The Year 1956

art, conflict, and an Olympiad

60 years ago this October, Russian Life magazine was founded as USSR (later renamed Soviet Life). In honor of this anniversary, we look back at what was going on in the USSR and the world in 1956.

In the Soviet Union, 1956 was full of twists and turns, hopes and disappointments, joys and tragedies.

It began, on February 25, with one of the twentieth century’s most remarkable events: the 20th Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, featuring Khrushchev’s historic “Secret Speech” denouncing Stalin’s cult of personality. An entirely new era was emerging and it seemed as if, now that “the whole truth” had come out, the storm clouds would scatter and the country would enter a new phase, full of promise.

As if by magic, the Gulag edifice came tumbling down and thousands of innocent prisoners began to return home. A commission was established to rehabilitate those who had perished in the camps, and people were suddenly able to see the file containing the case against their loved ones shot as enemies of the state, often to discover that they contained nothing but a death sentence or some improbable testimony extracted under torture. Surely such injustices could never happen again.

The “children of the 20th Congress” began writing stories, making films, and producing plays full of optimism about the country’s future.

By April, students at the school associated with MKhAT (the Moscow Art Theater) were performing Eternally Alive («Вечно живые»), a play by Viktor Rozov that amazed audiences and marked the founding of the Sovremennik Theater. Directed by Oleg Yefremov at the very dawn of his illustrious career, the play was like a breath of fresh air for theatergoers inured to the pompous and false entertainment of the Stalin era – countless films dedicated “to the feat of the Soviet people during the Great Patriotic War” or “personally to Comrade Stalin.” The tragic story of a young woman who marries another man when her beloved goes missing in action was one of the first signs that Thaw culture represented a turn toward the humane, the genuine, and away from the bombast of Stalinist “grand style.” A year later, Mikhail Kalatozov’s film The Cranes Are Flying («Летят журавли») received the Grand Prix at the Cannes Film Festival.

The smash movie-theater hits of 1956 were Spring on Zarechnaya Street («Весна на Заречной улице»), the simple and very human story of love between a worker at a metallurgical plant and a teacher, and the effervescent Carnival Night («Карнавальная ночь»), a musical comedy full of dancing, singing, and zany antics. The plot of Carnival Night revolves around preparations for a New Year’s Eve celebration at a factory’s House of Culture, whose director, an old-school bureaucrat, tries to block anything truly entertaining from making it onto the stage. He even wanted to edit the lyrics “And I’m alone, completely alone” to include the words “within my healthy collective.” Of course the House of Culture’s youthful staff outsmarts the director by getting the dull speaker he has engaged drunk and lining up a number of highly entertaining acts, as well as performing a few showstoppers themselves.

This lighthearted comedy may have been about no more than a fun-filled New Year’s Eve, but audiences read more into it. For them, what happened at that fictional House of Culture inspired a newfound sense of freedom. Furthermore, the film brought the actress Lyudmila Gurchenko to prominence as a symbol of something entirely new, with implications beyond the world of entertainment. Beautiful, elegant, and charming, she sang and danced her way across the screen with a youthful confidence for which the numbskull House of Culture directors of the world would be no match.

Another film that came out in 1956 was The Forty-First («Сорок первый»), the story of Maryutka, a Red Army sniper during the Russian Civil War who winds up stranded on an island with a White officer captured by the Reds. The two are the sole survivors when a boat transporting the prisoner capsizes. This tragic tale of love between kindred spirits whom the whims of fate placed on different sides of the conflict was written by Boris Lavrenev many years earlier and had already been made into a movie. The 1956 remake, however, cast the story and even the Civil War in a new light. While the first film portrayed the officer as a despicable villain, director Grigory Chukhrai chose the handsome and popular Oleg Strizhenov to play him as an intelligent and ill-fated figure. During the time that Maryutka and Lieutenant Govorukho-Otrok spend on their Aral Sea island, they gradually forget that one of them is Red and the other White and begin to understand and love one another.

This idyll, of course, could only last as long as they are cut off from the outside world. As soon as a boat approaches the island, the relationship is doomed. When Maryutka sees that the boat belongs to the Whites, she remembers her orders not to let the lieutenant get away alive and shoots him. She already had forty notches on her rifle, one for each White she had killed. The lieutenant was her forty-first.

In the first film based on Lavrenev’s story, her action is justified by the logic of revolution. In Chukhrai’s version, when Maryutka kills the man she loves it is a tormented act of self-denial, rather than of revolutionary valor.

The year 1956 also saw the publication of the first book of poetry by an obscure schoolteacher from Kaluga named Bulat Okudzhava, the son of “enemies” rehabilitated after the 20th Party Congress. Little notice was taken of Okudzhava’s poems, and no one imagined that, just a few years later, this bard’s songs would be on record players throughout the Soviet Union.

One Stalin-era political prisoner who managed to survive and be released from exile in June 1956 was named Alexander Solzhenitsyn. In August, after returning to Central Russia from Kazakhstan, he settled in the village of Miltsevo, outside Vladimir. There Solzhenitsyn took up the same profession Okudzhava had chosen: schoolteacher. Was he already aware of his literary vocation? Did he already believe that God had miraculously saved him from a malignant tumor so that he could chronicle what millions had suffered in the Stalinist camps? Certainly later in life he came to believe this, and this belief inspired his brilliant but often horrifying works. For now, in the fall of 1956, he settled into life in Miltsevo and spent time talking with Matryona Vasilyevna Zakharova, who several years later would be immortalized in the pages of his magnificent story, “Matryona’s House” («Матренин двор»).

In the spring of 1956, soon after the 20th Party Congress, an exhibit of twentieth-century French artists opened at the Hermitage Museum. Paintings that had been confiscated from collectors by Soviet authorities after the revolution and languished in the museum’s storerooms suddenly saw the light of day. The public flocked to see 20 paintings by Matisse, 17 by Gauguin, 18 by Cezanne, 14 by Monet, and 16 by Picasso, although the most revolutionary paintings by these brilliant French artists were kept out of sight. Matisse’s La Musique and La Danse, with their strangely contorted bodies, struck Soviet decision-makers as indecent and too avant-garde. Still, what was on exhibit was enough to thrill art lovers and inspire up-and-coming Soviet artists.

Although a promising new life appeared to be taking shape, 1956 was marred by its share of discord. By autumn it was clear that not everyone welcomed the “historic decisions of the 20th Congress.” Only the Georgians dared voice open opposition, since for them any criticism of Stalin cut to the core of their national identity (despite the fact that Georgia suffered no less under Stalin than the other Soviet republics). When March 5, 1956, came and went without the traditional mention of the dear leader’s death three years prior, riots broke out in Tbilisi and had to be forcibly suppressed. Precise casualty figures were never released, but the dead certainly numbered in the dozens.

There was also dissatisfaction with the changes wrought by the 20th Party Congress within the Eastern European “socialist camp,” but of a different sort. To the Poles, Hungarians, and many others, the changes underway in the Soviet Union and echoed in their own countries did not go far enough. By June, workers in the Polish city of Poznan who were demanding improved work conditions raided the local offices of the Polish United Workers Party. They also released political prisoners. Blood was shed in the crushing of this rebellion as well.

Even after these events, no one anticipated what the autumn of this momentous year held in store.

in october, while in the Soviet Union audiences were enthralled by The Forty-First or touched by Spring on Zarechnaya Street, while Eldar Ryazanov was putting the finishing touches on Carnival Night for release before New Year’s Eve and Mikhail Kalatozov was already working on The Cranes are Flying, while the schoolteachers Bulat Okudzhava and Alexander Solzhenitsyn were hurrying to plan lessons and grade homework before spending long nights, away from prying eyes, on the work that mattered to them most – that was when a dangerous standoff took place in Poland.

In February, almost as soon as the 20th Party Congress began, a battle between Stalinists and anti-Stalinists had broken out in Poland, and the events in Poznan further inflamed passions. In August, a crowd numbering close to a million assembled to pray at one of Poland’s most important monasteries, Jasna Góra, where they took the “Pledge of Jasna Góra,” written by the influential Cardinal Wyszyński, who was under house arrest. This gathering gave impetus to the anti-Stalinist movement. In October, Khrushchev came to Warsaw and part of the Soviet Army was put in a state of combat readiness. The reformers, however, were not deterred by this show of force. In the end, perhaps Khrushchev realized that what was going on was the very de-Stalinization he had advocated at the congress. The Soviet leader opted for restraint, and Wladislav Gomulka, the new head of the Polish Workers Party, was able to gain some concessions from the Soviets and introduce a period of modest liberalization.

Hungary, which was also in the throes of a struggle between supporters and opponents of Stalinism, did not fare as well. The anti-Stalinists, encouraged by the concessions Khrushchev had made in Poland, pursued a far more radical agenda than their Polish counterparts and made no secret of the fact that they wanted to oust the communists.

In October of 1956 Imre Nagy, who had himself spent several years in prison and was eager to de-Stalinize his country, took over as prime minister. The country became roiled in conflict and members of the secret police began to be arrested. In this case, Khrushchev decided to forcefully intervene: Soviet tanks entered Hungary and the rebellion was crushed, with much blood shed and property destroyed. Nagy took refuge in the Yugoslav embassy. He was lured out by promises of mercy, but then tried and hung.

What about the Western powers? How did they react to Soviet troops entering Hungary? Conveniently for Khrushchev, as these events were unfolding, the world was preoccupied with the Suez Crisis: Egypt had blocked Israeli access to the Suez Canal, provoking a war in which Egypt suffered a humiliating defeat, despite help from Soviet specialists.

What about the Soviet people? How did the “children of the 20th Congress” react to the upsurge of anti-communism in the Eastern bloc? I once heard a story about a man who was serving in the army in 1956. When the members of his tank unit learned that they were being sent to Hungary, they agreed among themselves that they would not fire at Hungarians who were defending their freedom, the same freedom that, it seemed to them, the Soviet people had only just attained themselves. However, during one of their first nights in Hungary, their barracks came under fire and several Soviet soldiers were killed. After that, they felt no compunction about following orders, and the tanks bore down on Budapest’s civilian population. A tragic lack of understanding divided those defending their freedom from those who thought that they were already free.

In general, reports about unrest within the “socialist camp” did not reach most ordinary Soviet citizens. Here, people still thought things were just fine.

In October 1956, just as Poland and Hungary were seething, a Cezanne exhibit opened at the Hermitage in Leningrad. And in December, after the Hungarian uprising was suppressed, a huge collection of Picasso’s work was put on display in Moscow. As Ilya Ehrenburg, who opened the exhibition, recalled:

A lot of people came to the opening: the organizers, worried that there wouldn’t be enough visitors, sent out many more invitations than necessary. The crowd broke through the barriers, afraid that they would not be let in. The museum director came running up to me, pale: “Calm them down, I’m afraid people will be crushed in the panic…” I said into the microphone: “Comrades, you’ve been waiting 25 years for this exhibition; wait patiently for another 25 minutes…” Three thousand people broke out laughing and order was restored.

The journalist Kira Dolinina gives the following account of this legendary exhibition:

Hundreds of memoirs and even a scholarly book have been written about that exhibition. The shock experienced by those attending the exhibition (Picasso had been shown at the Hermitage that same year) caused an almost seismic shift in people’s consciousness. Those who were there retained many memories, which they were always eager to share: how they stood in line through the night, how they went to see Picasso knowing nothing about him but his famous dove,* how they expectantly reached the longed-for exhibit halls and were dumbstruck from amazement, how the museum staff would not explain anything, how tour guides sprung up spontaneously from among the crowd and were followed by enormous trails of listeners (which grew longer by the minute) eager to hear any explanations.

Most important, many of the 1956 attendees agree: Picasso’s main lesson was the lesson of absolute freedom. A concept as natural as air for the artistic genius Picasso, but one cherished by Soviet artists for its unattainability.

An event that took place in the lead-up to the 20th Congress provoked a similar response – French Cinema Week. Moscow and Leningrad were utterly enthralled by this film festival, held in October of 1955. Under Stalin, foreign films were almost never shown, with the exception of the “trophy” films captured from the Germans, and there were not all that many Soviet films to entertain the public. But that October contemporary French films were shown for an entire week, including The Grand Maneuver, with Gérard Philipe.

The very fact that it was possible to see a movie featuring dashing officers and beautiful women in stunning dresses and arm-length gloves (the character played by Philipe took a glove as a memento from all of his love interests and had accumulated a whole box of them) instead of workers and kolkhozniks, that it was a love story absolutely devoid of ideology, that it featured the devastatingly handsome Gérard Philipe, over whom women all across the world were swooning, and that this unattainable, gorgeous, and romantic actor had himself come to Moscow for the event – all this turned French Cinema Week into something to be remembered for years to come.

French Cinema Week was supposed to be held again in October 1956 at Moscow’s Forum theater. For days, people stood in long lines to buy tickets, and, as was common during the Soviet period, a system sprung up whereby people were assigned numbers for their place in line. In order to retain their place, however, they had to constantly check in with activists elected from among the members of the line. One such activist was a young man of seventeen who many years later recounted how he was summoned to the office of the theater’s terrified director. The director pleaded for help: “There’s war in the Middle East. French Cinema Week is being called off. I don’t know how to break this news to the line. Save me.”

The young man was no coward. He later became a literature teacher and director of a school, where his dogged determination helped him win a number of concessions from the powers that be. On that October day, he exited the theater, climbed a high fence, and delivered a brief lecture on the international situation to those standing in line. “Western imperialists have attacked fraternal Egypt, and under these circumstances they won’t be showing French films. However, progressives from across the world will fight for peace, and soon the Week will be held after all.” (French Cinema Week really did take place almost every year after that for most of the late Soviet period, and was hugely popular. How much this had to do with progressives’ fight for peace is hard to say.)

During the autumn of 1956, despite protests in the West, Yves Montand came to Moscow to put on a series of concerts. For the Soviet people, he became iconic of the Thaw and introduced a totally new art form to the USSR. Even after the singer, once back in France, arranged a mocking exhibition of the thick, scratchy, and unattractive underwear worn by Soviet women, Montand’s popularity within the USSR endured, especially as Soviet newspapers did not report on his insulting antic.

On December 6, 1956, the Soviet and Hungarian water polo teams faced off at the Games of the XVI Olympiad in Melbourne, Australia. Even before the match began, the Hungarians started jeering at the “occupiers.” Furthermore, it was clear that most of the spectators backed Hungary. The match was played with extraordinary brutality and hostility. With only minutes to go, a Soviet player slammed his fist into the face of Ervin Zádor, a Hungarian opponent who had been provoking him. The pool filled with blood, but Zádor continued to play. The audience, however, was outraged and started furiously screaming and even spitting into the pool. Police stopped the match, and victory went to the Hungarians, who were ahead at the time. The Hungarian water polo team took home gold that year.

One hundred Hungarians who took part in the Melbourne Olympics asked for political asylum, so they would not have to return to their socialist motherland. Of course, nobody reported this to Soviet sports fans. The newspapers kept mum; this was before Olympic Games were broadcast on Soviet television.

In most all respects, 1956 was a year of extremes: of extreme optimism about the future and of extreme tragedy for those who learned the hard way that too much optimism can be a dangerous thing.