socialist realist music, by 1955 that goal would have been met with derision by most composers and at least a few officials. Instead, the more tempting aim to celebrate the achievements of Polish composition from the entire postwar decade allowed the Composers’ Union, now the event’s primary organizer, to feature compositions and composers that earlier in the 1950s had been declared off limits for concert stages. Among the nearly 300 works by about sixty union members were two performances of émigré composer Michał Spisak’s Sonatina for oboe, clarinet, and bassoon, and, as mentioned above, sixteen pieces by Artur Malawski. Witold Lutosławski’s Symphony no. 1, absent from Polish stages since 1949, was considered but ultimately not performed.103 Not to be overlooked is the fact that the festival’s organization and content was discussed at numerous meetings of the Cultural Department of the Polish United Workers’ Party. In fact, conflict concerning the event broke out in late 1954 at a meeting of Party musicians. Zofia Lissa, Mieczysław Drobner, Roman Jasiński, and others complained that the selection process was being conducted by only two people (referring to Tadeusz Baird and Kazimierz Serocki) and that too few cantatas and operettas were being considered. Drobner added that musicians with membership in the Polish United Workers’ Party had little, if any influence on the selection of pieces, which resulted in “inappropriate” works being suggested for performance. Responding to a proposal that workers and peasants be asked to pick the festival’s repertoire instead of the Composers’ Union, one conductor said that since workers did not attend concerts (this after

103 These totals are according to the data available for this project. Baird reported 320 compositions by eighty living Polish composers. Some of these were presented in concerts by amateur ensembles that apparently included works by non-union composers. Reviews of the 1955 Festival of Polish Music can be found in Muzyka, Przegląd Kulturalny, and ZKP, 12/129. Concert programs can be found in the BN Collection. Tadeusz Baird, “II Festiwal Muzyki Polskiej,” Muzyka 6, nos. 9–10 (1955): 33; ZKP, 12/22, Protokół surowy obrad rozszerzonego Zarządu Głównego Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 16 i 17 marca 1953 r., 21; ZKP, 12/8, Utwory współczesnych kompozytorów polskich przewidziane przez ZKP do wykonywania w ramach II Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej.

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several years of presenting them specifically for such people), they could not be expected to handle such a task.104 In the end, there is no evidence that Party representatives succeeded in changing the festival program to their satisfaction. What they were able to control was the selection of Western European guests to be invited to the finale in May—the first time such a group would be present in postwar Poland for a contemporary music festival and an important indication of the government’s willingness to open borders to foreign influences. After discussions between the Composers’ Union and the government, fewer than a dozen guests arrived, although the initial list of possible invitees had contained more than one hundred names.105 Taken as a whole, the Festival’s repertoire was not radically different from what had been offered in 1951. Although Tadeusz Baird would later contend that conductors resisted programming cantatas, thanks to a considerable amount of persuasion more than a dozen performances of such pieces as Tadeusz Baird’s Ballad of the Soldier’s Mug, Jan Adam Maklakiewicz’s Silesia Works and Sings, and Witold Rudziński’s A Peasant’s Lot (Chłopska droga) occurred.106 Whether this satisfied the Party’s Cultural Department is unknown. Among the seventeen premieres were Bolesław Woytowicz’s String Quartet no. 2, Grażyna Bacewicz’s Violin Concerto no. 5, two pieces by Tadeusz Paciorkiewicz (Piano Concerto no. 2, Kurpian Suite [Suita kurpiowska]), and Stanisław Skrowaczewski’s Night Music (Muzyka nocą) for orchestra, which had been completed in 1949 but lay unperformed until mid-decade.107 Mass songs that glorified the Party and workers remained on the sidelines. In their place, many folk-like vocal pieces appeared, such as Stanisław Wiechowicz’s The Cuckoo (Kukułecka), Witold Lutosławski’s The Belated Nightingale (Spóżniony słowik), and Kazimierz Sikorski’s

104 AAN, KC PZPR 237/XVIII 143 (Komitet Centralny, Wydział Kulturalny 1954–1956), Protokół z narady poświęconej II Festiwalowi Muzyki Polskiej odbytej w Wydziale Kultury KC w dniu 22.XI.1954 r. 105 For more information on international guests at the 1955 Festival of Polish Music, see Lisa Jakelski, Making New Music in Cold War Poland: The Warsaw Autumn Festival, 1956–1968 (Oakland: University of California Press, 2017), 16–17; AAN, KC PZPR 237/XVIII 120, Letter from Jerzy Jasieński to Tadeusz Książek, KC PZPR, titled Notatka w sprawie przygotowań do Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej. 106 Tadeusz Baird, “II Festiwal Muzyki Polskiej,” 28–29. 107 Excerpts from Night Music were performed in February 1954 in Kraków; the full work was premiered at the 1955 Festival. Irena Poniatowska and Zofia Kułakowska, “Diariusz ważniejszych wydarzeń muzycznych w latach 1945–1964,” ed. Elżbieta Dziębowska (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1966), 327.

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The Willow (Wierzba). Instrumental chamber music was also richly represented, with quartets, trios and sonatas by Bacewicz, Malawski, Serocki, Szeligowski, and Woytowicz, wind quintets by Szeligowski and young composer-pianist Wojciech Kilar (1932–2013), and Lutosławski’s Bucolics (Bukoliki) for piano and Dance Preludes (Preludia taneczne) for clarinet and piano. Orchestral (or vocal-orchestral) music formed the bulk of the selections. As in 1951, many of these compositions were at least partly folk-inspired. Witold Lutosławski’s Little Suite and Silesian Triptych, Malawski’s The Peaks, and Zygmunt Mycielski’s Polish Symphony were among those that had been favored earlier by advocates of socialist realism in music. These specific pieces largely escaped the wrath of those critics interested in changing the middecade landscape of contemporary Polish music; in fact, they were frequently praised.108 Overlooked by many critics were pieces presented by ensembles specializing in light music. As part of the Festival, the Polish Radio Dance Orchestra performed Edward Olearczyk’s Waltz (Walc), Witold Rudziński’s Echoes Are Waiting (Czekają echa), and Henryk Jabłoński’s You and Autumn (Ty i jesień), while the Warsaw-based Polish Radio Symphony Orchestra offered such pieces as Tadeusz Kwieciński’s Gallop (Galop) and Irena Garztecka-Jarzębska’s Grotesque (Groteska) for piano and orchestra. In what was advertised as a jazzentertainment concert, the Radio Orchestra in Kraków performed pieces by Jerzy Gert (1908–1968) and an array of composers who did not belong to the Composers’ Union.109 Audiences flocked to these and similar concerts, according to one reviewer who also claimed that halls were barely half filled at other more classicallyoriented Festival events. In his opinion, society was still more interested in popular music than in the “difficult, unpopular” variety presented in symphony halls.110 Some critics, moreover, acknowledged that the government’s musical

108 Krzysztof Antoni Mazur, “Drugi koncert festiwalowy,” Głos Robotniczy, no. 22 ( January 26, 1955); Jerzy Wojciechowski, “II symfoniczny koncert festiwalowy,” Dziś i Jutro, no. 5 (1955); WiDz, “Nareszcie muzyka współczesna,” Gazeta Robotnicza, no. 31 (February 5–6, 1955); P., “Z krakowskiej filharmonii,” Gazeta Krakowska 7, no. 52 (March 2, 1955): 4. 109 Tadeusz Sivert, “Festiwal współczesnej muzyki polskiej: Muzyka rozrywkowa i taneczna na II Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej,” Przegląd Kulturalny 4, no. 20 (1955): 7. Gert began conducting the Polish Radio Orchestra in Kraków in 1947. 110 L. [Ludwik] Erhardt, “Rozważania po Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej,” Po Prostu, no. 23 (1955). Poor concert attendance was also discussed at internal Composers’ Union meetings. ZKP, 12/23, Protokół nr. I-55.

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popularization efforts had failed to inspire or educate the masses to appreciate so-called serious compositions, since audience attendance at programs of art music was poor and the pieces performed were not always comprehensible to many listeners.111 Despite this perceived complexity of the overall Festival program, anyone looking for new, adventurous works that might signal the willingness of composers to begin experimenting more broadly than had been done in recent years would have been disappointed. Yes, Lutosławski’s Concerto for Orchestra was performed, but only once, by Bohdan Wodiczko and the Kraków Philharmonic. The National Philharmonic had it in its repertoire, but its conductor, Witold Rowicki, was ill and no one else wanted to attempt to lead it. This led to Lutosławski’s Symphonic Variations being substituted for the Concerto.112 Artur Malawski’s Symphonic Etudes were also heard in concert for the first time since early 1949. The most adventurous composition was Kazimierz Serocki’s 1953 Suite of Preludes for piano, almost certainly the first postwar dodecaphonic composition by a Polish composer to be performed in Poland.113 The beginning of the fifth movement of the piece, which shows this dodecaphonic treatment, is shown in Figure 10.114 The one available review of this piece mentioned the virtuosity required of the performer but not its innovative treatment of the musical material.115 (Interestingly, Serocki’s composition was programmed on recitals in two towns in southern Poland in spring 1955, negating the quasi-official guideline that modern music should not be made available for the masses.)116

111 Alicja Rutkowska, “Po festiwalu,” Głos Robotniczy, no. 128 (May 31, 1955); Wacław Gluth-Nowowiejski, “Muzyka bez odbiorców,” Dziś i Jutro, no. 45 (1954). 112 ZKP, 12/23 (Zebrania plenarne ZG ZKP, Protokoły posiedzeń 1955–1963 r.), Protokół nr II/55. 113 Serocki had become aware of dodecaphony during his studies in France 1947–1948. Lindstedt notes that postwar dodecaphonic compositions by Roman Palester, Bogusław Schaeffer, and Roman Haubenstock-Ramati (1919–1994) predated Serocki’s piece. These were apparently not performed in Poland during the first postwar decade. HaubenstockRamati, of Jewish heritage, emigrated to Israel in 1950. Lindstedt, “The Development of Twelve-Note and Serial Techniques in the Music of Polish Twentieth-Century Composers,” 112, 121. 114 For more detailed discussions of this piece, see Lindstedt, ‘Piszę tylko muzykę’, 190–195; Stefan Będkowski, “Dwunastotonowość ‘Suity preludiów’ Kazimierza Serockiego,” Muzyka 39, no. 4 (1994): 53–63. 115 Tadeusz Marek, “Współczesna muzyka polska na koncertach kameralnych,” Przegląd Kulturalny 4, no. 15 (1955): 5. 116 BN Collection, 1955 Stalinogród programs, Tadeusz Żmudziński recitals in Gliwice, February 28, 1955, and in Pszczyna, May 21, 1955.

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Figure 10.  Kazimierz Serocki, Suite of Preludes, movement 5, measures 1–15. Courtesy of Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, Kraków, Poland, 1968

Those compositions considered to be the most progressive by Polish critics in the years immediately following the war did not make it onto the 1955 Festival program. Of these works—Witold Lutosławski’s Trio for oboe, clarinet, and bassoon, Artur Malawski’s Symphony no. 1, Roman Palester’s Symphony no. 2, and

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Andrzej Panufnik’s Nocturne and Lullaby—those by Palester and Panufnik had become political liabilities due to their composers’ émigration. The reasons for the omission of Lutoslawski’s and Malawski’s pieces, even from lists of works under preliminary consideration, are unknown, but the overall picture of the Festival program reveals that the compositions performed at least nominally still fit into a picture of socialist realist music. Of course, such pieces constituted the vast majority, if not nearly all of the compositions completed in Poland between 1949 and 1955. Serocki’s Suite of Preludes, Lutosławski’s Symphonic Variations, and Malawski’s Symphonic Etudes—the latter two composed before 1949— appear to have been among the most audacious choices possible for the festival’s organizers. As was true of many Polish compositions written by Composers’ Union members in the first postwar decade, most of the pieces of so-called serious music heard at the 1955 Festival of Polish Music featured chromatic or bitonal harmonies, expressive melodies, and modified classical forms, but did not reach beyond that, even to those more experimental technical elements some composers had become aware of either during the interwar period, in postwar trips abroad before 1949, or from teachers thereafter. Both Adrian Thomas and Małgorzata Gąsiorowska have cited Grażyna Bacewicz’s Violin Concerto no. 5, one of the works premiered at this festival, as a piece that with its biting, bitonal harmonies and aggressive character approaches a new compositional style but does not entirely remove the constraints seen in Polish works of recent years.117 Yet this new composition, written by one of Poland’s finest composers, was not performed on the festival’s finale, to which the international guests had been invited, although it had been heard during the first week of the event in January 1955. Bacewicz was not neglected, however, for her folk-infused Violin Concerto no. 3 and Symphony no. 4, along with several chamber pieces, were presented during the finale. The violin concerto had been suggested by Włodzimierz Sokorski, then the Minister of Culture and Art, who argued that Lutosławski’s Concerto for Orchestra and Bolesław Woytowicz’s Symphony no. 2 were too difficult for listeners to comprehend (even though he had praised Woytowicz’s piece in 1948).118 Although the Western guests may have been accustomed to hearing compositions by Pierre Boulez, Olivier Messiaen, and other contemporary Western European composers, making even the most adventurous Polish pieces seem quite conservative, Sokorski—seemingly still thinking of the purest

117 Thomas called this piece “the most unduly neglected work of the early 1950s.” Adrian Thomas, Grażyna Bacewicz: Chamber and Orchestral Music (Los Angeles: University of Southern California, 1985), 40; Gąsiorowska, Bacewicz, 240. 118 ZKP, 12/23, Protokół nr II/55.

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of socialist realist times—suggested showcasing Tadeusz Baird’s Ballad of the Soldier’s Mug and Kazimierz Sikorski’s Symphony no. 3 instead. Sokorski’s suggestions in the mid-1950s were no longer taken as demands, however. On the finale, Baird’s cantata was performed once, but Woytowicz’s symphony was presented twice. Sikorski was represented not by his symphony but by several choral works and his Suite from Istebna (Suita z Istebnej), which had been conceived as a result of the 1947 commissions dedicated to popularization efforts (although the piece was not completed until 1951). Critical commentary about the Festival, as alluded to above, was divided. Some reviewers maintained an allegiance to a socialist realist line of thought, as if hesitant or unwilling to support the ongoing cultural changes in the country. Remarks about “accessibility and direct influence on the listener”119 (about Bolesław Szabelski’s Symphony no. 3) or “a fine achievement of socialist realism, because it is a work that speaks to the heart, [and is] full of simplicity and dignity, artistic servitude and truth”120 (Kazimierz Sikorski’s Symphony no. 3) played to the official views of the early 1950s, not the current climate in which mistakes were acknowledged and adjustments advocated. Compositions infused with the flavor of Polish folk music (whether by direct quotation or not) were praised for their national character and accessibility. The lack of such connotations in other pieces was sometimes described as a flaw that would prevent listeners from readily comprehending the music.121 The more insular nature of these comments differed from those made by other speakers who, while ostensibly discussing the festival, took the opportunity to push for Polish composers to rejoin the international musical world rather than remain isolated within their own borders. Some critics referred to the lack of perspective created in recent years by the practice of applauding almost everything new in Polish composition, without comparing it to music in other countries.122 Others blamed the composers themselves for taking what might have seemed to be the path of least resistance—relying on simplicity in composition.123

119 Jerzy Wojciechowski, “II symfoniczny koncert festiwalowy.” 120 Krzysztof Antoni Mazur, “Uroczyste otwarcie Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej,” Głos Robotniczy, no. 16 ( January 19, 1955). 121 Adolf Dygacz, “Z II Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej: Mycielski-Serocki-Baird w programie koncertu, Pianiści radzieccy na Śląsku,” Trybuna Robotnicza, no. 77 (1955): 4; J. M., “Pierwszy koncert festiwalowy Wielkiej Orkiestry Symfonicznej Polskiego Radia,” Dziennik Zachodni, February 4, 1955; WiDz, “Nareszcie muzyka współczesna.” 122 Bohdan Pilarski, “Festiwal współczesnej muzyki polskiej: Kilka uwag,” Przegląd Kulturalny 4, no. 20 (1955): 6; Zygmunt Mycielski, “O twórczości muzycznej dziesięciolecia,” 8. 123 Jarociński, “Impresje sceptyczne,” 3.

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Left unsaid in these critiques is that some compositions that reflected some degree of innovation and individuality had been denounced and erased from concert stages in recent years. Composers had learned that originality in music was not a desirable trait, especially in the early 1950s. Tadeusz Baird pointed to the poverty of Polish composition when he claimed that only thirty of what he claimed were approximately 300 works performed at the festival could be considered valuable; the remainder had served only to weaken the overall event.124 Even Włodzimierz Sokorski admitted that the festival had been criticized by many and that some works did not draw audiences’ attention.125 The unspoken question for some was: what should be done to remedy this situation?

The Warsaw Autumn Festival Although the 1955 Festival of Polish Music (FMP II) succeeded in providing a review of Polish compositions completed in recent years, it also reinforced composers’ desire to confront music from other nations as a means of enriching their own work. Some information about contemporary music in foreign countries had made its way into Poland in the mid-1950s and a few composers had traveled abroad, for example to Belgium and Holland or via official cultural exchanges to countries in the Soviet domain. However, it was not until 1956 that Polish composers were able to travel more extensively in Western Europe and thus come into direct contact with a wider array of new music.126 Even before FMP II started in January 1955, however, plans were already underway to organize an international festival of contemporary music in Warsaw. The momentum for this effort came from the Composers’ Union’s new executive board, elected in June 1954. Among those exiting the board were Tadeusz Szeligowski and Bolesław Woytowicz, who had been active in musical circles even prior to World War II. Zofia Lissa, previously the union’s vice-president, left that position but remained on the board. Tadeusz Baird and Kazimierz Serocki, two-thirds of the Group 49 that had been formed at the Łagów conference, joined the presidium as vice-presidents. Kazimierz Sikorski became the 124 ZKP, 12/8, Sprawozdanie stenograficzne z obrad Walnego Zgromadzenia Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 4, 5 i 6 czerwca 1955 roku, page 42. 125 ZKP, 12/8, Sprawozdanie stenograficzne z obrad Walnego Zgromadzenia Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 4, 5 i 6 czerwca 1955 roku, page 72. 126 ZKP, 12/8, Wyjazdy zagraniczne członków Z. K. P. w okresie od grudnia 1955 do grudnia 1956, Sprawozdanie z działalności Zarządu Głównego Związku Kompozytorów Polskich za okres od 26.iv.1954 do 4.vi.1955 roku, pages 26–27.

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union’s president, while young composers Andrzej Dobrowolski (1921–1990), Włodzimierz Kotoński, and Stanisław Skrowaczewski joined as first-time members.127 This infusion of youth into the union’s leadership (except for Lissa and Sikorski, the others had been born in independent Poland and came of age following World War II) brought renewed enthusiasm for reshaping Polish musical life. Baird and Serocki had done much of the organizational work within the Composers’ Union for the 1955 Festival of Polish Music. While striving to promote his country’s music, however, Baird had become discouraged about his own possibilities for composing. His Symphony no. 2 had been sharply criticized and his Concerto for Orchestra had received mixed reviews.128 Forced by authorities to write the socialist realist Ballad of a Soldier’s Mug, he did so, but at about the same time he began studying twelve-tone technique, working with a few scores of Schoenberg and Webern that were circulating surreptitiously in Poland.129 Both Serocki and Bogusław Schaeffer had already worked with dodecaphonic principles in their own music. As Baird recounted later, he and others realized that good art would emerge only if composers were confronted with new impulses on a regular basis, which in his opinion was not happening in Poland.130 Similar opinions had been voiced frequently, as discussed above. In addition to offering the possibility for composers to learn about music and meet musicians from foreign countries, the Composers’ Union wanted to provide educational opportunities for both professionals and students as well as increase the number of performances of contemporary Polish music at home and abroad. Displaying a somewhat schizophrenic temperament, however, due to the shifting political climate of the time, in 1955 the union was also still planning Marxist-oriented ideological courses and trips to industrial and agricultural centers to become acquainted with workers’ artistic needs.131

127 Other board members elected in 1954 were conductor and composer Henryk Czyż (1923– 2003), musicologists Hieronim Feicht and Stefan Jarociński, and composer and organist Tadeusz Paciorkiewicz. Andrzej Panufnik was a vice-president until his escape to Great Britain. 128 J. M., “Pierwszy koncert festiwalowy Wielkiej Orkiestry Symfonicznej Polskiego Radia,”; Antoni Prosnak, “Koncert na orkiestrę T. Bairda,” Przegląd Kulturalny 4, no. 38 (1955): 5. 129 Tadeusz A. Zieliński, Tadeusz Baird (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1966), 32–34. 130 Tadeusz Baird and Izabella Grzenkowicz, Rozmowy, szkice, refleksje (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1982), 99–100. 131 ZKP, 12/22, Plan pracy Związku Kompozytorów Polskich na 1955 rok; ZKP, 12/7, Protokół surowy Walnego Zgromadzenia członków Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 24, 25 i 26.IV.1954, pages 16–24.

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Sikorski, the union’s president, took the bold step in mid-late 1954 of speaking with Bolesław Bierut, Poland’s prime minister and head of the Polish United Workers’ Party. He did this at the request of his union colleagues after the government had rejected their initial written inquiries about hosting the international festival, ostensibly for reasons related to budget constraints and lack of preparation time. Bierut quickly approved the project, however, expressing his enthusiasm about the potential for a confrontation between music from “East and West.”132 Whether Bierut understood music from the East to be only Polish compositions or inclusive of the entire Soviet sphere is unknown, but the Festival in reality became a three-pronged affair, with Polish music being featured alongside compositions from beyond Poland’s western and eastern borders. By June 1955, when the Composers’ Union officially approved the creation of what became the Warsaw Autumn International Festival of Contemporary Music, plans were well underway. Talks had already been held with the governmental agencies who would be responsible for providing financing and assistance with the event’s foreign component (performers, compositions, and guests).133 Clearly, many discussions had been held behind the scenes about this event. By that time, Baird and Serocki had just completed their work on the 1955 Festival of Polish Music, an event that had generated discontent among composers, governmental and political authorities, and at least some critics. But their efforts were not in vain. They now were well aware of the difficulties of arranging concert programs with their own country’s ensembles. They also were more familiar with the persistent shortages of scores, parts, adequate instruments, and even poor musicianship throughout the country. They had provided hospitality for foreign guests, who would become a staple of the new international festival in coming years. While organizational difficulties persisted throughout 1956 and the first such event did not fulfill all of the union’s aspirations, the festival did much to propel Polish music on a different course than it had experienced in the early 1950s.

132 Interview with Sikorski, May 10, 1986. See also Cynthia Bylander, “The Warsaw Autumn International Festival of Contemporary Music 1956–1961: Its Goals, Structures, Programs, and People,” PhD dissertation, The Ohio State University, 1989, 91–93. 133 ZKP, 12/8, Tadeusz Baird, II Festiwal Muzyki Polskiej. Referat sprawozdawczy, page 16.

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“For the first time in a long time, our meeting is taking place in an atmosphere of true creative freedom. No one will persecute anyone here for so-called formalism; no one will prevent anyone from expressing their own aesthetic views, regardless of what [that is, which perspective] individual composers represent.”1 (Witold Lutosławski, 1957) “We realize that only the sincere and permanent cooperation of musicians of all nations—both composers and performers—can hasten the broader popularity of contemporary music. . . . Only a lively cultural exchange between individual countries guarantees the universality of today’s culture.”2 (Polish Composers’ Union, introductory essay for the 1956 Warsaw Autumn Festival’s program book) These two quotations eloquently express the optimism of Polish composers as they headed into what they undoubtedly hoped was a new era in their country’s musical life. Their frank emphasis on compositional autonomy, an end to aesthetic condemnations, and a return to international contacts left no

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“Oto zjazd nasz po raz pierwszy od dłuższego już czasu odbywa się w atmosferze prawdziwej wolności twórczej. Nikt tu nikogo nie będzie prześladował za tzw. formalizm, nikt nikomu nie przeszkodzi wypowiedzieć swych poglądów estetycznych niezależnie od tego co reprezentują poszczególni kompozytorzy.” Witold Lutosławski, “Zagajenie dyskusji na walnym zjeździe Zwiazku Kompozytorów Polskich,” Ruch Muzyczny 1, no. 1 (May 1, 1957): 2. “Zdajemy sobie sprawę z tego, że tylko serdeczna i stała współpraca muzyków wszystkich narodów, zarówno twórców, jak i wykonawców – może przyśpieszyć szerszą niż dotychczas popularyzację muzyki współczesnej . . . Tylko żywa wymiana kulturalna pomiędzy poszczególnymi krajami gwarantuje powszechność kultury naszych czasów.” Maria Bielańska, ed., Program I Międzynarodowego Festiwalu Muzyki Współczesnej (Warsaw: Komitet Organizacyjny I-go Międzynarodowego Festiwalu Muzyki Współczesnej, 1956), 28.

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doubt about their expectations for the future. Certainly the dramatic political events of October 1956 gave them reason to visualize a tranformation of major proportions. First, however, there was trepidation. During the so-called “Polish October” of 1956, Soviet troops moved toward Warsaw from their bases elsewhere in Poland and Nikita Khrushchev, the leader of the Soviet Union’s Communist Party, arrived unannounced in the Polish capital, threatening to prevent the expected appointment of Władysław Gomułka as the new head of the Polish United Workers’ Party. Gomułka had been in political hot water earlier in the 1950s for favoring a Polish form of socialism over the Soviet-branded version, but now he was viewed as someone who could appeal to the many Poles who were increasingly vocal in their demands for political and economic change.3 Khrushchev, who earlier in 1956 had condemned Stalin in a supposedly secret speech that nevertheless was soon being widely discussed in Poland, eventually backed down and allowed Poland’s government to make its own decisions. Gomułka’s speech to Polish citizens after his election as Party Secretary reiterated many of the themes voiced by Ministry of Culture and Art officials over the past two years: “The ideas of socialism . . . have been greatly distorted in practice . . . I deeply believe that these years belong to an irrevocable past.”4 These political events culminated during the first Warsaw Autumn Festival, itself a sign of the relaxation of Stalinist doctrines in the cultural arena. With Nadia Boulanger and other international guests in the audience, prestigious foreign ensembles on the stage, and listeners treated to such pieces as Arthur Honegger’s Pacific 231, Arnold Schoenberg’s Piano Concerto, and Igor Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring, the attention of Polish attendees and participants was, however, increasingly directed outside the concert hall. As Stefan Kisielewski reportedly told Mieczysław Tomaszewski (1921–2019), then the head of Polish Music Publishers, “more important things are happening there,”5 after which the two musicians left the concert to join the crowds in front of the headquarters of the Polish United Workers’ Party. Undoubtedly, they were not disappointed, for the era of Stalinist-style socialist realism came to a close with these events.

3 4 5

For information on the tumultuous events in Polish society in 1956, see Porter-Szűcs, Poland in the Modern World, 231–237. Quoted in Porter-Szűcs, Poland in the Modern World, 236. Mieczysław Tomaszewski, 12 spojrzeń na muzykę polską wieku apokalipsy i nadziei: Studia, szkice, interpretacje (Kraków: Akademia Muzyczna, 2011), 65.

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What to Do with Socialist Realism: Subsequent Discussions Notwithstanding Lutosławski’s words quoted at the start of this chapter, few other musicians chose to spend time discussing their experiences of the first postwar decade. In subsequent years, nearly all composers withdrew mass songs and cantatas from their catalogs of works, along with any other pieces they deemed unworthy of recognition in the new, more permissive climate. The Composers’ Union turned its immediate attention to issues such as publishing, education, international publicity, and the coordination of these activities with governmental agencies, since the financial and ideological patronage of composers continued to be managed by national and local authorities.6 The union was also heavily involved in the organization of successive Warsaw Autumn Festivals, which have taken place annually since 1958 (with the exception of 1982). Thus its efforts were concentrated on maintaining, if not strengthening, the looser restrictions that had been put into place in the mid-1950s. The few music critics who referred to this first postwar decade in the years immediately following the Polish October issued mild critiques of what had transpired. Phrases such as “a climate of distrust” related to new compositional demands appeared in one of the first extended commentaries on the musical decade.7 Moreover, while some contributors to this 1957 volume, Kultura muzyczna Polski Ludowej 1944–1955 (Musical Culture in People’s Poland 1944–1955), used the familiar term “socialist realism” to describe the cultural “offensive”8 that had characterized the period, others writing at about the same time refrained from doing so.9 In a relatively brief book issued in conjunction with the first Warsaw Autumn Festival (and translated from Polish to French in 1957), Tadeusz Marek glossed over the term itself, but noted that “much bad music” had been created as a result of the “‘folklorization’”10 of Polish compositions intended for the general public. Writing with the intention of reaching foreign audiences, he concentrated on presenting an overview of the most important composers and compositions of the decade. Although he omitted

6

ZKP, 12/9, IX Walny Zjazd (9, 10.III.1957), Stenogram z obrad Walngo Zjazdu Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 9 i 10 marca 1957 roku, passim. 7 Stefan Jarociński, “Związki muzyczne,” in Kultura muzyczna Polski Ludowej 1944–1955, 56. 8 Stefan Jarociński, “Krytyka muzyczna,” in Kultura muzyczna Polski Ludowej 1944–1955, 305, 309. 9 Zofia Lissa, “Muzyka symfoniczna,” in Kultura muzyczna Polski Ludowej 1944–1955, 111. 10 Tadeusz Marek, Współczesna muzyka polska (1945–1956): Próba charakterystyki, ed. Maria Kielanowska-Bronowicz (Warsaw: Związek Kompozytorów Polskich and Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1956), 17.

Socialist Ramifications

any mention of mass songs, he did mention several cantatas, describing them as works of low quality that had been composed for “artificial”11 reasons. Polish music in the immediate post-1956 era was not to be tainted by the stains of Stalinism. In fact, many wished to erase that period of time from the national consciousness. Later authors treated this period in a seemingly more objective manner, omitting all references to possible mistakes, ideological pressures, financial inducements, and accusations of formalism. Yet this approach yielded a misleading picture of the actual situation. In the frequently cited volume Polska współczesna kultura muzyczna 1944–1964 (Polish Contemporary Musical Culture 1944– 1964),12 Zofia Lissa, Stefan Jarociński, and others listed Marxist-leaning articles written during this decade (mostly by Lissa, ignoring those by Józef Chomiński et al.) and described the Composers’ Union’s congresses as having offered suitable guidelines concerning national traditions. No criticism was directed toward either the government or individuals who had implemented them. Neither were composers’ personal opinions about the decade offered as corroborating evidence. Given its publication date of 1968, the reluctance of the book’s authors to question the Polish United Workers’ Party’s policies of earlier decades could be rationalized as their need—frequently enforced by censors—to adhere to the Communist principles still in effect in Poland.13 However, the same year, Chomiński, in his history of postwar Polish music, went a bit further in his critique of the first postwar decade, claiming that creative initiative had been hampered for a time by an “imprecise interpretation of the basic principles of how art functions in a socialist system,”14 and that socialist ideology was used as a tool to encourage composers to write new pieces that would be unencumbered by links to the interwar period. In his opinion, this had led to eclecticism and an “impoverishment” of musical artistry.15 What Chomiński did not admit, however, was that his own publications and speeches had contributed to these negative attributes of musical life.16 Nor did he mention 11 Ibid., 52–53. 12 Dziębowska, ed., Polska współczesna kultura muzyczna 1944–1964. 13 For information about musical events in 1968, see Jakelski, Making New Music in Cold War Poland, 139–163. 14 Józef Chomiński, Muzyka Polski Ludowej (Warsaw: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1968), 6. 15 Ibid., 42. 16 For example, see Józef Chomiński, “O możliwościach poznawczych w muzyce,” Muzyka 2, nos. 3–4 (1951): 5–7; Józef Chomiński, “Rola tradycji w muzyce współczesnej,” Materiały studiów i dyskusji z zakresu teorii i historii sztuki, krytyki artystycznej oraz metodologii badań nad sztuką 1 (1951): 160–174; 2, no. 5 (1951): 184–198; ZKP, 12/5, Protokół z obrad

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the governmental funds used to tempt composers to write mass songs and folkbased compositions or the festivals that featured such pieces in the name of providing music to the masses. Except for these few publications from the late 1950s and 1960s, few if any others printed in Poland during the Polish People’s Republic (which ended in 1989) attempted to criticize any policy or action that had occurred during the first postwar decade. In order to stay in the good graces of governmental authorities, who still controlled jobs, salaries, apartments, and publications, scholars preferred to offer positive assessments of Polish composers and their music.17 Moreover, restrictions on the content and aesthetics of Polish composition were nearly non-existent beginning in 1956. Aided by the annual Warsaw Autumn Festival and the establishment in 1957 of the Polish Radio Experimental Music Studio, which provided opportunities for creating musique concrète and electronic music, the composers’ community was among the most unrestricted artistic groups in Poland, even if issues with passports, the need to appease the interests of all foreign and domestic governing bodies involved in the Warsaw Autumn Festival, and occasional authoritative challenges regarding certain compositions still presented unwanted difficulties.18 After the fall of the Communist government in Poland in 1989 and the subsequent opening of state archives, scholars and others expressed deeper interest in a critical interpretation of the events of the first postwar decade. With this came attempts to differentiate among various composers’ reactions to the situation on the ground rather than painting the scene with the broader, more uniform brushstrokes seen in earlier appraisals of the period. Some devised hypothetical groupings defined by composers’ levels of acquiescence or obeisance to perceived governmental restrictions and desires. Roman Palester and Andrzej Panufnik, of course, had emigrated abroad, unhappy with the turn of events in

Zwyczajnego Walngo Zgromadzenia członków Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 16, 17, 18 i 19 czerwca 1950 r., page 15; 12/6, Protokół z obrad VI Walnego Zgromadzenia członków Związku Kompozytorów Polskich w dniach 11, 12 i 13 grudnia 1951 r., page 11. In his letters, Chomiński did allude to the fact that it was difficult to refuse commissions for certain ideological essays and for articles about certain composers. Sieradz, ed., Adolf Chybiński—Józef Michał Chomiński, 203–204. 17 See Ludwik Erhardt, Music in Poland, 74–99; Baculewski, Polska twórczość kompozytorska 1945–1984, 15–32; Grzegorz Michalski, “Nowa muzyka,” 149–165. 18 For more information, see Jakelski, Making New Music in Cold War Poland, passim; Cindy Bylander, “Responses to Adversity: The Polish Composers Union and Musical Life in the 1970s and 1980s.” The Musical Quarterly 95, no. 4 (2012): 459–509; Cindy Bylander, “Responses to Martial Law: Glimpses of Polish Musical Life in the 1980s,” Musicology Today 7 (2010): 162–181.

Socialist Ramifications

their native country. According to musicologist Alicja Jarzębska (b. 1941), some composers (Alfred Gradstein, for example) enthusiastically contributed to the call for socialist realist music, while others did so only for financial reasons. Others, including Lutosławski and Panufnik, incorporated folk sources in their music and at the same time experimented with their personal compositional technique. Still others “internally emigrated,” preferring to avoid being viewed as agreeing with any aspect of Poland’s interpretation of socialist realism in music. Alicja Jarzębska and Mieczysław Tomaszewski included Artur Malawski in this latter category.19 Tomaszewski’s delineations also centered on the personal motivation of composers. Did they maintain their artistic integrity, even if this meant using a compositional style acceptable to authorities, or did they “disown both their artistic and ideological identity”20 in doing so? Did they take a particular composition seriously or did they realize beforehand that it would be used for propaganda purposes? For Tomaszewski, composers such as Tadeusz Szeligowski, Stanisław Wiechowicz, Grażyna Bacewicz, Stefan Kisielewski, and Kazimierz Sikorski stayed true to their respective compositional preferences and ideals. Likewise, in Tomaszewski’s view, Zygmunt Mycielski composed his Polish Symphony because he believed that writing music that was not overtly elitist was an appropriate action at that time.21

What We Do Not Know Matters Unfortunately, not enough information is available even today to place every composer active during the first postwar decade into such categories. Indeed, Jarzębska and Tomaszewski did not attempt to do so in a comprehensive manner, either. Without being aware of the financial and family backgrounds of each individual, it would be unfair to place such labels on them. For example, why did Edward Olearczyk, renowned (and sometimes derided) as a composer of mass songs, adhere so ostentatiously to governmental guidelines concerning socialist realism? Many of his works praised the Party and socialist ideology (for example, 19 Alicja Jarzębska, Spór o piękno muzyki: Wprowadzenie do kultury muzycznej XX wieku (Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Wrocławskiego, 2004), 253–254; Mieczysław Tomaszewski, “O twórczości zaangażowanej: Muzyka polska 1944–1994 między autentyzmem a panegiryzmem,” in Muzyka i totalitaryzm, eds. Maciej Jabłoński and Janina Tatarska (Poznań: “Ars Nova,” 1996), 144. 20 Tomaszewski, “O twórczości zaangażowanej,” 142. 21 Ibid., 142–144.

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Millions of Hands [Miliony rąk], Song about Stalin [Pieśń o Stalinie], Song for the First of May [Pieśń pierwszomajowa], Onward Working People [Naprzód ludu roboczy], Song of the United Parties [Pieśń Zjednoczonych Partii], and Our Party [Nasza Partia]). Did he write these songs because he believed in the ideals of the Polish United Workers’ Party, of which he was a member? Did he join the Party because he wanted to try to protect himself and his family, who were Jewish, from anti-Semitic backlashes?22 Might he have composed these songs solely for financial gain? Olearczyk had chaired the Composers’ Union’s mass song section in 1951 and was employed as a musician with the Polish Army, but he emigrated to Israel in 1957. His mass songs were reputed to be popular in Poland, yet in 1952 the Composers’ Union seriously considered changing his union membership from a regular membership to that of a candidate, for reasons related to the perceived inadequate quality of his compositions.23 He was seemingly erased from summaries of Polish music in later years. Poland’s multi-volume Encyklopedia Muzyczna (Music Encyclopedia) does not include an entry for Olearczyk and only the 1956 edition of Bogusław Schaeffer’s Almanach polskich kompozytorów współczesnych (Almanac of Contemporary Polish Composers) mentions him, as a composer of mass songs, theater music, and one operetta; the later editions of this book omit his name.24 Without knowing the reasons for his concentration as a composer on mass songs, should he be castigated as someone who disowned his artistic integrity in the name of ideology? Did he simply enjoy song writing? Did he recognize that his artistic talent did not extend to more complex pieces? We cannot answer these questions appropriately without knowing more about his personal situation. The lack of adequate information about many other composers active during the first postwar period makes it equally difficult to differentiate between those who may have supported the government’s policies concerning socialist realism

22 The anti-Semitic idea of the Jew-Commie (żydokomuna) arose during the interwar period and persisted after the war. In this phenomenon, Jews were perceived as having brought Communism to Poland, with the intention to destroy its Christian heritage. Porter-Szűcs, Poland in the Modern World, 135, 200. 23 ZKP, 12/22, Stenogram z zebrania rozszerzonego plenum Zarządu Głównego Z.K.P. w Poznaniu w dniu 11 grudnia 1952 r. 24 Elżbieta Dziębowska, Zofia Lissa, et al., eds. Encyklopedia Muzyczna, 19 vols. (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1979–2013); Bogusław Schaeffer, Almanach polskich kompozytorów współczesnych (Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1956), 57. Other editions of Schaeffer’s book were printed in 1966 and 1982. Olearczyk’s omission from the Encyklopedia Muzyczna is somewhat surprising, especially considering that its editor-inchief, Elżbieta Dziębowska, was also a member of the Polish United Workers’ Party. Many other composers from this era were included in this publication.

Socialist Ramifications

in music and those who completed some commissions merely as a means of financial support. Certainly, nearly all composers accepted commissions for monetary reasons. Lutosławski and others have admitted that they accepted commissions and even entered competitions due to financial concerns. As Adrian Thomas has indicated, accepting money during this period for compositions that perhaps would not otherwise have been written should not be considered a shameful activity.25 Additionally, since the use of folk-based materials had been part of interwar music as well as postwar composition, it is difficult to claim that pieces incorporating elements of this tradition were an indication of a composer’s complicity in the government’s call for such music as a means of creating a “new” national style. However, the fact that so many such compositions, by so many composers, were not just composed but actually performed during these years reflects the government’s preference to promote folk-inspired pieces over those more abstractly based. Undoubtedly there was some pressure, whether overt or not, to program such pieces, just as there had to have been similar persuasive powers used to feature Soviet and Russian compositions on concerts instead of works by Western composers. But why was there seemingly a plethora of commissions that resulted in folk-related compositions, given that according to documentary evidence, the Composers’ Union and the Commissions Committee had adopted a handsoff approach, approving nearly all suggestions submitted for funding? To some degree, the commissioning powers could not know the specific content of any given piece that was funded, since composers’ requests for assistance often provided just a preliminary title (if that) along with the projected length and number of performers. Andrzej Panufnik, however, offered a plausible response to this question after his departure from Poland. In his opinion, “no one would have thought of submitting a proposal to the Commissions Committee for a work that would not follow the rules generally in force.”26 Given Panufnik’s own history with Nocturne, Lullaby, Symphony of Peace, Heroic Overture, and his mass songs, such a sentiment regarding commissions is understandable. It is also believable, since Panufnik was not the only composer who turned to writing pieces more agreeable to authorities after his other compositions were rebuked. Jan Krenz, for example, turned to stylization and socialist cantatas after being castigated for his early pieces. Both men eventually reacted decisively to the lack

25 Thomas, Squaring the Triangle, 6. 26 Andrzej Panufnik, “Życie muzyczne w dzisiejszej Polsce,” Kultura (Paris), nos. 1–2 (1955): 9.

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of opportunity for further experimentation: Krenz turned to conducting, while Panufnik left Poland permanently. An unwritten barter system between composers and authorities can also be seen, where in return for producing mass songs, perhaps a cantata, and folkrelated pieces for amateurs, a composer could also write other pieces that were not obviously in synch with the anticipated “rules.” Thus Kazimierz Serocki composed his twelve-tone Suite of Preludes but also the socialist realist cantata titled Warsaw Bricklayer (Warszawski murarz),27 while Witold Lutosławski wrote mass songs but experimented with harmony in his pedagogical pieces as well as Little Suite. Grażyna Bacewicz wrote many pedagogical and encore pieces that incorporated folk themes, while her virtuosic concerti and orchestral works, even those that avoided any folk flavoring, were never questioned by authorities. Although composers may have viewed their pedagogical pieces as needed for music students in the devastated country of postwar Poland, the government likely interpreted them as satisfying its own desires for music that fulfilled its popularization goals. Others, especially those who lived far from the prying eyes of authorities in Warsaw, were able to adhere to their own compositional desires even more so than Lutosławski and Bacewicz. Artur Malawski and Bolesław Szabelski have been discussed previously in this regard, while Stefan Kisielewski (in Kraków) also enjoyed some success as a composer. As did Artur Malawski, Bolesław Szabelski and Stefan Kisielewski also preserved their own compositional styles rather than adjusting them for ideological or propaganda purposes, with Szabelski’s orchestral music (Symphony no. 3 and Concerto Grosso) leaning to monumentalism and neo-Baroque impulses and Kisielewski’s pieces (Concerto for chamber orchestra and Danse vive for piano) being characterized by a somewhat joking and acerbic neoclassical style. Notwithstanding Kisielewski’s public stance as a non-conformist to the Party line, neither he nor Szabelski had displayed any interest in the sort of overt experimentation in their own compositions that might have attracted the negative attention of critics or governmental officials.28 Although neither produced panegyric mass songs or cantatas, they do

27 For a discussion of Warsaw Bricklayer, see Maciej Gołąb, Muzyczna moderna w XX wieku: Między kontynuacją, nowością a zmianą fonosystemu (Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Wrocławskiego, 2011), 180–182. 28 Leopold Tyrmand (1920–1985), a writer and jazz aficionado, commented somewhat sarcastically that Włodzimierz Sokorski and other officials praised Kisielewski’s compositions. This prompted Tyrmand to say “it turns out Kisiel [Kisielewski] is a socrealist in at least one area.” Leopold Tyrmand, Diary 1954, trans. Anita Shelton and A. J. Wrobel (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 2014), 263–264.

Socialist Ramifications

not seem to have suffered repercussions, at least with regard to commissions or performances. Still, the socialist realist period in Polish music as currently understood should be seen primarily as one of “accommodation” and “silent resistance,” when many composers managed as best they could, accepting commissions, teaching, conducting, and so on, in order to make ends meet financially but not necessarily responding to every call to support the government’s wishes. While a few chose to stay abroad (although not always for political reasons) and even fewer worked in ministerial (governmental) positions, the vast majority tried to maintain some sort of status quo in their compositional lives. While it is not correct to claim that the same pieces would have emerged and been performed in Poland under a different political system that avoided encouraging the creation of mass songs, sponsoring celebrations of Stalin, and organizing festivals of folk-inspired classical music, it is appropriate to say that composers and the Composers’ Union did their best to promote the finest examples of contemporary Polish composition. As conductors who were also composers, Stanisław Skrowaczewski, Andrzej Panufnik, Jan Krenz, Artur Malawski, and lesser-known names such as Eugeniusz Dziewulski and Irena Pfeiffer directed many works of their peers. In their roles as orchestral administrators, Piotr Perkowski and Witold Rudziński led efforts to build repertoire and ensemble strength, while also managing the expectations of their financial patrons, the government. While Rudziński was reproached for his actions as the Composers’ Union president in the early 1950s, he was respected for his earlier work with the Warsaw Philharmonic and his later pedagogical efforts. Zygmunt Mycielski and Stefan Kisielewski kept their fingers pointed to compositional freedom and limited interference from their patrons, while Lutosławski continued experimenting with his own personal compositional technique. Andrzej Panufnik, through his escape, awakened others to the possibility of making improvements in their own lives. Jan Krenz, although dissatisfied with the reception of some of his own compositions, entered the conducting profession more fully and directed performances of his contemporaries’ music, many of which were then rebroadcast on Polish Radio. The Composers’ Union itself may have issued proclamations supporting socialist realist values, but the actions of many of its members during most of the first postwar decade reflected a combination of antipathy, indifference, and lack of support for these same qualities. Although for decades composers had appreciated the need to bring music to the general public, many also were dismayed by the Communists’ attempts to dictate what types and styles of compositions should be created. Equally problematic was the fact that although the postwar government organized concerts of classical music in many areas of

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Poland, it did not ask audiences what music they preferred. It was Włodzimierz Sokorski, Zofia Lissa, and others in the cultural apparatus who had concluded (undoubtedly influenced by affairs in the Soviet Union) that songs and folkinspired works would be most appreciated and would solve the gnawing problem of musical illiteracy in Poland. Radio listeners, however, generally requested to have broadcasts of dance and light music.29 In the end, everyone— composers, cultural authorities, and the public—was dissatisfied with much of what was offered on concerts and radio programs.

Polish School of Composition As part of attempts to summarize the first decade of postwar Polish music, musicians and cultural officials in 1955 re-introduced the concept of a Polish school of composition. As mentioned in chapter 5, Włodzimierz Sokorski that year had heralded the emergence of a Polish school of composition distinguished by “direct emotional and musical contact with the widest audience,”30 although he did not cite any specific composers or works. Zygmunt Mycielski had entertained the notion of a “school” of recognizably Polish music as early as 1946 and again in 1949. As mentioned above, in 1949 he said that suitable compositions would sound recognizably Polish; in 1946 he had claimed that some extant pieces featured a “specific Polish folk accent,”31 but had also acknowledged that his compositional colleagues were attracted to French compositional models. In 1954 he named two compositions that, in his opinion, emulated a national character: Artur Malawski’s The Peaks, completed in 1950, and Kazimierz Serocki’s Symphony no. 2 “Symphony of Songs” from 1953. The latter utilized folk texts; neither piece directly cited folk melodies. Calling these “extremely interesting and weighty experiments,”32 he seemed to be searching for elements of folk inspiration in pieces that he deemed candidates for such a Polish compositional school. He also claimed that “for the first time in history”33 a group of Polish composers had emerged whose compositions were stylistically different

29 TVP, 21/7–1 (Sekretariat Generalny), Ogólnopolska konferencja programowa w Soplicowie w dniach od 15–18.3.1950 r.; “Ankieta muzyczna i jej odbicie w programie PR,” Radio i Świat 10, no. 11 (1954): 1. 30 ZKP, 12/8 (VIII Walny Zjazd 4, 5, 6.VI.1955), page 66. 31 Beata Bolesławska-Lewandowska, “Z teki Zygmunta Mycielskiego (6): O polskiej muzyce współczesnej (1946),” Ruch Muzyczny 66, no. 19 (2021): 44. 32 Zygmunt Mycielski, “O twórczości muzycznej dziesięciolecia,” 8. 33 Ibid., 19.

Socialist Ramifications

from those of other countries. However, in naming nearly all of the decade’s major composers (Grażyna Bacewicz, Tadeusz Baird, Witold Lutosławski, Artur Malawski, Kazimierz Sikorski, Kazimierz Serocki, Bolesław Szabelski, and Stanisław Wiechowicz), his claim that their compositions possessed a “Polish sound . . . [represented by] emotionally saturated works”34 lost some credibility, given that the stylistic traits of these composers’ compositions were often not similar to one another. It would be hard, for example, to claim that Lutosławski’s music evoked the same “emotional saturation” as Sikorski’s or Bacewicz’s compositions or that Wiechowicz’s choral pieces for amateurs were akin to Serocki’s varied contributions. Furthermore, Mycielski’s apparent claim that folk inspiration was characteristic of a “Polish school” was weakened by the inclusion of Szabelski, who rarely reached for such influences. The desire of both cultural authorities and critic-composers (Mycielski) to assert the existence of a Polish school points to their wish to characterize their own country’s music as being distinct from that of any nation to the east or west. Having borrowed compositional models and socialist realist policies at least in part from the Soviet Union over the past few years, by 1955, with the transition to the political and cultural thaw under way, Polish officials and musicians began redirecting the concept of nationalism, embracing it as a means of publicizing its cultural heritage abroad (as with the Warsaw Autumn Festival) and as a tactic used to position the field of Polish composition as something uniquely worthy of notice. Lisa Cooper Vest and Lisa Jakelski have described the discussions among Polish composers of all generations as they struggled to describe their colleagues’ emerging avant-garde compositions of the early 1960s as suitably Polish, or national in character, while also asserting that they were worthy of attention internationally.35 As Poland began opening itself up to Western scrutiny, Polish music became an important means with which to impress foreign observers and audiences. Although the notion of popularizing music within Poland never disappeared completely, the emphasis shifted, at least in part, toward external factors. In the opinions of many, nationalism constructed as an internal need of the nation, and one that often emphasized folk music as a defining characteristic, became of secondary importance to presenting Polish music in all of its manifestations to the outside world.

34 Ibid., 20. 35 Lisa Jakelski, “Górecki’s Scontri and Avant-Garde Music in Cold War Poland,” Journal of Musicology 26, no. 2 (2009): 205–239; Vest, Awangarda, 167–183.

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To improve foreigners’ awareness of contemporary Polish music, which had deteriorated as a result of Poland’s isolationist cultural policies during the first half of the 1950s, it became beneficial to market these compositions and composers as an abstract collective rather than individual achievements, as if all Polish composers were worthy of notice. Thus in the introductory essay printed in the program book for the first Warsaw Autumn Festival, the promise of becoming acquainted with a “number of fine contemporary Polish works and the composers of the ‘Polish school’, which can boast of beautiful successes”36 was aligned with comments about the rich heritage of Polish music in past centuries. Although the Polish compositions by living composers presented at that year’s festival necessarily were products of the socialist realist period in Poland, with many of the pieces having been heard at either the 1951 or 1955 Festival of Polish Music, the concept of a Polish school of composers rather quickly came to signify entirely different stylistic characteristics. By 1961, Everett Helm, a foreign observer of the Warsaw Autumn Festivals, used this term in conjunction with the avant-garde pieces of Witold Lutosławski, Henryk Mikołaj Górecki (1933–2010), and Krzysztof Penderecki (1933–2020). He also noted the nonacademic treatment of serial technique in many Polish compositions featured at that year’s festival, inferring that Poland’s composers had collectively (if not intentionally) created an uncommon, even exceptional approach to modern music.37 This idea of a Polish school of composition became popular among music critics in Poland and abroad. Although just what this meant with regard to compositional style remained murky (it frequently referred to innovative sounds and string techniques), it did acquire a connotation related to progressiveness and musical abstraction.38 This, in turn, led in Poland to charges of elitism in contemporary composition, invoking the interwar accusation for which socialist realism had been promoted as an antidote. As Lisa Jakelski has shown, using critical reaction in Poland to Górecki’s Scontri as an starting point, the solution lay in emphasizing the emotional communicativeness of new Polish music, regardless of the compositional techniques employed. In this way, Polish music would retain a distinctive identity that hopefully would satisfy all interested parties.39

36 Bielańska, ed., Program I Międzynarodowego Festiwalu Muzyki Współczesnej, 27–28. 37 Everett Helm, “Nine-Day Festival,” New York Times, October 8, 1961, Section X, 13. 38 For a summary of the various definitions of the Polish school, see Iwona Lindstedt, “The Polish School of Composition in 20th-Century Music—A Recapitulation,” Musicology Today 15 (2018): 33–40. 39 Jakelski, “Górecki’s Scontri,” 205–239.

Socialist Ramifications

The issues of national versus international influences, conservatism versus progressivism, and elitism versus accessibility in music continued to be debated in Poland in subsequent decades. These concerns, evident during Poland’s interwar period as well as throughout its first post–World War II decade, form an unending continuum in the cultural arenas of many nations. The socialist realist era in Polish music, propelled to a close by political events in the Soviet Union and individual actions taken in Poland, was an anomaly in some ways, given the Polish government’s attempt at a top-down implementation of artistic policy, its isolationist attitude, and its co-opting of native concerns expressed in previous decades, but in other ways, it reflected interests evident in many artistic discourses throughout the country’s history. Poland’s composers, however, paved the way to increased freedoms through their insistence on maintaining the status quo of the interwar period as much as possible, preserving some elements of elitism and embracing both native and foreign influences as compositional possibilities. Their efforts did much to create an atmosphere for change even as they experienced hardships and psychological and financial pressures to adhere to socialist guidelines.

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———. “Sacred Silence: The Soundscape of Mourning.” Translated by Agata Klichowska. Glissando, no. 26 (2015): 107–111. Wierzbicki, Władysław-Henryk. “Lublin: Ruch muzyczny w bieżącym sezonie, Faustyn Kulczycki, audycje muzyczne.” Muzyka 7, no. 2 (1930): 110–111. Wiłkomirska, Wanda. “Muzyka współczesna to nie tylko kompozytorzy.” Trybuna Ludu, no. 140 (1955). Wiłkomirski, Kazimierz. Wspomnienia. Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1971. ———. Wspomnień ciąg dalszy. Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1980. Wisłocki, Stanisław. Życie jednego muzyka. Warsaw: Oficyna Wydawnicza Rytm, 2000. Wiszniewski, Zbigniew. “Pomorze ma swoją filharmonię,” Przegląd Kulturalny 2, no. 7 (1953): 6. “Witold Friemann.” https://polmic.pl/index.php?option=com_mwosoby&id=761&litera=7&vi ew=czlowiek&Itemid=5&lang=pl. Wnuk-Nazarowa, Joanna. “Spotkanie Muzyczne w Baranowie.” In Muzyka Polska 1945–1995, edited by Krzysztof Droba, Teresa Malecka, and Krzysztof Szwajgier, 322–326. Kraków: Akademia Muzyczna, 1996. Wojciechowski, Jerzy. “II symfoniczny koncert festiwalowy.” Dziś i Jutro, no. 5 (1955). Woźniakowska, Anna. 60 lat Filharmonii im. Karola Szymanowskiego w Krakowie 1945–2005. Kraków: Filharmonia im. Karola Szymanowskiego, 2004. Wróbel, Feliks. “Z zagadnień muzyki ćwierćtonowej (Na marginesie ‘Kołysanki’ A. Panufnika).” Ruch Muzyczny 4, no. 18 (1948): 13–16. “Wyniki konkursu muzycznego.” Radio i Świat 4, no. 31 (1948): 7. Wysocki, Stefan. “Notatnik muzyczny.” Przegląd Kulturalny 2, no. 9 (1953): 2. “Ze związków i stowarzyszeń.” Muzyka 7, no. 2 (1930): 131–132. “Z ORMUZU: V rok działalności.” Muzyka Polska 6, nos. 6–7 (1939): 349–353. “Z ORMUZU: Zakończenie III-go sezonu koncertowego.” Muzyka Polska 4, no. 5 (1937): 252–253. “Z prasy: Muzyka narodowa.” Muzyka Polska 4, no. 3 (1937): 123–125. “Z prasy: Pojedynek–Rytel–Waldorff.” Muzyka Polska 6, no. 1 (1939): 34–40. “Z życia ZKP.” Muzyka 5, nos. 7–8 (1954): 94–95. “Z życia Związku Kompozytorów Polskich,” Muzyka 1, nos. 7–8 (1950): 84–89. Zieliński, Tadeusz A. Tadeusz Baird. Kraków: Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne, 1966. Żórawska-Witkowska, Alina. “Straty wojenne.” Ruch Muzyczny 25, no. 14 (1981): 4–7. Żuławski, Wawrzyniec. “Inauguracja sezonu w Filharmonii Warszawskiej.” Nowa Kultura 2, no. 40 (1951): 11. ———. “Otwarcie Filharmonii Warszawskiej.” Nowa Kultura 2, no. 4 (1951). ———. “Z Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej: Kwartet Szymanowskiego.” Express Wieczorny, no. 314 (1951). ———. “Zakończenie finałów Festiwalu Muzyki Polskiej.” Nowa Kultura 3, no. 2 (1952): 11. “Życie muzyczne w kraju: Kraków.” Muzyka 4, nos. 3–4 (1953): 96–100. “Życie organizacyjne.” Ruch Muzyczny 1, no. 1 (1945): 25–29. “Życie organizacyjne.” Ruch Muzyczny 1, no. 3 (1945): 17–18. “Życie organizacyjne.” Ruch Muzyczny 1, no. 4 (1945): 20–21.

Index

Accessibility, 3, 5, 10–11, 14, 26, 99–100, 116, 122, 124–125, 142, 154, 165, 192, 201, 222–223, 226, 230, 235– 236, 239–240, 245, 248, 252–253, 255, 269, 271, 280, 297 Albeniz, Isaac, 75 Amateur, 22, 26, 28–29, 50, 84, 110, 116, 122–123, 139, 141, 145, 154, 158, 161, 169, 171, 182, 184, 192, 198, 207–208, 221, 225, 230–231, 234, 236, 240, 242, 256, 274, 292, 295 Anti-Semitic, 23, 56–58, 67, 89, 91, 120, 290 Arct Publishing, 117 Arria café, 75 Art and Fashion (Sztuka i Moda) café, 75–76 Artos, 160, 220, 225–227, 247, 256 At the Actresses (U Aktorek) café, 74 Audition, 188, 190, 200–214, 218, 226, 231, 235, 247, 263 Bacewicz, Grażyna, 2, 6, 28, 31, 34, 38, 65, 71, 81, 104–105, 110, 114, 116, 144, 150, 163–164, 178–180, 184, 186, 205–206, 216–217, 220, 226, 230, 232, 240, 252, 276, 289, 292 Cello Concerto no. 1, 171, 186, 231 Fairy Tale (Bajka), 34, 186 Olympic Cantata (Kantata olimpijska), 205 Overture, 151 Partita for violin and piano, 31 Piano Concerto, 196 Piano Sonata no. 2, 254

Piano Sonata no. 3, 88 Quintet for winds, 38 Sinfonietta, 38 Sonata da camera, 151 Sonata for violin solo, 88 Sonata no. 4 for violin and piano, 273 Song of Unity (Pieśń jedności), 184 String Quartet no. 2, 74 String Quartet no. 3, 157, 234 String Quartet no. 4, 273 Suite for two violins, 88 Suite of Polish Dances (Suita tańców polskich), 184, 224 Symphony no. 1, 234 Symphony no. 2, 234 Symphony no. 3, 211 Symphony no. 4, 279 Under Thatched Roofs (Pod strzechą), 158 Violin Concerto no. 1, 38 Violin Concerto no. 3, 137, 205, 229 Violin Concerto no. 4, 186, 273, 279 Violin Concerto no. 5, 275, 279 Bacewicz, Kiejstut, 151 Bach, Johan Sebastian, 60, 75 Bach, Johann Sebastian and Jan Krenz Polyphonic Suite after Bach’s The Art of the Fugue, 245 Baird, Tadeusz, 6, 69, 184, 189–194, 210, 212, 217, 231, 242–243, 246, 255, 259, 265, 274–275, 281–283, 295 Ballad of the Soldier’s Mug (Ballada o żołnierskim kubku), 189–194, 263, 267, 275, 280, 282

326

Engaging Cultural Ideologies

Colas Breugnon, 191, 243, 245, 249 Concertino Giocoso, 192 Concerto for Orchestra. 282 Giocoso Overture, 192, 211, 244 Piano Concerto, 243–244 Song of Revolution (Pieśń o rewolucji), 190–194 Sinfonietta, 201 Symphony no. 1, 191, 209 Symphony no. 2, 192 Baltic Philharmonic, 102, 109, 154 Bandrowska-Turska, Ewa, 81, 163, 226 Barchacz, Aleksander, 119 Bartók, Béla, 22, 30, 84, 149, 164, 259, 264 Concerto for Orchestra, 164 Sonata for two pianos and orchestra, 164 Barwicki, Kazimierz Tomasz, 117 Barwicki, Mieczysław Ewaryst, 117 Beethoven, Ludwig van, 24, 74, 80, 82, 150, 160, 226 Coriolan Overture, 250 Symphony no. 3, 250 Symphony no. 5, 114 Berg, Alban, 29, 48, 90 Violin Concerto, 45 Wozzeck, 44 Bierdiajew, Walerian, 38, 82, 110 Bierut, Bolesław, 99, 128, 159, 161, 173, 190, 194, 251, 283 Billig, Wilhelm, 219 Bizet, Georges Carmen, 75 Bogurodzica (Mother of God), 43, 102 Bolesławska-Lewandowska, Beata, 86, 126, 161, 164, 237, 257 Borowski, Tadeusz, 214 Boulanger, Nadia, 28, 57, 105, 163, 180, 285 Boulez, Pierre, 150, 259, 261–263, 279 Piano Sonata no. 1, 159

Brahms, Johannes, 75, 110, 226 Bristiger, Julia, 248–249 Britten, Benjamin, 259 Broniewski, Władysław, 191 Broszkiewicz, Jerzy, 116, 149, 258 Bruitism, 262 Bujański, Eugeniusz, 20 Bury, Edmund, 212 Bydgoszcz, 20, 104, 110, 114, 193 Cage, John, 261–263 Carter, Elliott, 262 Central Aid Council (Rada Główna Opiekuńcza, RGO), 65, 74, 77, 81, 87, 96 Central Board of Music Institutions (CZIM), 219 Central Board of Operas, Philharmonics, and Music Institutions (CZOFIM), 218, 220 Central Board of Theaters, Opera and Philharmonics (CZTOiF), 219 Central Concert Bureau, 112–113, 148, 160, 220, 225 Chojnacki, Roman, 18–19 Chomiński, Józef, 54–55, 130, 133–134, 137, 147, 181, 287–288 Chopin, Frédéric, 24, 36, 50, 53, 72–73, 80, 82, 114, 132–133, 150–151, 174–175, 195–196, 204, 250 Piano Concerto no. 2, 114 Piano Sonata no. 2, 250 Chopin Higher School of Music, 94–95 Chorzów, 224 Chybiński, Adolf, 7, 31, 54–55, 57, 92, 104, 153 Ciancia, Kathryn, 55 Commissions, 8, 10–12, 27–28, 70, 85, 101, 106, 109, 119–120, 134– 141, 143, 146, 151, 154, 162–165, 167, 170–171, 179, 181–199, 201, 206, 209, 211, 213, 216–218, 222,

Index

229–231, 235, 247–248, 259, 263–266, 280, 288, 291, 293 Commissions Committee, 4, 138, 147, 182–183, 185, 187, 192–193, 195, 198, 263–266, 291 Communist Party of Poland (KPP), 17, 91, 122 Community center, 131, 139, 160, 184, 188, 207, 229, 231 Competitions, 4, 28–29, 61, 87, 101, 142–146, 152, 161–162, 170, 182, 184, 193–198, 202–205, 208, 216, 225, 230, 236, 247–248, 263, 266, 272–273, 291 Concentration camp, 68–69, 77, 81, 94 Copland, Aaron, 261 Cortot, Alfred, 22 Cosmopolitanism, 10, 47, 50–54, 109, 121, 130–132, 175, 219, 252 Council of Ministers, 23, 118, 140–143, 182 Cowell, Henry, 30, 130 Cyrankiewicz, Józef, 169, 251 Czekanowska, Anna, 248 Czerniawski, Tadeusz, 45 Czerwony Sztandar (Red Banner), 97 Czytelnik, 116, 120, 136, 208–209, 225 Czyż, Henryk, 282 Symphonic Variations on a Polish Theme (Wariacje symfoniczne na temat polski), 234 Dadak-Kozicka, Katarzyna, 123, 126 Dallapiccola, Luigi, 261 Tre Laudi, 35 Dankowski, Wojciech and Jan Krenz, 245 Symphony in D, 243 Darnton, Philip Christian Five Orchestral Pieces, 35 Dąbrowska, Maria, 256 Dąbrowski, Florian, 232

Debussy, Claude, 30, 48, 56, 74, 82, 150, 226, 250, 259 La Mer, 260 Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun, 260 De Falla, Manuel, 75, 250 Dello Joio, Norman, 112 Department of Artistic Production (DTA), 118, 219 D’Indy, Vincent, 39 Dobrowolski, Andrzej, 282 Cantata in Honor of Peace (Kantata na cześć pokoju), 211 Dobrowolski, Stanisław Ryszard, 85 Dobrzański, Tadeusz, 146 The Road from Rose Street (Od różana trakt), 146 Dodecaphony (twelve-tone music), 13, 44, 52, 89–90, 139, 150, 175, 181, 244, 264, 277, 282, 292 Dołżycki, Adam, 65–66, 80 Drège-Schielowa, Łucja, 141, 187 Drobner, Mieczysław, 101, 106–107, 117, 119, 144, 147, 274 Dubiska, Irena, 26, 73, 111 Dukas, Paul, 28 Dunayevsky, Isaak Song about the Homeland, 223 Sports March, 223 Duparc, Henri, 250 Dvořák, Antonin, 150, 224 Slavonic Dances, 223 Dybowski, Stefan, 118, 123, 169 Dzerzhinsky, Felix, 212 Dziadek, Magdalena, 46, 55, 96 Dzierżanowski, Lech, 57, 260 Drzewiecki, Zbigniew, 31–32, 38–39, 42, 81, 92, 163, 181 Dziewulska, Maria, 46, 220 Drzewulski, Eugeniusz, 29, 33, 187, 211, 265, 293 Concert Overture, 265 Dziębowska, Elżbieta, 67, 80, 290

327

328

Engaging Cultural Ideologies

Ekier, Jan, 72–73, 81, 85, 115, 119, 137, 141, 153–154, 156, 163 Colorful Melodies (Kolorowe melodie), 234 Fugue, 24 Highlander Suite (Suita góralska), 24 Humoresque, 24 Intermezzo, 24 Lullaby (Kołysanka), 24, 157 Piano Concerto, 200 Song for the Attack (Szturmówka), 87 Toccata, 24 Two Preludes, 24 Elite, 4, 60, 111, 120, 122, 124–125, 127, 137–138, 174, 207, 216, 232 Elitism, 3, 10, 99, 131, 147, 154, 157, 296–297 Ethnic, 3–4, 8, 10, 15, 17–18, 20, 23, 41, 47, 64, 68, 91, 100, 133 Ethnicity, 18, 52–55, 57, 62, 67, 69, 73, 99, 101, 173, 289 Feicht, Hieronim, 104, 282 Festival of Polish Folk Music (1949), 228–230, 238 Festival of Polish Music (1929), 31 Festival of Polish Music (1946), 153–154 Festival of Polish Music 1951 (FMP I), 171, 183, 186, 198, 207–208, 210, 214, 218, 222, 230–235, 237–238, 240, 271 Festival of Polish Music 1955 (FMP II), 193, 267–268, 273–283 Fitelberg, Grzegorz, 13–14, 19–20, 27, 31–33, 35, 38, 46, 50, 57, 89, 93, 134, 154, 156–157, 219, 235 Fitelberg, Jerzy, 59, 163 String Quartet no. 4, 34 String Quartet no. 5, 163 Folklore, 1, 132, 175, 185, 238, 245, 253–254, 270

Folk music, 37, 48–50, 53–54, 109, 114, 132–133, 139–140, 151, 157, 160, 167, 172, 174–175, 179–181, 196, 204–206, 210, 228–230, 234, 238, 240, 244, 247–248, 251, 269–270, 280, 295 Folk-inspired, 10, 22, 38, 52, 154, 157, 167, 185–186, 202, 208, 225, 232–233, 238, 276, 291, 293 Folk-related, 186, 204, 229, 291 Folk Music Institute, 114, 116 Formalism, 128–131, 147, 167, 174, 177– 178, 180, 186–187, 193, 200–203, 206–207, 211, 215, 217, 225, 227, 229, 231, 235, 244–247, 252–254, 267, 271–272, 284, 287 Franck, Cesar, 150 Friemann, Witold, 29, 33, 141, 183, 226, 232 Mazovian Rhapsody (Rapsod mazowiecki), 185, 232 Slavic Symphony (Symfonia Słowiańska), 185 Fund for National Culture, 23–24, 57–58 Furtwängler, Wilhelm, 22 Gadomski, Henryk, 77 Garztecka-Jarzębska, Irena, 160 Grotesque (Groteska), 276 Slavic Suite (Suita słowiańska), 157 Gastronomia café, 65, 80 Gawlas, Jan, 232 Gazeta Warszawska (Musical Gazette), 14, 40 Gdańsk, 65, 84, 109–110, 161, 266 Gebethner and Wolff (Gebethner i Wolff), 117 Gebrauchsmusik, 237, 239 General Department of Theaters, Opera and Philharmonics (GDTOiF), 218–219

Index

General Governorate, 10, 64, 66, 68–69, 71–72, 81–83, 90–91, 97 General Governorate Philharmonic, 66, 82, 101, 109 Georgescu, George, 22 Gershwin, George, 30, 75, 260 Gert, Jerzy, 276 Ghetto, 56, 66, 68–69, 71, 74, 89, 92–94, 97, 124, 165 Gieszczykiewicz bookstore-publisher, 119 Gliński, Mateusz, 1, 13, 31, 36, 45, 48–49, 89, 92, 105 Gniot, Walerian, 187 Gołąb, Maciej, 90 Gomułka, Władysław, 285 Goniec Krakowski (Kraków Messenger), 97 Gottwald, Klement, 251 Government Delegation for Poland (Delegatura Rządu na Kraj), 71, 190 Government in exile, 71–72, 82, 98, 108 Górecki, Henryk Mikołaj, 12, 296 Scontri, 296 Górzyński, Zdzisław, 92, 106, 108, 154 Gradstein, Alfred, 59, 106, 144, 147, 159, 183, 196–197, 209, 220, 240, 263–264, 289 Adagio and Scherzo, 196 The Green Birch (Zielona brzózka), 146 On the Right a Bridge, On the Left a Bridge (Na prawo most, na lewo most), 233 Mazurka, 196 The Road from Rose Street (Od różana trakt), 146 Song about Warsaw (Piosenka o Warszawie), 146 Song of the Party (Pieśń Partii), 212 A Word about Stalin (Słowo o Stalinie), 185, 228

Gross, Zygmunt Symphony about 1939 (Symfonia o roku 1939), 210 Group 49 (Grupa 49), 49, 191, 242–247 Grudziński, Czesław Miniatures for trumpet and piano, 265 Gwizdalanka, Danuta, 22–23, 28, 238 Handel, George Frideric, 60, Harris, Albert, 119 Harrison, Lou, 160 Haydn, Franz Joseph, 24, 245 Cello Concerto no. 2, 66 Helm, Everett, 296 Helman, Zofia, 7, 37, 30 Hindemith, Paul, 33, 164, 239, 259, 261–262 Symphony: Mathis der Maler, 260 Higher School of Music – see Warsaw Conservatory Home Army. 85, 98, 118, 166, 190, 240 Honegger, Arthur, 30, 33, 37, 56, 149, 259, 261–262 Liturgical Symphony, 260 Pacific 231, 285 Symphony no. 3, 260 Symphony no. 5, 262 Horowitz, Vladimir, 22 Hösl, Albert, 98 House of Art (Dom Sztuki) café, 73, 84 Huberman, Bronisław, 21 Impressionism, 36, 41, 45, 175–176, 181, 260 International Conference of Composers and Music Critics, 130, 270 International Society for Contemporary Music (ISCM), 11, 31, 34, 38, 42, 45, 53, 58, 90, 92–93, 163–164, 187, 270

329

330

Engaging Cultural Ideologies

International Society of Progressive Copmosers and Musicologists, 270 Iwaszkiewicz, Jarosław, 41 Izdebski, Adam, 145 Jabłoński, Henryk You and Autumn (Ty i jesień), 276 Jachimecki, Zdzisław, 69, 262 Jakelski, Lisa, 295–296 Janáček, Leoš, 33 Janiewicz, Feliks, 272 Jarociński, Stefan, 137, 140, 259, 262–263, 268, 282, 287 Jarustovsky, Boris, 129 Jarzębska, Alicja, 289 Jasieński, Jerzy, 131, 137, 144, 148, 214 Jasiński, Roman, 7, 144, 159, 166, 194, 219, 227, 229, 249, 265, 274 Jewish, 8, 14, 17–18, 21, 23–24, 26, 29, 42, 55–59, 64, 66–69, 71–75, 77, 80, 82–83, 89–93, 97–98, 100, 127, 134, 150, 248, 277, 290 Jewish Music Society, 20 Jewish Salon Orchestra, 110 Jewish Society of Culture and Art, 110 Jewish Symphony Orchestra, 93 John of Lublin, 245 Joteyko, Tadeusz, 37, 45 Zygmunt August, 37 Jurdziński, Kazimierz, 138, 157, 160 Five Songs, 211 Kabalevsky, Dmitry, 227 Kamieński, Łucjan, 31 Kamiński, Stefan, 117 Karłowicz, Mieczysław, 80, 132, 150, 224 Violin Concerto, 102 Karol Szymanowski Composers’ Competition, 203 Kassern, Tadeusz Zygfryd, 58, 89–90, 137, 152, 163–165, 257, 268

Oravian Suite (Suita orawska), 38 Ten Folk Songs from the Western Territories (Dziesięć pieśni ludowych z Ziem Zachodnich), 157 Katowice, 16, 21, 29, 84, 102, 104, 107, 153, 156, 165, 188, 197, 219, 221–224, 235, 242, 249, 259 Stalinogród, 188, 249, 259, 268 Kazuro, Stanisław, 39, 45, 73, 77, 85, 96, 138–139, 259 Kędra, Władysław, 81, 114–115 Khachaturian, Aram, 227 Saber Dance, 223 Khrennikov, Tikhon, 129–130, 152, 179, 204 Khrushchev, Nikita, 285 Kiesewetter, Tomasz, 69–70, 110, 137, 141, 179, 231 Dance Suite no. 2 (Suita taneczna nr. 2), 184 Kilar, Wojciech, 276 Kisielewski, Stefan, 1, 27, 31, 42, 60, 70, 103–104, 112, 121, 125–126, 132–133, 137, 149–154, 156, 165, 172, 180–181, 184, 196, 200, 209, 230, 232, 238, 250, 265, 272, 285, 289, 292–293 Concerto for chamber orchestra, 210, 292 Danse vive, 292 Five Songs to texts of K. I. Gałczyński, 181 Fantasy for Piano, 181 Rural Rhapsody (Rapsodia wiejska), 181 Seven Songs to texts of K. I. Gałczyński, 181 Six Preludes and Fugues, 88 Clarinet Sonata, 88 String Quartet, 151 Suite for violin and piano, 88

Index

Symphony no. 2, 88, 182, 199, 210 Trio for oboe, clarinet, and bassoon, 74 Klechniowska, Anna Maria, 138, 141, 217 Klon, Andrzej, 138, 143, 197 Koffler, Józef, 10, 13–14, 29, 33, 36, 38, 42, 44, 58–59, 83, 90–91, 98, 150 Fifteen Variations on a Twelve-Tone Row (Piętnaście wariacji szeregu dwunastu tonów), 13, 44 Händeliana, 83 Joyful Overture (Uwertura radosna), 90, 192 Symphony no. 1, 27, 42 Symphony no. 3, 42 Symphony no. 4, 90 Ukrainian Sketches (Szkice ukraińskie), 90 Kolberg, Oskar, 268 Kołaczkowski, Jerzy, 137, 229 Kondracki, Michał, 13–14, 27–28, 30, 34, 36–38, 41–43, 45, 48–49, 51, 53, 56, 105, 110 Cantata ecclesiastica, 34 Legend, or the Kraków Fairy Tale (Legenda czyli baśń krakowska), 34 Little Highlander Symphony “Pictures on Glass” (Mała symfonia góralska “Obrazy na szkle”), 38 Partita, 40 Soldiers (Żołnierze), 13–14 Kopczyński, Bronisław Onufry, 77 Kopyciński, Adam, 77 Kotoński, Włodzimierz, 185, 192, 231–232, 265, 282 Concertino for oboe and orchestra, 185 Highlander Dances (Tańce góralskie), 184–185, 209 Quartettino for four French horns, 185 Kraków, 1, 16, 20–21, 24, 31, 33–34, 66, 69, 72, 77, 81–82, 89, 91, 94,

97, 101–102, 104–105, 107, 112, 114–115, 117–118, 151–152, 197, 228, 238, 242, 246, 249–250, 259–260, 262, 267–268, 270–272, 275–276, 292 Kraków Music Society, 20, 70 Kraków Philharmonic, 20, 101–103, 108–109, 112, 114, 150, 220, 222–223, 235, 277 Kraków Quartet, 110 Krenek, Ernst, 30, 262 Krenz, Jan, 84, 96, 106, 137, 163, 184, 187, 189, 201, 242–243, 245–246, 268, 291–293 Classical Serenade (Serenada klasyczna), 245 Concertino for piano and small orchestra, 244 Conversation of Two Cities (Rozmowa dwóch miast), 245 Quartet for winds, 187, 189, 245–246 Rhapsody (Rapsodia), 243 Rural Serenade (Serenada wiejska), 224 String Quartet no. 1, 88 Suite of Nocturnes (Suita nokturnów), 245 Symphony no. 1, 219, 243–244 Królikowska, J., 144 Krzemieński, Witold, 110, 153 March of the Miners (Marsz górniczy), 223 The March of Silesia (Marsz Śląska), 223 Song about the Oder River (Pieśń o Odrze), 223 Krzemiński, Tadeusz, 110 Kubelik, Rafael, 112 Kulczycki, Faustyn, 21, 138, 145, 197, 216, 231 Kurier Polski (Polish Courier), 14

331

332

Engaging Cultural Ideologies

Kurpie, 130, 203 Kurpiński, Karol, 94, 224 Song of Warsaw (Warszawianka), 167 Kuryluk, Jerzy, 204–205 Kuryluk, Karol, 144 Kuźnica (Ironworks), 205 Kwartalnik Muzyczny (Musical Quarterly), 97 Kwieciński, Tadeusz Gallop (Galop), 276 Lachman, Wacław, 138, 141 In the Mountains (W góry), 161 Laks, Szymon, 29, 59, 77 Lardelli café, 65–66, 80 Lasocki, Józef, 157, 229 Latoszewski, Zygmunt, 80, 108, 110, 151 Lefeld, Jerzy, 81, 114–115, 137, 196 Leoncavallo, Ruggero, 110 Lewicki, Czesław, 137 Lewin, Leopold, 142, 144 Liebermann, Rolf, 256, 262 Lissa, Zofia, 2, 43–44, 53, 57–58, 91, 104–105, 118, 125–130, 133–134, 137–138, 140, 144–147, 152, 168– 170, 175–177, 180–182, 184, 196, 199, 207, 209, 212, 216, 222, 229, 233, 235, 248–249, 252–254, 263, 265, 269–270, 272, 274, 281–282, 287, 294 Liszt, Franz Liebestraum, 75 Loudspeakers, 230, 248–250, 256 Lublin, 21, 29, 69, 75, 97, 99, 101–102, 110, 151, 226 Lubomirski, Władysław, 28 Lutosławski, Witold, 6, 12, 31, 70, 75–76, 85, 87, 89, 92, 104–106, 111, 119, 141, 143–144, 148, 156, 163–165, 185–186, 195–196, 198–199, 204– 205, 209, 220, 232, 237–240, 246,

265, 269–271, 284, 289, 291–293, 295–296 About the Armored Weapons (O broni pancernej), 239 Avalanche (Lawina), 196 The Belated Nightingale (Spóżniony słowik), 275 Bucolics (Bukoliki), 276 Comrade (Towarzysz), 246 Concerto for Orchestra, 164, 247, 268–269, 272, 277, 279 Dance Preludes (Preludia taneczne), 276 Folk Melodies (Melodie ludowe), 239 Four Silesian Melodies (Cztery melodie śląskie), 264 Funeral Music (Muzyka żałobna), 270 I Would Marry (Wyszłabym ja), 228 Intermezzo, 186 July Garland (Lipcowy wieniec), 198, 239 July Lullaby (Kołysanka lipcowa), 74 Little Suite (Mała suita), 205, 237– 238, 253, 269, 272, 276, 292 Nowa Huta, 208, 228, 233, 237, 239 Overture, 186 Piano Concerto, 186 Service to Poland (Śłużba Polsce), 237, 239 Silesian Triptych (Tryptyk śląski), 237–238, 273, 276 Straw Chain (Słomkowy łańcuszek), 237 Symphony no. 1, 87, 154, 156, 165, 228, 237–239, 270, 274 Symphonic Variations (Wariacje symfoniczne), 27, 114, 205, 228, 234, 237–239, 268, 270, 277, 280 Ten Interludes, 87 Trio for oboe, clarinet, and bassoon, 152, 278

Index

Two Etudes, 87 Variations on a Theme by Paganini (Wariacje na temat Paganiniego), 75, 215 The Water Nymph (Wodnica), 74 Lviv State Conservatory, 90–91 Lwów (Lviv), 16, 82–83, 90–93, 97, 99, 104, 106 Łabuński, Feliks Roderyk, 29 Łagów Lubuski, 187, 200–207, 230, 243, 260, 271–272, 281 Łobaczewski, Stefania, 33, 43–44, 59, 93, 104, 121, 130, 147, 152 Łódź, 16, 20, 22–23, 29, 65–66, 69, 82, 88, 93–95, 101–102, 104–105, 111, 151, 153, 161, 188, 267 Łódź Philharmonic, 20, 106, 112, 243, 250, 257 Machl, Tadeusz, 83 Machów, 238 Mahler, Gustav, 33, 58, 150 Main Office of Press, Publication and Events Control (Główny Urząd Kontroli Prasy, Publikacji i Widowisk, GUKPPiW), 117 Maklakiewicz, Jan Adam, 1, 6, 10, 19, 22, 27–28, 30–31, 34, 36, 38, 41, 43, 48–51, 59, 80, 87, 102, 104, 106, 108, 110, 115 137, 143–144, 147, 160, 166, 179–180, 187, 197, 211, 216–217, 229 Concerto on Gregorian Themes for Cello and Orchestra, 43 Grunwald, 101–104, 121, 151, 163, 209 Hutsul Suite (Suita huculska), 38 Łowicz Suite (Suita łowicka), 139 Prague Overture (Uwertura praska), 164 The Last Drumbeats (Ostatnie werble), 50

To Arms, Poles (Do broni, Polacy), 87 Silesia Works and Sings (Śląska pracuje i śpiewa), 228, 275 Spring in the Countryside (Wiosna na wsi), 24 Symphony no. 2 “Holy God,” 48 Violin Concerto no. 1, 40 Malawski, Artur, 6, 27, 30, 42, 136, 141, 156–157, 163, 195–196, 203, 210, 219, 262, 269–274, 276, 289, 292–293, 295 Burlesque (Burleska), 88 Highlander Rhapsody, 139 Highlander Triptych (Tryptyk góralski), 185 The Peaks (Wierchy), 139, 271–273, 376, 294 Piano Trio, 199 Popular Suite (Suita popularna), 219, 272 Siciliana and Rondo (Siciliana i rondo), 272 Sonata on Themes of Feliks Janiewicz (Sonata na tematy Feliksa Janiewicza), 272 Spring in the Countryside (Wiosna na wsi), 24 Symphonic Etudes (Etiudy symfoniczne), 135, 154–155, 163, 272–273, 277, 280 Symphony no. 1, 151, 154, 278 Toccata and Fugue in Variation Form, 154, 196 Variations for orchestra, 196, 200, 203, 271 Maliszewski, Witold, 37, 45, 62 Małcużyński, Witold, 186 Marczak, Ludomir, 93 Marek, Czesław In the Village (Na wsi), 154 Symphony, 153

333

334

Engaging Cultural Ideologies

Marek, Tadeusz, 172, 250, 286 Markowski, Andrzej, 69–70, 76, 98 Martin, Frank, 260, 262 Harpsichord Concerto, 260 Little Concertante Symphony, 260 Martinů, Bohuslav, 164, 259 Mass song, 12, 125, 138, 144–147, 161– 162, 167, 170–171, 179. 187, 189, 193, 195, 197–198, 202, 207–209, 212, 221–224, 227–228, 231–234, 236–237, 239–240, 242, 245, 246, 247–249, 263–264, 266, 270–271, 275, 286–293 Mendelssohn, Felix, 58, 150 Messiaen, Olivier, 130, 150, 260, 262–263 Les Offrandes oubliées, 260 Symphonic Fragment – see Les offrandes oubliées Vingt Regards su l’Enfant Jésus, 159 Meyer, Krzysztof, 238 Middle School of Music – see Warsaw Conservatory Miernik, Iwona, 225 Mierzejewski, Mieczysław, 108, 137, 199 Milhaud, Darius, 149, 261 Serenade, 39 Military Songs (Pieśni zbrojne), 87 Milstein, Nathan, 22 Milwid, Antoni, 243, 245 Sinfonia Concertante, 243 Ministry of Culture and Art, 8, 106–107, 109, 111, 113, 115, 117–118, 120, 124–126, 136–138, 140, 142–144, 147–148, 153, 157, 178, 182–184, 186, 200, 206, 211, 213, 216, 218–219, 251, 254, 263, 285 Ministry of Religious Affairs and Public Education, 23, 37 Młodziejowski, Jerzy, 70 Opole Rhapsody (Rapsodia opolska), 184

Młynarski, Emil, 24, 31 Moniuszko, Stanisław, 28, 80, 174, 223–224 Halka, 223 The Haunted Manor (Straszny dwór), 161 Overture to The Countess (Hrabina), 114 The Raftsman (Flis), 161 Morawski, Eugeniusz, 38, 46, 72, 94, 96 Nevermore, 39 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 24, 75, 80 Music Chamber (Izba Muzyczna), 61 Musicians’ Union, 19–20, 93, 114, 151 Musique concrète, 262, 288 Muzyka (Music), 13, 19, 23–24, 30, 57, 89, 250, 263, 269, 274 Muzyka Polska (Polish Music), 23, 57, 61–62, 97 Mycielski, Zygmunt, 6, 28, 31, 60, 62, 70, 110, 116, 125–128, 130–131, 136, 138, 140–141, 144, 153–154, 156, 165, 168, 177–180, 185–186, 195, 203, 211, 215–217, 229, 231–232, 236, 255, 257–259, 261, 264–266, 271–272, 293–295 Five Symphonic Sketches (Pięć szkiców symfonicznych), 137–138 Flowers on the Track (Kwiaty na tor), 216 Lamento di Tristano, 157 Piano Concerto, 186 Polish Symphony (Symfonia polska), 171–173, 179, 231, 253, 276, 289 Silesian Overture (Uwertura śląska), 138, 200 Theme and Variations, 186 Naliwajek, Katarzyna, 7, 70, 72–73, 75, 77, 97–98 National Democrats (Endecja), 17, 55

Index

Nationalism, 3, 5, 10, 17, 47–49, 51–52, 59–60, 62, 96, 103, 121, 131–132, 140, 162, 165, 167, 170, 173, 175, 229, 250, 295 Nazi, 3, 5, 10, 16, 35, 64–70, 73–75, 80–83, 88–89, 92, 94–95, 98, 101–102, 104, 108–110, 119, 148, 150, 167–168, 225, 252, 270 Neoclassicism, 10, 37–39, 44, 52, 88–89, 139, 156, 176, 196, 268, 292 Neuteich, Marian, 93–94, 98 Niewiadomski, Stanisław, 14, 45 Noskowski, Zygmunt, 165, 174 Itinerant Musician (Wędrowny grajek), 232–233 The Steppe (Step), 102 Nowiny Literackie, 120 Nowowiejski, Feliks, 22, 132–133 Nowy Głos Lubelski (New Lublin Voice), 97 Nowy Kurier Warszawski (New Warsaw Courier), 97 Ochlewski, Tadeusz, 24, 57–58, 70–72, 80, 85, 104, 115–117 Odrodzenie, 120, 205 Office of Foreign Cultural Cooperation (BWKZ), 219 Office of Information and Propaganda (Biuro Informacji i Propagandy), 71, 85, 87 Ogiński, Michał, 151 Olearczyk, Edward, 91, 143–144, 147, 179, 183, 209, 239, 264, 289–290 Millions of Hands (Miliony rąk), 233, 290 Onward Working People (Naprzód ludu roboczy), 290 Our Party (Nasza Partia), 290 Song about Stalin (Pieśń o Stalinie), 228, 290

Song for the First of May (Pieśń pierwszomajowa), 290 Song of the United Parties (Pieśń Zjednoczonych Partii), 290 Waltz (Walc), 276 Olesno, 224 Olsztyn, 110 Organization for Musical Activity (Organizacja Ruchu Muzycznego, ORMUZ), 24–25, 60, 71, 84, 110, 113, 160 Paciorkiewicz, Tadeusz, 96, 229, 282 Kurpian Suite (Suita kurpiowska), 210 Piano Concerto no. 2, 275 Ten Silesian Songs (Dziesięć pieśni śląskich), 198 Paderewski, Ignacy Jan, 55, 132–133 Padlewski, Roman, 27, 84–85, 95, 98 Sonata for solo violin, 88 String Quartet no. 2, 71, 88 Palester, Roman, 6, 10, 27, 30–31, 34, 41, 57–59, 65, 69, 70, 91, 104, 115, 119, 137–139, 141, 153, 157, 160–161, 163, 166, 168, 188, 201, 203, 205, 236, 257, 260–263, 268, 277, 288 Concertino for piano and orchestra, 87 Dance from Osmoloda (Taniec z Osmołody), 38 Little Overture (Mała uwertura), 1 M. K. Oginski’s Polonaises (Polonezy M. K. Ogińskiego), 151, 188 Sonata for two violins and piano, 71 Saxophone Concerto, 34 Serenade, 156 Sonatina for piano four-hands, 88 Sonata for two violins and piano, 74, 88 Song of the Earth (Pieśń o ziemi), 34 String Quartet no. 3, 31, 87

335

336

Engaging Cultural Ideologies

Symphony no. 2, 71, 87, 151–152, 278 Symphony no. 3, 139 Symphony no. 4, 139 Violin Concerto, 71, 87, 158–159, 163 We Are Building Warsaw (Budujemy Warszawę), 188–189 Wedding Cake (Kołacze), 87 Panufnik, Andrzej, 6, 29, 48, 75–78, 104–106, 108, 110, 116, 141, 142–144, 157, 160–161, 163–164, 172, 179–180, 184, 188, 195, 200, 203–204, 216–217, 230–232, 251, 256–259, 261–262, 268, 282, 288–289, 291–293 Concerto in modo antico, 246 Divertimento after Trios for Strings by Feliks Janiewicz (Divertimento wg Triów na smyczki Feliksa Janiewicza), 157, 163, 236 Five Folk Songs (Pięć pieśni ludowych), 152–153, 157, 163 Gothic Concerto (Koncert gotycki), 245, 273 Heroic Overture (Uwertura bohaterska), 235, 291 Hommage à Chopin, 216 Jaworzyna March (Marsz jarworzyński), 136, 224–225 Jubilee Music (Muzyka jubileuszowa), 235 Lullaby (Kołysanka), 157, 163, 279, 291 Nocturne, 200, 203, 257, 267, 279, 291 Old Polish Suite (Suita staropolska), 236, 245, 257 Onward Working People (Naprzód ludu roboczy), 236 Pastoral Symphony, 137 Revolutionary Symphony (Symfonia rewolucyjna), 235

Sinfonia Rustica, 124, 137, 139, 194, 196, 203–20, 228–229, 235, 252, 256 Song of the United Parties (Pieśń Zjednoczonych Partii), 144, 161 Song of Unity (Pieśń jedności), 161, 236 Symphony no. 1, 87, 151 Symphony no. 2, 87–88 Symphony of Peace (Symfonia pokoju), 234–237, 267, 291 Tragic Overture (Uwertura tragiczna), 77–79, 87, 160, 162–163, 257 Warsaw Children (Warszawskie dzieci), 85–86 Panufnik, Scarlett, 256 Partitions, 3, 15–16, 47–48, 67, 168 Pasternak, Leon, 142 Patriotism, 14, 22, 30, 51, 64, 67, 73–74, 81, 94, 97, 103, 131–133, 142, 146, 151, 167, 170 Penderecki, Krzysztof, 12, 296 Perkowski, Piotr, 1, 13, 28, 31, 36, 40–41, 45, 61, 65, 70–72, 74, 77, 80, 83–85, 92, 98, 104–106, 119, 122–124, 127, 137, 144, 147, 152, 196–197, 199, 201, 226, 239, 243 Church of the Virgin Mary (Kościół Panny Marii), 102 The Rivers (Rzeki), 146 Sinfonietta, 13–14, 38 Song of Unity (Pieśń jedności), 223 Ten Folk Songs (Dziesięć pieśni ludowych), 199 Toruń Sketches (Szkice toruńskie), 102 Violin Concerto, 153, 200 Pfeiffer, Irena, 153–154, 293 Pfitzner, Hans Palestrina, 176 Pierce, J. Mackenzie, 8, 24, 26, 57, 82, 91, 97, 145–146

Index

Piłsudski, Józef, 17, 50, 55 Po Prostu (Plainly Speaking), 263 Podhale, 139 Polish Army House (Dom Wojska Polskiego), 116 Polish Chamber Orchestra, 109 Polish Committee of National Liberation (PKWN), 99, 198, 273 Polish Composers’ Association (Stowarzyszenie Kompozytorów Polskich), 31, 45, 58, 119 Polish Composers’ Union (Związek Kompozytorów Polskich), 4, 8, 11, 47, 114, 118–124, 126–128, 130–132, 134–138, 140–146, 152, 165, 168, 173–174, 177–184, 186–188, 190–199, 201–202, 206– 224, 229–232, 234, 237, 240, 242, 247, 251–252, 254, 263–268, 270, 274–276, 279, 281–284, 286–287, 290–291, 293 Polish Folk Orchestra, 109 Polish Music Publishers (PWM), 114– 118, 120, 136, 138, 154, 156–157, 177, 188, 196, 200, 203, 209, 214, 220, 240, 247, 257, 272, 285 Polish Music Publishing Society (Towarzystwo Wydawnicze Muzyki Polskiej, TWMP), 24, 31, 58, 115 Polish October, 2, 285–286 Polish People’s Party (PSL), 17, 99 Polish Quartet, 25 Polish Radio, 26–27, 29, 70, 72, 80, 104–107, 109, 135, 137, 144–145, 157, 159–160, 165–167, 188, 194, 208–209, 219–221, 225, 227–228, 236, 238–239, 248–249, 255, 261, 265, 288, 293 Polish Radio Quartet, 110 Polish Radio Experimental Music Studio, 288

Polish Radio Orchestra, 26, 31, 33, 98, 165, 224–225, 232, 235, 238, 276 Polish Socialist Party (PPS), 17, 99, 147 Polish United Workers’ Party (PZPR), 11, 99, 111, 122, 126, 142, 144, 146–147, 160–161, 166, 181–182, 184, 190, 207, 215–218, 224, 250, 252–254, 263, 266, 274, 283, 285, 287, 290 Polish Workers’ Party (PPR), 102, 125, 144–147, 166 Popiel, Stanisław, 139, 232 Popularization, 26, 60–61, 84, 100–101, 113, 120–122, 124–128, 131, 134, 136, 139–140, 145–146, 148, 154, 160–162, 165–166, 172, 177, 182, 198, 200, 205, 208–209, 222–223, 225, 230–231, 239–240, 247, 255–256, 267, 277, 280, 292 Poradowski, Stefan Bolesław, 197, 212 Symphonic Prelude, 209 Poznań, 16, 21–22, 26, 28–29, 31, 33–34, 43, 69–70, 89, 95, 104, 106, 117, 161, 240, 248, 257, 260, 267 Poznań Opera, 20–21, 26, 106, 108 Poznań Philharmonic, 20, 106 Prokofiev, Sergei, 22, 30–31, 56, 172, 250–251, 259, 264 Piano Concerto no. 1, 39 Prószyński, Stanisław Peace Suite (Suita pokoju), 235 Symphony no. 2, 209 Przegląd Kulturalny (Cultural Review), 258, 262, 269 Przegląd Muzyczny (Musical Review), 29 Przesłuchanie – see Auditions Pulikowski, Julian, 95–96, 98 Pushkin, Alexander, 195–196 PWM – see Polish Music Publishers PZPR – see Polish United Workers’ Party

337

338

Engaging Cultural Ideologies

Race, 5, 10, 52–56, 60, 62 Rachmaninov, Sergei, 150, 165, 196, 250 Island of the Dead, 249 Rachoń, Stefan, 109 Raczkowski, Władysław, 108, 143, 197 Radio Free Europe (RFE), 27, 260–261 Radio i Świat (Radio and the World), 208, 221, 228, 249, 252 Rathaus, Karol, 59 Ravel, Maurice, 29–31, 33, 37, 56, 75, 150, 164, 259, 269 La Valse, 39 Regamey, Konstanty, 10, 35–36, 39, 41–42, 48–51, 60–62, 65, 70, 73, 84–85, 98, 160, 163, 230, 256 Introduction et Allegro, 160 Persian Songs (Pieśni perskie), 88 Quintet, 71, 88–89 Reiss, Józef, 58 Representative Philharmonic Orchestra of the Capital City of Warsaw (Reprezentacyjna Orkiestra Filharmoniczna m. st. Warszawy), 107 Rezler, Arnold, 104, 166 RGO – see Central Aid Council Rimsky-Korsakov, Nikolai, 62, 223 Rocci, Ludovico The Dybbuk (Dybuk), 56 Rogowski, Ludomir, 45 Roos, Robert de Five Etudes for piano and orchestra, 35 Rossini, Gioachino, 250 Roussel, Albert, 13, 28–29, 149, 164, 259 Rowicki, Witold, 108, 153, 243, 267–268, 277 Różycki, Ludomir, 28, 30, 34, 37, 40, 45–46, 48–49, 51–52, 104, 114, 154, 231, 251 Anhelli, 31, 39–40 Eros and Psyche (Eros i Psyche), 33

Festival Polonaise (Polonez uroczysty), 141 Polish Dances (Tańce polskie), 80 Piano Concerto, 33 String Quartet, 24 Mr. Twardowski (Pan Twardowski), 30 Rubinstein, Artur, 22, 28, 58, 133 Ruch Muzyczny (Musical Movement), 120, 164, 205, 262 Rudnicki, Edmund, 72, 92, 151 Rudziński, Witold, 6, 27–28, 65, 83, 88, 100, 104–105, 108, 116, 124–125, 143–144, 149, 164, 172, 177, 180, 183, 193, 197, 201, 207, 209–210, 213–218, 229, 21, 233, 242, 247, 251, 293 Divertimento, 80 Echoes Are Waiting (Czekają echa), 276 Yanko the Musician ( Janko Muzykant), 213–215, 217 Nonet, 164 A Peasant’s Lot (Chłopska droga), 275 Quintet for flute and strings, 264 Rutkowski, Bronisław, 24, 71, 87, 95, 104 Rybicki, Feliks, 74, 144, 188–189, 232–233 Silesian Suite (Suita śląska), 232 Rytel, Piotr, 10, 14, 35–43, 45, 47, 54, 57, 87, 89, 96, 104, 115, 129, 206, 230, 243, 271 The Crusaders (Krzyżowcy), 87 Dante’s Dream (Sen Dantego), 43 Holy Grove (Święty gaj), 39, 43 Legend of St. George (Legenda o św. Jerzym), 39, 41, 43 The Pirate (Korsarz), 43 Violin Concerto, 185 Sawicka-Baird, Alina, 194 Schaeffer, Bogusław, 262, 277, 282, 290 Schaeffer, Pierre, 261–262

Index

Schoenberg, Arnold, 30–31, 44, 48, 126, 130, 149–150, 159, 259, 261–262, 282 Chamber Symphony, 44 Piano Concerto, 285 Verklärte Nacht, 44 Schubert, Franz, 74–75 Ave Maria, 66 Schumann, Robert, 80 Scriabin, Alexander, 30, 33, 36, 56, 150 Secret Musicians’ Union, 72, 80, 82, 85, 151 Section of Contemporary Polish Composers, 45 Serocki, Kazimierz, 6, 96, 163, 217, 243, 246–247, 259, 265, 276–278, 281–283, 292, 295 Anti-Tankers (Przeciwpancerniacy), 246 Four Folk Dances (Cztery tańce ludowe), 243–244 Piano Sonata, 264 Romantic Concerto (Koncert romantyczny), 246 Song of Youth (Pieśń młodości), 249 Suite for four trombones (Suita na cztery puzony), 254 Suite of Preludes (Suita preludiów), 247, 277–280, 292 Symphony no. 1, 243–244 Symphony no. 2 “Symphony of Song” (Symfonia nr 2 “Symfonia pieśni”), 212, 294 Warsaw Bricklayer (Warszawski murarz), 292 Shaporin, Yuri, 129 Shostakovich, Dmitri, 179, 259, 262 Symphony no. 10, 262 Siekierska, Jadwiga, 144 Sienkiewicz, Edward, 119 Sienkiewicz, Henryk, 213

Sikorski, Kazimierz, 28, 31, 45–46, 83, 93, 95–96, 104–105, 115, 139, 144, 147, 163, 185, 197, 229, 243, 265, 271, 281–283, 289, 295 Little Kurpian Waltz (Walczyk kurpiowski), 224 Overture, 201 Rural Pictures (Obrazki wiejskie), 158, 160 Stabat Mater, 87 Suite from Istebna (Suita z Istebnej), 280 Symphonic Allegro (Allegro symfoniczne), 154 Symphony no. 1, 31 Symphony no. 3, 280 The Willow (Wierzba), 276 Silesian Opera, 214–215 Silesian Philharmonic, 107, 112–113, 220, 223–224, 249, 267 Skrowaczewski, Stanisław, 163–164, 196, 231, 259, 282, 293 Night Music (Muzyka nocą), 275 Overture in Classic Style (Uwertura w stylu klasycznym), 234 Slavic Music Festival (1947), 157–159, 167, 182 Smetana, Bedřich, 150 Socialist realism, 8–9, 11, 26, 37, 62, 90, 113, 121–123, 126, 128, 140, 146, 160, 167, 173, 176, 180–181, 184, 189–194, 198–199, 201, 204, 207, 212–213, 215, 217, 222, 225, 227– 228, 231, 233, 238, 247, 251–254, 261–262, 266–269, 271–274, 276, 279–280, 282, 295–286, 289–290, 292, 295–297 Society for the Promotion of Polish Folk Music (Towarzystwo Krzewienia Polskiej Muzyki Ludowej), 109 Sokorski, Jerzy, 114, 143, 147

339

340

Engaging Cultural Ideologies

Sokorski, Włodzimierz, 122, 128–129, 131, 145, 165, 168–170, 174–175, 177, 180–182, 190, 194, 200–202, 204, 211, 214–217, 229, 231, 244, 238, 252–254, 272, 279–281, 292, 294 Soviet Union, 12, 17, 56, 68, 73, 83, 91– 92, 98–99, 104, 108, 122, 125–127, 142, 145, 161, 163, 166, 174, 177, 182, 206, 220, 226–226, 236, 251, 259, 266, 285, 294–295, 297 Spisak, Michał, 28, 105, 116, 137–138, 157, 163–164, 187, 200, 268 Bassoon Concerto, 160, 163 Piano Concerto, 268 Quartet for winds, 31 Sonatina for oboe, clarinet, and bassoon, 274 Suite for string orchestra, 156 Toccata for orchestra, 154, 268 Staatliche Musikschule, 95–96 Stalin, Joseph, 12, 131, 173, 185, 191, 194–195, 197, 228, 239, 248, 249–252, 254, 262, 295, 290, 293 Stalinogród – see Katowice State Philharmonic and Operam 108 Statkowski, Roman, 132 Overture to Maria, 80 Stockhausen, Karlheinz, 259, 261 Stojowski, Zygmunt, 55 Straszyński, Olgierd, 70, 80, 108 Strauss, Johann, 75

Strauss, Richard, 33, 102, 150 Til Eulenspiegel’s Merry Pranks, 39 Stravinsky, Igor, 22, 28–30, 37, 48, 56, 75, 84, 130, 150, 172, 176–177, 210, 259, 269 Fireworks, 93 Rite of Spring, 149, 259, 285 Suite from Petrushka, 13 Symphony of Psalms, 149 Stromenger, Karol, 43, 55

Strumph-Wojtkiewicz, Stanisław, 190 Studia Muzykologiczne (Musicological Studies), 269 Stylization, 209, 245, 291 Suchodolski, Zygmunt, 226 Swolkień, Henryk, 205, 229, 239 Golden Path of Friendship (Przyjaźni złocista droga), 208 Sygietyński, Tadeusz Song about the Six–Year Plan (Piosenka o planie 6-letnim), 233 Szabelski, Bolesław, 29, 212, 231, 242, 292, 295 Concerto Grosso, 212, 292 Heroic Poem (Poemat bohaterski), 212 Magnificat, 87 Suite for orchestra, 158, 209 Symphony no. 3, 184, 212, 280, 292 Toccata from Suite for Orchestra, 209 Szaleski, Mieczysław, 211 Szałowski, Antoni, 28, 31, 38, 105, 137– 138, 152, 163–164, 168, 187–188, 200, 220, 257, 261, 268 Andante, 31 Aria, 24, 65 Overture, 34, 38, 80, 163 Sonatina for Oboe and Piano, 163 Szczecin, 100, 188, 193, 260 Szeligowski, Tadeusz, 21, 26–28, 33, 60, 62, 83, 104, 115, 128, 133, 139, 141, 144–145, 147, 152–153, 185, 187, 196–198, 201, 210, 212, 217, 220, 226, 229, 232, 276, 281, 289 Angels Sang Sweetly (Angeli słodko śpiewali), 34 Charter of Hearts (Karta serc), 198 Concerto for Orchestra, 33 Four Wedding Songs from the Lublin Region (Cztery pieśni weselne z Lubelszczyzny), 157

Index

The Green Birch (Zielona brzózka), 146 My Girl (Dziewczyno moja), 145 Lublin Wedding (Wesele lubelskie), 229 Piano Sonata, 196 Quintet for winds, 276 The Road from Rose Street (Od różana trakt), 145–146 Triptych (Tryptyk), 158 Under Eaves of Snow (Pod okapem śniegu), 38 Szopski, Feliks, 31, 37, 45 Szpilman, Władysław, 74, 92, 98, 183, 209 Fighting and Working People (Ludzie walki i pracy), 161 To Work (Do roboty), 233 Szpinalski, Stanisław, 26, 62, 101, 166, 226 Sztompka, Henryk, 26 Szymanowski, Karol, 6, 10, 22, 27–28, 30–31, 34, 36–38, 41, 43, 45–46, 48–49, 50, 53, 55–56, 58, 74–75, 80–81, 94–95, 102–103, 123, 132– 133, 150–151, 165, 168, 174, 203 Harnasie, 22, 34, 48 Kurpian Songs, 48 Myths (Mity), 24 Stabat Mater, 28, 34 Symphony no. 3, 31, 39 Symphony no. 4, 33, 48, 84 Violin Concerto no. 1, 31 Szymanowski Quartet, 110 Śledziński, Stefan, 62, 81, 85 Świerczewski, Karol, 239 Świerzyński, Michał, 212 Tansman, Aleksander, 25, 38, 40, 59 Eight Japanese Melodies Kaї-Kaї (Osiem melodii japońskich Kaї-Kaї), 40 Tarnawczyk, Tomasz, 9, 244

Tchaikovsky, Pyotr Ilyich, 39, 110, 150, 172, 223, 250 Thomas, Adrian, 9, 88, 143–145, 153, 184, 197–198, 208, 212, 240, 279, 291 Tomaszewski, Mieczysław, 177, 285, 289 Totalitarianism, 61–62 Travel concert, 113, 148, 188, 221, 223, 229, 271 Tuchowski, Andrzej, 52–53 Tucker, Erica L., 67 Turski, Zbigniew, 65, 85, 88, 105, 137, 163, 184–185, 197, 204 Song for the First of May (Piosenka pierwszomajowa), 228 Suite on Kurpian Themes (Suita na tematy kurpiowskie), 232 Symphony no. 2 “Olympic,” 200, 202, 205, 209, 267 Warsaw Legend (Legenda Warszawska), 184 Twelve-tone technique – see Dodecaphony TWMP – see Polish Music Publishing Society Tygodnik Powszechny (Universal Weekly), 120, 180, 250 Tyrmand, Leopold, 292 Ukraine, 16, 134, 168 Ukrainian, 17, 23, 54, 56, 80, 91, 99, 133–134 Umińska, Eugenia, 66–67, 73, 80–81, 92, 98, 156 Underground Battle Songs (Pieśni Walki Podziemnej), 85, 87, 118 Union of Polish Patriots, 91, 122, 126 Union of Polish Youth (Związek Młodzieży Polskiej), 208–209 Varèse, Edgard, 130, 261, 263 Verdi, Giuseppe, 250

341

342

Engaging Cultural Ideologies

Verification, 109 Vest, Lisa Cooper, 8, 38, 40, 127, 295 Visual Artists’ Café (Kawiarnia Plastyków), 73 Vogel, Wladimir Violin Concerto, 35 Wagner, Richard, 41, 150 Waldorff, Jerzy, 38–39, 42–43, 77, 85 Walentynowicz, Władysław Gdynia Cantata (Kantata gdyńska), 210 Walter, Bruno, 22 Warsaw, 7, 16–21, 24, 29–30, 33–34, 36–40, 42, 44–45, 52, 65–69, 72–75. 77. 80–84, 87–96, 98, 100, 102, 104–109, 114–115, 117–118, 125, 146, 153, 165, 193, 205, 208–209, 214, 224, 228, 233, 235, 242, 250, 256, 259–260, 267–268, 270, 273, 285, 292 Warsaw Autumn International Festival of Contemporary Music, 12, 188, 260, 266, 281–286, 288, 295–296 Warsaw Conservatory, 13, 19, 41, 46–47, 55, 70, 77, 81, 94–96, 114, 181, 240, 270 Higher School of Music, 41, 46–47, 55 Middle School of Music, 46 Warsaw Music Society, 20, 45, 70, 94 Warsaw Opera, 30, 56, 98, 109 Warsaw Philharmonic, 13, 18, 21, 25–26, 31, 33, 39, 45, 65, 70, 75–76, 92–93, 98, 105, 108–110, 144, 166–167, 171, 203, 235, 243, 250, 267, 293 Warsaw Uprising, 65, 69–70, 81, 85, 95, 98, 101, 167–168 Warszawski Dziennik Narodowy (Warsaw National Daily), 40, 56 Wawel Royal Castle, 31, 102 Weber, Carl Maria von, 224

Webern, Anton, 48, 84, 126, 259, 282 String Quartet, 35 Weinberg, Mieczysław, 91 Wiechowicz, Stanisław, 6, 22, 28–29, 36, 88, 103, 106, 120, 128, 141, 144, 156, 196–197, 210, 220, 229, 232–233, 240–242, 289, 295 The Cuckoo (Kukułecka), 278 Five Folk Songs from Silesia (Pięć pieśni ludowych ze Śląska), 160 Harvest Cantata (Kantata żniwna), 71, 266 The Hop (Chmiel), 38, 114 Katie (Kasia), 232, 240 Lublin Suite (Suita lubelska), 264 On a Clay Vase (Na glinianym wazoniku), 240–241 Romantic Cantata (Kantata romantyczna), 34 Where Have My Tulips Gone (Gdzie mi się podziały tulipany), 224, 240 Work Song (Pieśń pracy), 242 Wieczorek, Sławomir, 9, 176, 205, 254 Wieniawski, Adam, 45 Wilno (Vilnius), 16, 21, 26, 28–29, 33–34, 68, 82–84, 93–94, 99, 104 Wilno Phiharmonic Society, 21 Wiłkomirska, Wanda, 111, 267 Wiłkomirski, Kazimierz, 6, 19–20, 31, 43, 65–67, 74, 81, 98, 104–105, 107, 111, 115, 137, 161, 163, 196, 199, 210, 226 Aria, 65 Gdańsk Cantata (Kantata gdańska), 266 String Quartet, 65 Symphony Concertante, 234 Wisłocki, Stanisław, 106, 109–110, 163, 201, 225 Piano Concerto, 201

Index

Robber’s Dance (Taniec zbójnicki), 224 Symphonic Ballad (Ballada symfoniczna), 211 Wodiczko, Bohdan, 108, 110, 267–268, 277 Wojciechowski, Zygmunt, 106 World Congress of Intellectuals in Defense of Peace, 160–161 Woytowicz, Bolesław, 6, 28, 30–31, 38, 48, 54, 59, 69–70, 73, 81–82, 84–85, 104, 115, 144, 160, 168–170, 197, 201, 209, 231, 243, 255, 263, 276, 281 20 Variations in the Form of a Symphony, 34 Cantata in Praise of Work (Kantata na pochwałę pracy), 169 Concertino, 40 Funeral Poem, 27

The Prophet (Prorok), 209 Song of the Armored Brothers (Pieśń braci pancernych), 167–168 String Quartet no. 1, 31, 38 String Quartet no. 2, 275 Symphonic Sketches (Szkice symfoniczne), 216 Symphony no. 1, 34 Symphony no. 2 (Warsaw Symphony), 158, 167–170, 216, 279–280 Wrocław, 100, 102, 105, 107, 160–161 Wróbel, Feliks, 141, 157 Wygodzki, Stanisław, 142, 214, 233 Zalewski, Teodor, 108 Zhdanov, Andrei, 131 Żeleński, Władysław, 132, 151 Żmudziński, Tadeusz, 73, 277 Żuławski, Wawrzyniec, 65, 172, 185, 234 Żydokomuna, 299

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