– Maria, you were born in Munich. How long have you lived in this city?
– I was three months old when I was transported from Munich to Moscow. But then I visited this city several times. I'm half German. My mother married a German citizen, Peter Andreas Igenbergs. My father is a physicist by profession. When his parents and my grandparents were still alive, we often came to visit them in the summer. I remember their big and beautiful house. They have already died and are buried in Munich.
– Your mother, the famous actress Lyudmila Maksakova, gives the impression of a demanding and domineering woman. Were you raised to be strict?
“It’s only at first glance that mom looks so strict.” In fact, she is kind and allowed me a lot. She is not only a mother to me, but also a friend.
– You are the full namesake of your grandmother, the outstanding opera singer, People’s Artist of the USSR Maria Petrovna Maksakova. When choosing the profession of an opera singer, were you afraid that you would be compared and that this comparison might not be in your favor?
- That's how it was. Especially when my opera career was just beginning. Usually, at first, no one shows any special attention to an ordinary vocalist; he is given time, as they say, to “mature”, to come into fruition. In my case, everything happened differently. My first steps on stage were paid close attention. There are many archival recordings of my grandmother singing; of course, it was difficult for me to compete with her. But time passed, I sang leading roles at the Novaya Opera and Helikon-Opera theaters, and became a guest soloist at the Bolshoi Theater. IN last years together with maestro Valery Gergiev, she produced several premieres at the Mariinsky Theater. I have received recognition in my creative, professional environment and proudly bear the name Maksakova. Interestingly, I sing many of the same parts that my grandmother sang, and this inspires me.
– How substantiated are the rumors that you are Stalin’s granddaughter?
- I think this is a fiction. Stalin really loved my grandmother as a singer and attended all her performances. I don’t know who saved Maria Petrovna from repression when her second husband Yakov Davtyan (Ya. Kh. Davtyan - revolutionary, diplomat, intelligence officer, first head of the foreign department of the Cheka - A.O.) was arrested and shot in 1938. The legend is this: at some party-concert, Stalin asked: where is my beloved Carmen? Grandma was woken up in the middle of the night, brought to the Kremlin, she sang, and then her creative life continued successfully. And a year and a half later my mother was born, which gave rise to all these ridiculous rumors. The secret of my mother’s birth remained unsolved, but I think that her father was a famous and extraordinary person.
– Since we are already talking about Stalin, why, in your opinion, does he remain an idol for many people in Russia?
– Some people have a hard time comprehending history, especially since it is being rewritten all the time. Some consider the innocently murdered king a wonderful person. Others praise Lenin and the Bolsheviks. Many people consider Stalin to be a positive person, but those whom he destroyed are also called good people. But executioners and their victims cannot be the same. White should be called white, and black should be called black. Those who want Stalin to come do not understand that he will come not for a neighbor or an enemy, but for them and will erase them into camp dust. Violence cannot solve society's problems. We should follow the example of the Germans, who went through a difficult path and overcame the Nazi past.
– Your debut album with opera arias, released by Universal Music Group International, received the unusual name “Maria Maksakova. Mezzo? Soprano? What do these question marks mean?
– The range of my voice allows me to sing soprano and central soprano roles. However, the vocal teachers could not attribute my voice to a certain type. Am I a soprano? Is it mezzo? They argued, and I treated it with humor. That's why the album received such a humorous name. It was the result of work with the Moscow Symphony Orchestra “Russian Philharmonic” and conductor Dmitry Yurovsky.
– You can control everything: opera, romance, Russian folk songs, songs of Soviet composers. Is it possible to perform successfully in opera and on stage at the same time?
– Such experiments can be afforded when you have acquired some singing experience. If such performances take place occasionally and they are done with taste, then an opera singer can perform on the stage. But you shouldn’t get too carried away with the stage; this makes your operatic voice worse.
– You have starred in several films. Are you being offered any roles now?
– Sometimes I like, and sometimes I don’t, the result of my work in cinema. But I definitely don’t like the filming process itself. It is like a mosaic, made up of individual fragments. The middle or end of the film can be shot first, and then the beginning. When you play in a play, you live the life of your heroine from beginning to end. In cinema, the logic of constructing a role is often lost. For a tiny episode, I have to put on makeup for a long time, then wait for filming to start; all this is difficult for me.
– On the TV channel “Culture” you hosted the program “Romance of Romance”. Your regular broadcast partner was Svyatoslav Belza. What can you remember about him?
– Svyatoslav Igorevich was a real aristocrat. A famous musicologist, publicist, TV presenter, he gave me another profession. At first, I felt insecure. I learned the text by heart, but could not achieve ease and ease. It is not enough to be a good artist or singer. The profession of a presenter requires improvisation, lightning-fast reactions, wit and resourcefulness. This is a completely special genre, and not many entertainers manage to hold the audience’s attention throughout the entire concert. We went through a difficult path, Svyatoslav Belza edited my text, helped me avoid anxiety, and gave me a lot of wise advice. But he was pleased with the result of our work, and then proudly said to those around him: “Well, how do you like our Masha?!”
– You were the only State Duma deputy who abstained from voting on the bill banning the adoption of Russian orphans by US citizens. You also criticized the so-called anti-gay law. Such actions probably require great courage?
– I am a self-sufficient and independent person. You will never hear any inappropriate, jingoistic speeches from me. I love my country very much, but this love should be expressed not only for the land or birch trees, but above all for the people who live in Russia. I am not as loyal as my colleagues to many of the processes that are taking place in our country, and as a result of my political activities I have acquired ill-wishers. But I don’t regret anything, participation in the State Duma was a very interesting experience for me. Probably, I had to be even bolder in some ways.
– Or, on the contrary, more cautious?
- No, this is not in my character. People should never lose their face; they should strive to preserve their inner qualities. Otherwise, the personality is blurred, and a person who has committed actions that he did not want to commit looks broken and depressed. Such a life loses its value.
– You graduated with honors from the Central Music School at the Moscow Conservatory in piano, and from the Gnessin Russian Academy of Music (academic vocal department) with honors. Can you be called a perfectionist?
- Perhaps, yes. I have been working since I was five years old. When I was at music school, I learned several foreign languages. Graduated from two universities. Now I teach students. I want their career to succeed and their life to be successful.
- By the way, why did you also need legal education.
– When I studied at the Gnesin Academy, I passed almost all disciplines, with the exception of solo singing and a few other subjects, five years in advance. My dad decided that I now had plenty of time and would laze around. Then he suggested that I go to another institute. I chose the easy path and, without any effort, entered the Maurice Thorez Institute of Foreign Languages. But study English language, which I already knew well, attending all the lectures and seminars was incredibly boring. I dropped out of foreign language and decided to get a legal education. This time I was not mistaken. The theory of state and law is one of the most fascinating disciplines that I have had the opportunity to study. Very interesting: how are relationships between people built, how to protect yourself from deception? If at least two days in the country passed without lies, our life would improve. By the way, my husband is a Doctor of Law, professor, head of the department of theory and history of state and law at the St. Petersburg Law Institute.
– It’s good when spouses are united by common interests. But your husband is a State Duma deputy from the Communist Party of the Russian Federation. Are there political differences between you, and does this interfere with your married life?
– The Communist Party of the Russian Federation is now to a large extent a brand. We must not forget that the communists are now not at all what they were before. They are not opposed to private property, their economic program is largely sound, and there are many religious people among them. There are no heated political disputes between us. However, even if they happened, we would still have children. One does not exclude the other (laughs).
– This year you participated in the Festival Russian art in Cannes. Tell us about this event.
– At the “Russian Night” gala concert, which traditionally takes place at the Palace of Festivals, I performed works by Isaac Dunaevsky. IN next year The anniversary XX Festival of Russian Art will take place in Cannes. It’s great that such an event on the Cote d’Azur takes place at the very peak of the tourist season. The festival introduces viewers to Russian culture, cinema, folklore, music, dance, and discovers new talents. All this brings people together different countries, helps them understand each other better.
– You have three children. Do you want one of them to continue the artistic dynasty of the Maksakovs?
– My eldest son Ilya, who is twelve years old, studies at the St. Petersburg Suvorov Military School and at the same time at a music school, studying piano. He is a gifted boy and, by the way, performed with me in Cannes. My daughter Lucy plays the harp. Let them decide for themselves whether they will become musicians.
– Your tours were successfully held in many cities of Russia and former USSR, as well as in Japan, France, Italy. Would you like to come to Germany with a solo concert?
– Previously, when I was a State Duma deputy, there was absolutely no time. But I think that now I can come on tour to your country, which I love very much.
The editors thank Lyubov Yakovleva-Schneider for her assistance in organizing the interview
Just a couple of months ago, people in the Russian Federation loved Maria Maksakova, the wife of murdered ex-deputy Denis Voronkov. But after the opera performer moved to Ukraine, the attitude of citizens of the Russian Federation towards her changed dramatically.
According to some media information, Maria’s biography is quite rich, and there are a huge number of versions of her birth. Part of society is confident that she may be the granddaughter of Joseph Stalin himself. Maksakova’s grandmother, Maria Petrovna, was also an opera diva, married influential people in the USSR, and also became the leader’s favorite, they report
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He always went to her concerts with a huge bouquet of flowers, and after the end of the performance he immediately went to her dressing room. Maria Petrovna had a daughter, Lyudmila, who became an actress, but to this day it remains a mystery who exactly her father is. Many assumptions have been put forward on the topic of Maksakova’s pedigree.
Before her marriage to Voronenkov, the younger Maksakova was married twice, gave birth to two children, and at the age of 37 she married a State Duma deputy. The young couple had a son. And more recently, the couple could have celebrated their wedding anniversary if Voronenkov had been alive.
Let us recall that ex-State Duma deputy Denis Voronenkov, who fled from criminal prosecution in the Russian Federation to Ukraine with his wife, was shot dead on March 23 in the center of Kyiv, near the Premier Palace Hotel on Pushkinskaya Street. According to the investigation, the current murder is of a contract nature.
Maria Maksakova, granddaughter of Stalin: who to believe?
Namely, it was ordered by the head of the “international group of cashers” Viktor Kurilo. Based on some sources, it is reported that shortly before the murder, Denis “got involved in the redistribution of spheres of influence with an international group of shadow financiers,” which operated in the territories of the Russian Federation and Ukraine.
According to some reports, the killer was a certain Pavel Parshov, who was responsible for security and safety in the group. He also guarded money carriers.
The group cashed out money according to a well-established scheme when a contract was signed with a client for the sale of agricultural goods or construction. The funds were transferred to the accounts of shell companies and then cashed out through banks as legal income. From it, the group members deducted a percentage for the risk and returned it to the client.
16.09.2016 , By
“Within two years, everyone will have a microchip under their skin.” These are the words not of a madman, but of Matteo Renzi, which were uttered on June 12, 2015 after the approval of the bill on the American base and the implantation of microchips under the skin of all Italians, reported by News in the World. First the USA and then Sweden. Italy is the third country to join the microchip program under […]
Shortly before I was born, my mother was on tour in Latvia. After the performance, the famous predictor Wolf Messing came to her backstage.
He showered compliments for a long time, and then asked his mother to show her hand. Looking at her palm, he meaningfully uttered the mysterious phrase: “Fear the water!”
The war has begun. Mom was evacuated to Astrakhan. Our ship, sailing along the Volga, began to be bombed by the Germans. And my mother stood over me during the entire raid, covering me with her body.
Overnight she became completely gray. When my mother looked at herself in the mirror in the morning, lightning flashed through her head: “This is it! Messing’s prediction is coming true!”
In Astrakhan, my mother opened a branch of the Bolshoi Theater, where she staged performances and took part in them herself. In those days when Maria Petrovna Maksakova sang, there was a full house.
But soon, due to my illness, we were forced to leave my mother’s hometown.
The doctors told the mother that if the child was not taken away urgently, he would die. As people used to say, the Astrakhan climate “washes out children.” This water again!
We moved to Kuibyshev, where the Bolshoi Theater was evacuated, and then returned to Moscow.
When the Germans approached Moscow, my mother’s dacha in Snegiri, while retreating, was burned by our troops. They carried out one of the wartime slogans: “So that nothing goes to the enemy!”
Then everyone lived for victory. Mom's Ford - the fee for her performances - was taken for the needs of the front. In the summer of the first post-war years, we lived in a hut that resembled a birdhouse. Our “terem-teremok” was hastily knocked together from boxes in which aid was brought from America under the so-called Lend-Lease.
We lived, like everyone else, very difficult. I remember my grandmother got up early in the morning to get in line for flour. They wrote a number on her hand with a chemical pencil, and she was very afraid, God forbid, to erase it...
In life, the tragic is often intertwined with the funny. A grandmother in the village bought a cow called Burka. But the only breadwinner of our family had nothing to eat.
One day, my mother’s young student, and now the famous director of “Kinopanorama” Ksenia Marinina, advised: “Maria Petrovna! Why are you really lost? You need to go straight to the minister Agriculture and ask for hay!"
Before calling the minister, mom and Ksenia went to the Cocktail Hall on Gorky Street and drank a glass of Chartreuse for courage. After the order of Minister Burka, she immediately received the hay.
My life at the dacha was scheduled minute by minute. Every day I went to the “promenade” in a strange company: the Frenchwoman Marianna Frantsevna, a turtle who was always trying to get out of a wicker basket, a tiny toy terrier and of course... a huge alarm clock!
At the end of the procession was a handsome rooster, whose dog was constantly trying to rip the feathers out of his tail. Each time the alarm clock rang loudly, signaling that swimming in the stream was over.
French teacher Marianna Frantsevna lived with us at the dacha and taught me a strict regime. The schedule was updated every week and hung above my bed: wake up, breakfast, swim in the stream and daily activities.
She was a great hygienist, even though she was a nurse by profession: she brushed her teeth only with soap and every morning she doused herself in a copper basin with cold water. And she advised me: “If you want good skin- wash your face with urine!
My mother raised me as if there were no revolutions, no wars, no coups. In my opinion, it has remained in the last century, despite the terrible cataclysms in our country.
- Does this mean you dressed in crinolines?
For a long time I wore hated dresses with numerous frills that my grandmother sewed for me to grow into. When I grew up, these frills came off. I was quite a comical sight: a fur coat with a seal cape, clearly cut from my mother’s old fur coat, and frills peeking out from under it. My shoes were only made to order. When they started reaping, they did it simply - they cut out a hole for the thumb.
Our neighbor in the country, academician Nikolai Nikolaevich Priorov, brought from America for me, a future schoolgirl, an incredible size leather briefcase, a rubber eraser and a huge pencil. They sewed me a school uniform, and, to my chagrin, my white apron was decorated with the hated pre-revolutionary hemstitch. (When the apron became small, straps were added to it.)
In such strange equipment, my mother sent me straight to second grade. I went through the first program with an old teacher, the sister of singer Yastrebov, who lived with us for some time. “My first teacher” taught me the rules of grammar.
So, for example, to determine the number of syllables in a word, you had to pronounce it by bringing your hand close to your mouth. How many exhalations - so many syllables. It was with such original knowledge that I came to school.
In class they looked at me like I was a miracle worker. All schoolchildren wore the same uniforms and carried leatherette briefcases purchased at a children's store. Of course, I was quite exotic and aroused great curiosity. In addition, out of fright, she sometimes switched to French.
What saved me was that I studied at the Central Music School, and not at an ordinary school, where the “scarecrow” would be cruelly mocked. But still, my appearance caused me a lot of suffering. This is probably where my defiant behavior comes from: “Since I’m not like everyone else, then I won’t behave like everyone else!”
- Lyudmila Vasilyevna, haven’t you tried to fight domestic tyranny?
No. In the sixth grade, I remember in vain begging my mother to change my fur bonnet to some kind of hat. Mom was relentless: “You’ll catch a cold in your ears!” I dejectedly trudged for a walk in a bonnet, which was the subject of mocking ridicule inyard One day, crying, I asked to visit a friend, but I was strictly forbidden.
What guests! My mother didn’t let me go to the movies either. In this way she tried to protect me from excessive impressions and other people's thoughts. I didn’t know the names of the streets, and if I had run away from home, I would have gotten lost in the neighboring yard. Mom was far from reality and could not imagine that children went to school in red ties and that I stood out from the group. By the way, she did not know this word “collective” from the Soviet lexicon.
-What was your worst punishment?
I was never encouraged, so the very lack of praise was a constant punishment. And at least sometimes I wanted to hear: “My God, what a great fellow you are!” Every day my mother repeated one thing: “Work, work, work!” And I obediently studied. Mom had never been to a single parent meeting and didn’t even know my teachers. Sometimes I signed the diary - that’s all.
- I can just imagine you sitting on the window and looking longingly at the children in the yard!
Why? I also ran and played there. True, the children did not want to recognize me as one of their own because of my ridiculous “uniform.” Being a black sheep, I tell you, is quite difficult. My frills aroused some kind of unhealthy interest among the boys - they constantly beat me. They give me a good beating, I go home and roar.
And they teased me exclusively like this: “Macaque! Macaque! A very dangerous animal!” But I never complained to my mother. There was a rule in our house: “Never upset mom!”
- Were you familiar with the famous inhabitants of your house?
The Bolshoi Theater Artists' House in Bryusovsky Lane, now Bryusovsky, was built in 1936. Now it is all covered with memorial plaques. And when I wanted to install a board for my mother, it was decided at the level of the Central Committee. Some stern lady in the office reprimanded me: “It turns out that you don’t have a house, but some kind of columbarium!”
Now it is a kind of house-museum in which great people once lived: Antonina Nezhdanova, Elena Katulskaya, Mikhail Gabovich, Nikolai Golovanov, Ivan Kozlovsky, Bronislava Zlatogorova and Nadezhda Obukhova. It was a very vibrant community of people who were the color of our culture.
These people had little connection with reality. Their life was secluded, but wonderful... The inhabitants of our alley retained elegant manners: when meeting a lady, a man would certainly bow and raise his hat.
And I thought that it would always be like this: Kozlovsky would carefully wrap his neck in a checkered scarf, Aunt Nadya Obukhova and Aunt Tonya Nezhdanova would call my mother, and Aunt Olya Lepeshinskaya would remind me every time: “Lyudmilochka, remember, you took your first step by holding on for my hand!"
Our famous neighbors had no time for children, they burned on the altar of art! When we met, they absentmindedly stroked my head and smiled welcomingly. Nadezhda Andreevna Obukhova took her to show the canaries.
Bronislava Yakovlevna Zlatogorova, the famous contralto of the Bolshoi Theater, gave me an extraordinary dress. Often one of the neighbors came to visit my mother.
Nezhdanova, although she lived in the next entrance, always came to us smartly dressed, perfumed and always wearing a hat. She adored her grandmother's dumplings and devoured them in huge quantities.
When she felt hot from jokes and from what she had eaten, she went to the mirror and, wiping her tears, peeled off her eyelashes: “Ugh! Why did I stick them on? It’s all because I wanted to be beautiful!” By the way, after her death, our lane was renamed Nezhdanova Street for some time.
The world of my childhood was divided into two universes: the children's, where I lived, and the adult half, where I was not always allowed. In the mornings, a reverent silence reigned in the house. They kept telling me: “Quiet! Mom is resting.” In the evening, a driver came for my mother and took her to the theater.
From her living room, where I sneaked into, there was the smell of Red Moscow perfume. In the evenings, the ringing laughter of her guests could be heard from there and the sounds of the piano could be heard. On dressing table there was powder, bottles of perfume and some mysterious jars, but I admired this wealth from afar. I was so obedient that I didn’t have to say: “You can’t!”, I would never have touched it anyway.
One day I brought home a rusty penknife. Aunt Sonya, I remember, seeing my find, sat down in the hallway and sobbed: “Did you really take someone else’s thing without asking?! That means you stole it! Take the knife back immediately.” Shedding tears like a criminal, I obediently took the knife into the yard, where I found it.
Every day I was given money for lemonade and a bun. I honestly spent them in the school cafeteria, not daring, like other children, to disobey. When I grew up, my relationship with my mother was built on the principle: if I needed money, I borrowed money from her. My mother earned money from the age of nine and wanted to teach me to be independent.
And since childhood, I lived in an atmosphere of Mystery. They hid something from me, kept something back. Apparently, this “something” was dangerous not only for my mother, but also for me... The main secret of her life was connected with the year 37, when fate raised its sword of Damocles over her...
- Why did Maria Petrovna have to earn money since childhood?
When my grandfather, who worked at the Astrakhan shipping company, died, his 27-year-old wife found herself without money with six children in her arms. They lived in extreme need and gratefully accepted the help of friends and relatives. Mom grew up as a desperate girl, broke her arms and legs more than once, and even once drowned in an ice hole.
But at the age of nine, Marusya’s childhood ended - to help her family, she joined the church choir. And she brought home her first fee - 10 kopecks. It’s amazing that the child felt his responsibility to his family so early!
Then my mother learned the notes herself and entered a music school. At seventeen she was accepted into the local opera, assigned to sing Olga in Eugene Onegin.
In the early 20s, the famous Russian baritone Maximilian Karlovich Maksakov came to Astrakhan. A famous entrepreneur, a man of art, a very bright and talented personality, he became Marusya Sidorova’s teacher and turned her life around. He managed to discern a future celebrity in the seventeen-year-old girl.
Soon Maximilian Karlovich invited the student to marry him, saying: “I will make you a real singer.” "Pygmalion" fulfilled its promise and gave Russia its "Galatea" - the great singer Maria Maksakova. He was thirty-three years older than his mother, but not a single day did she regret those fifteen years that she lived next to him...
They moved to Moscow and rented a room in communal apartment on Dmitrovka. The husband turned the life of his young wife into continuous work. During the day - daily homework and tears, in the evening - a performance, and late at night - catch up and tears again.
At the Bolshoi Theater, at the age of twenty-one, my mother was entrusted with singing the part of Amneris in Aida - there was no one else to replace the often ill prima Obukhova. The un-operatically slender young debutante was wrapping a towel around herself under her dress.
By the way, one of my mother’s secrets was connected with Maksakov. One day, looking at his passport, she was horrified to discover that her husband was actually an Austrian citizen, Max Schwartz. At night, my mother burned this passport in the stove.
Maximilian Karlovich became deaf and picky in his old age. And not once, no matter how he felt, did he miss his wife’s performance. Behind the scenes his voice thundered: “Mura! Today you sang poorly!”, and then he began to scold the conductor Melik-Pashayev: “You, dear Alexander Shamilevich, today did not have “Carmen”, but some sour cabbage soup!”
Of course, this did not contribute to a good relationship between the singer and the conductor. Even when my mother became famous, Maksakov continued his studies - he sat for hours at the piano, once again forcing her to sing: “Love is like a bird’s wings...” “Mura, start all over again again” - and the Bolshoi prima singer obeyed meekly.
- Why was Maria Petrovna so scared of a foreign passport?
Fear reigned! A foreigner is a spy, an enemy of the people! I will never forget my mother’s story about how she once really liked a hat. "What a wonderful hat!" - she admired. "This is from Paris!" - the hatmaker boasted.
In Moscow at that time such a thing was very rare, and my mother did not sleep all night: “God forbid, they find out that I praised the hat!” At that time, denunciations flourished, one can imagine what he would have looked like: “Comrade Maksakova prefers foreign things...” She lived in such a hell. This is probably why my mother immersed herself in art, like in a virtual world, and lived in this fairy tale.
She was informed about Maksakov's death during the evening performance of The Tsar's Bride. She sang the performance to the end and went home when the curtain came down. I still have a tear-off sheet of the calendar, where it is written in my mother’s hand: “My dear one has died...”
She never forgot Maksakov and wherever she performed, his portrait stood on the makeup table. After the death of her husband and teacher, my mother’s life turned into a complete tragedy. The first trouble knocked on her door in 1937...
On tour in Warsaw, my mother met Soviet ambassador Yakov Khristoforovich Davtyan. But their happiness was short-lived - they lived together for only six months. Davtyan had an explosive oriental temperament, and his mother often suffered from his attacks of unjustified jealousy.
One day, returning after a performance, she found a wild scene: Yakov was sitting on the floor and fiercely chopping up her photographs with scissors. He was especially enraged by stage photographs where his mother was half naked.
At this dramatic moment, there was suddenly a knock on the door. The NKVD officers who came to arrest the “enemy of the people” decided that he was destroying documents. Davtyan was taken away.
After they left, scraps of photographs swirled in the room for a long time due to the draft... And the rain poured down on the windows. This water again! From that moment on, my mother waited every day for arrest. That's why she never kept diaries or notes or wrote memoirs.
After Davtyan was shot, a resolution was issued: the wives of those arrested, namely ballerina Marina Semenova (wife of the ambassador to Turkey Lev Karakhan) and singer Maksakova, were to be expelled from Moscow. God knows why they were spared.
I think the reason for this was the outbreak of war. There were rumors that my mother was left alone by personal order of Joseph Stalin.
The Bolshoi Theater in those years was the court theater of the Kremlin leader. It was rumored that Stalin was not indifferent to Maksakova and that I was his daughter.
But after the release of the memoirs of Stalin’s mistress Vera Alexandrovna Davydova, a mezzo-soprano from the Bolshoi, everyone calmed down. One might as well say that I am the daughter of the Emperor! And yet, the poet Andrei Voznesensky, hinting at the mysterious circumstances of my birth, wrote the poem “Pharaoh’s Daughter.”
Mom never forgave Stalin, who shot her husband. Early in the morning on the day of his funeral, she woke me up, saying that we must definitely look at the tyrant in last time. We barely made our way through the security into the Hall of Columns. Mom was worried about only one thing: is Stalin really dead or is his double lying in the coffin? To get a good look at the deceased, buried in the wreaths, she squinted and stood on tiptoe.
Next story her life turned out to be even worse. My mother gave birth to me late, at almost forty years old. I never saw my father, and they carefully hid from me who he was. Mom kept this secret and never revealed it to anyone.
Surprisingly, no one around me told me anything. Only many years later, when I went with an actor from the Moscow Art Theater to a film festival in Morocco, he mentioned the name of my father - Alexander Volkov, singer of the Bolshoi Theater. “Your father did not want to live in the Soviet Union, crossed the front line and ended up in America, where he opened a school of dramatic and operatic arts,” he told me in a moment of frankness.
Now I understand how my mother suffered, fearing not so much for herself as for me, her only daughter...
- Did your father know about the birth of his daughter?
When I was born, he came to look at me. Mom was offended that when he saw me, he doubted his “authorship.” With this, he signed the verdict on their relationship. You could pay with your life for communicating with a “traitor to the Motherland.” And as I understand now, that’s probably why I was locked up and wasn’t allowed to bring friends home. Mom tried to load me up with lessons and music - I learned to play the cello.
I remember, I really I wanted people to feel sorry for me, and so on the way to school, I limped, dragging my cello with difficulty. “Let everyone see what an unhappy girl I am! Not only is she carrying a heavy tool, she’s also limping!” - I thought maliciously, looking around to see if sympathetic passers-by were looking at me, the unfortunate one. Maybe these were the first unconscious steps towards the theater...
After the war, my mother’s life in the theater became very joyless. After all, no one forgot anything... and in 1953, I still think they dealt with my mother, sending her into retirement in an insidious manner. One day they sent her an envelope by mail from the Bolshoi. The notice on tissue paper stated that as of such and such a date, Maria Petrovna Maksakova was retired.
I was only thirteen, but I remember well how hard my mother experienced this mortal insult. Still would! Retire at fifty, in brilliant shape! Three times laureate of the Stalin Prize, order bearer, People's Artist of the RSFSR began her career all over again.
She was saved by the fact that Nikolai Petrovich Osipov, the director of the Russian Folk Orchestra, invited her to perform with Russian songs. Mom began touring with concerts around the country and traveled throughout the Soviet Union...
- Maybe Davydova was jealous of Stalin for Maria Petrovna, and that’s why she kicked her out of the theater?
Vera Alexandrovna at that time took first place at the Bolshoi. The leader's favorite was married to the head of the Mchedeli opera troupe. I don’t think that intrigue was to blame for what happened, although, of course, there was rivalry between the mezzo-sopranos. Everything is so intertwined...
Mchedeli and Davydova, in essence, were good people, and there was a good relationship between mom and this couple.For example, Davydova’s husband was taking his mother to the maternity hospital from Snegiri. It was September, the village roads were in bad shape, but Dmitry Semenovich drove the car like crazy, ignoring traffic lights. When Stalin died and Beria was shot, Davydova and her husband were forced to leave the Bolshoi and move to Tbilisi.
Three years later, the management of the theater changed, and my mother was offered to return back. But she agreed to sing only one performance - “Carmen”, in order to say goodbye to the audience. She sang this part so brilliantly that the playful nickname Carmen Petrovna Maksakova stuck to her, and because of her amazing acting talent, my mother was called Chaliapin in a skirt.
One day her heel broke on stage. Not at all embarrassed, mom kicked off her shoes and finished singing barefoot. I remember her farewell performance very well. Already on the approaches to the Bolshoi Theater, my mother’s fans rushed to passers-by in search of an extra ticket, and the crowd at the entrance excitedly buzzed: “Maksakova is singing! Maksakova sings!” When the artist entered the stage, the whole audience stood up in one impulse and gave a standing ovation.
After leaving the theater, my mother began to devote more energy to teaching at the department of musical comedy at GITIS, then she organized the People's Singing School. She studied at home with many students, students of GITIS. I remember Larisa Golubkina came to us.
Now, listening to her stories about her mother, I understand that she was much closer to her students than to me. The students shared their heartfelt secrets with her, and her mother gave them advice. There was always some kind of distance between us that did not allow us to touch on this delicate topic.
Maybe because for me my mother was an unearthly being. I remember my grandmother, a failed actress, when my mother’s voice sounded on the radio in the kitchen, she stopped peeling potatoes and shed burning tears: “Marusenka is singing, my angel!” Or maybe because my mother and I “met” when I had already become an adult... I hardly saw her when she was little - she toured a lot.
-Who did you stay at home with?
With grandmother, domestic workers or relatives. There were no nannies before. Housekeepers ran the house andlooked after the child. In those years, people flocked from villages to Moscow to somehow escape hunger. When my son was born, we advertised in the newspaper.
The doorbell rang, my mother immediately opened it: “An announcement? Come on in." Vanda Yanovna, that was the name of our new housekeeper, could not recover from the shock for a long time and kept wailing: “Oh, what a woman! God! She didn’t ask anything: neither who I am nor where I came from. I didn’t even look at my passport! She threw her grandson at me and said: “I’m running to the exam at the conservatory.” But I came from prison!”
- And you didn’t have any troubles, for example, thefts?
You know, God was merciful. No one at that time was afraid to let these women into the house without recommendations, because for the most part the people were decent. My Arina Rodionovnas taught me everything: cross stitch, cutwork, broderie, knitting scarves, cooking. I didn't grow up as a white-handed princess.
Then everyone lived very modestly, economically, but not out of greed - the fear of hunger was to blame. For example, my grandmother’s cousin Kaleria Sergeevna survived a terrible famine in Astrakhan.
And if she was given boxes of chocolates, she would stack them on the sideboard. Candies hidden “for a rainy day” were covered with a white coating, and then, untouched, were thrown away.
- You probably had a backlash...
Certainly! “Sell everything and live as a millionaire!” - this is what Andrei Mironov’s grandfather, Semyon Menaker, said. These words became my motto. Of course, in everything I tried to do not as I was taught, but vice versa.
I even went to Shchukinskoe, despite the fact that for my mother there was only the Moscow Art Theater. The upset mother called Mansurova: “If she doesn’t have the data, for God’s sake, don’t take it!” Cecilia Lvovna at that moment was preparing for a trip to Riga and was literally sitting on her suitcases, so she laughed and shrugged it off: “I don’t know anything, I’m leaving. But in my opinion, she has already been accepted.”
My mother was worried about me; she knew very well that with such a surname, being on the sidelines was sheer suffering. Having learned about my admission, Obukhova called her: “Who will Lyudmilochka study with?” - "Don't know. So dark, with black eyes...” “Really Zhenya Vakhtangov? Oh, well, he’s dead!” Vladimir Etush turned out to be dark with black eyes...
Already in my first year I had a blast. This is what happens most often: the Forbidden fruit sweet! The first thing I did was paint myself as best I could. She bleached her hair with perhydrol, wanting to become a platinum blonde, and every day before going out she applied war paint to her face.
Mom looked at me with horror, but she couldn’t do anything about the rebellious child. The genie has been released from the bottle!
At the course they once showed a newly released film with Monica Vitti, and our teacher Mansurova noted that I looked very much like the Italian star. So I tried to be like Vitti: black arrows on my eyes, blond hair. It’s just a cigarette... I didn’t know how to smoke yet, but I couldn’t keep up with the movie star who was beautifully blowing out smoke.
I had to study. We, first-year students, “served” the fourth year. I stroked the dress of student Marina Panteleeva, who was performing in a student play based on Nazim Hikmet’s play “Eccentric,” in the dressing room and tried to smoke menthol cigarettes. Very soon this disgusting thing made me sick. Naturally, I carefully hid this fall from grace from my mother.
The ban on bringing friends home was also over. In my first year, I invited my fellow students to visit for the first time in my life. Before this, not a single friend had crossed the threshold of our apartment. And mom had to come to terms with the chaos that we caused.
Since then, the doors of the house literally have not been closed. My hospitality knew no bounds! People came to see me for a quick look at any time of the day or night. We, students, very soon discovered the restaurant of the Actors' House, where we could sit in company. Of course, my mother didn’t like me playing bohemia.
She couldn’t stand these actor’s gatherings over a drink with the obligatory confessions: “Old man, you’re a genius!” - “No, old man, you’re the genius...” But her moral teachings no longer had any effect on me. With the ecstasy of youth I plunged into this cheerful, reckless world!
Among the friends who often came to see me was Volodya Vysotsky. In our closet hung Krasshchekov’s rare seven-string guitar, like a Stradivarius violin, wrapped in silk. It was once played in my mother’s family in Astrakhan.
We decided that the guitar itself damp place apartments will be better preserved. Once Vysotsky, Coming out of the toilet, he asked: “What is that strange thing hanging there?” "Guitar. We keep it there so it doesn’t dry out.” - “Are you crazy?!” Better give it to me!” I gave it to Volodya. And he played it all his life.
Immediately after graduating from college, a different life began for me... I spent 24 hours in the theater, and offers to act in films began pouring in. I went to the Cannes Film Festival with Chukhrai’s film “Once Upon a Time There Were an Old Man and an Old Woman.” I was cast in films a lot, but I was fanatically devoted to the theater and refused many roles.
- There were legends that Maria Petrovna collected antique furniture, antiques. This is true?
It’s just that there were no other things then. In Moscow there was one Mebeltorg and many consignment stores that sold antique, but then very cheap furniture. Some people ran and took out “walls”, while others preferred antique things.
From all her trips, my mother, as a very attentive person, brought gifts for relatives and friends. She was friends with singer Natalya Dmitrievna Shpiller and Moscow Art Theater actress Olga Androvskaya. They had a common friend Alexandra Nikolaevna Ludanova. Her father was an active state councilor under the tsar.
Alexandra Nikolaevna, fearing the Soviets, but not wanting to part with her daddy’s portrait, covered his ceremonial uniform with royal orders and ribbons with shoe polish, leaving only his face. The State Councilor has become like a diver!
Friends often gathered with Alexandra Nikolaevna in her room in a communal apartment. There were remnants of former luxury crowded there: a unique malachite table, a sofa from the Pavlovian era, chairs made of Karelian birch and paintings. To get to this island of the past, the ladies had to make their way along a long corridor Soviet era, hung with aluminum basins and bicycles. The “girls” indulged in nostalgic memories while drinking some liquor. The owner dressed up the old cat for their visit, tying a silver fox tail to it. “Look how handsome he is!” - she was touched.
Mom loved her sister very much, who was also a musician. The funny thing is that, as far as I remember, they often got ready to go to a play or movie together. We negotiated for a long time, called each other, set a meeting place, but, as a rule, we never met. It was some kind of obsession!
After the movie show, mom rushed to the phone: “Nyura! Where were you?” - “I was waiting for you at the cinema.” - “I wonder where you were standing?” - “Yes, where you and I, Marusya, agreed. Well, did you get into the cinema?” - "Yes!" - "So how is it?" - "Horror!" - “What are you talking about! Wonderful film! " The sisters began to quarrel terribly, then suddenly it turned out that they had not only mixed up the meeting place, but also the films. (The Metropol cinema had three cinema halls.)
Like Nastasya Filippovna, my mother constantly warmed up some old people and old women at home. The Astrakhan singer Alexander Grigorievich Yastrebov lived in our dacha for a long time. He huddled in our tiny house, similar to a tower-teremok
For some time, my mother gave shelter to Zoya Grigorievna Dunaeva. Zoya Grigorievna's husband, Leonid Nikolaevich, a prince by birth, served as a lighting designer at the Maly Theater. With a backpack on his back, he walked four kilometers to our Bullfinches to relax in nature on his day off.
Spent the night in a small former cowshed where Burka once lived. Our surroundings were very nice - friendly and intelligent people. Although it’s a bit cramped, but, as they say, the richer you are, the happier you are! I grew up among these people in an atmosphere of warmth. Mom didn’t know at all what it meant to “get the child ready for school” - others gladly performed this responsibility for her...
Mom helped a lot of people: she got them into hospitals, gave them money, and took care of housing. Every day the bell rang - the postman with a bag of letters on his back struggled to squeeze into the hallway. Mom sat down at the table, put on her glasses and carefully opened the envelopes with scissors.
She was especially attentive to the triangles; it was clear that the addressee had nowhere and nothing to buy an envelope with. I put the letter marked “Replyed” aside and moved on to the next one. On certain days, old men and women would ring our doorbell, to whom my mother provided all possible assistance.
- Why didn’t Maria Petrovna practice singing with you?
Let's start with the fact that I didn't have a singing voice. We tried, of course, but nothing came of it. I squeaked “Lark” and that was the end of it. And my Mashenka, who goes by her grandmother’s name Maria Petrovna, is an opera singer. She continues the family tradition.
She always had a thirst for activity and a love of knowledge. She even worked as a fashion model at the Slava Zaitsev Fashion House. She graduated from the evening law school, the Gnessin Academy, and now sings at the Novaya Opera.
Remembering my ascetic childhood, I took Nabokov’s phrase as my motto in raising children: “Pamper, spoil your children! You can’t imagine what trials they might face.”
I didn’t forbid them anything, although I forced them to learn languages, study music - in a word, I fought for knowledge.I think they are grateful to me for that now. In any case, Maxim, who runs the business, recently thanked me.
- Your children were born from different fathers. Did they have any jealousy or conflicts?
Come on! They are unusually friendly. I gave birth to Maxim at thirty, and Masha at thirty-seven. Maxim was actually raised by Masha's father. He never saw his own father. My story, as you see, was repeated with my son...
I met his father, Lev Zbarsky, when I began working at the Vakhtangov Theater. He was the son of the brilliant academician Boris Zbarsky, who embalmed Lenin. But this nevertheless did not save Boris Ilyich from arrest. Leva was a wonderful graphic artist and artist.
People kept running after him and asking him to illustrate another book, he agreed, took an advance, but since he couldn’t do something stupid, he took a long time to complete the work. And therefore he was forever in debt to everyone.
One day, the director of the Yakobson Ballet, desperate to receive an order from the artist, locked Leva with a key. All night I sat with him and drew naked figures, and he dressed them in costumes with the flourish of a master.
We loved each other very much. They were young and led, one might say, an exotic lifestyle. Leva was going through a period of moving and building a huge workshop in the city center. By some miracle, he and Borey Messerer managed to get permission from the authorities for this.
In an unfinished workshop where there was no hot water, people milled around us day and night. When everyone left at four in the morning, I stood in the kitchen and, falling off my feet, washed the dishes. And so every day. Once, my company and I had a lot of fun celebrating the New Year there.
The sculptor Nekogosyan covered the table with white paper, and Maxim Shostakovich brought a bucket of partridges in sour cream. This year Efremov left Sovremennik, and after the chimes we ran together to Gala Volchek to support her.
Messerer and Leva called themselves bohemians. I don’t know what about bohemians, but they had a really “broad” view of many things. But even Leva, with his far from puritanical views, choked when he saw the dress I wore when I was going to celebrate the New Year at the House of Writers one day.
It was very bold: an extremely deep neckline in front, the chest was covered only by a cross-stitched gold chain. When the waitress ran into me in the hall, poor thing, she dropped a tray laden with plates of Kyiv cutlets. Yevtushenko was delighted. He covered my breasts with a napkin and showed them to those who wanted them for a “dachshund” of one hundred rubles. He himself, like a gentleman, made the first contribution. Using the money raised, we treated everyone in the hall to champagne.
And yet it was a dramatic page in my life. I was expecting a child. I could no longer live in the unfinished workshop; at home, endless showdowns with my mother awaited me. And then Leva emigrated to the USA. Before he left, we had a big quarrel.
And then he asked Lilya, the wife of director Alexander Mitta: “Call Lyuda. If she tells me: “Stay!” “I’m not going anywhere.” I was not at home, and my mother answered Lila that I had gone on tour for two months. After listening to the answer, Leva sighed with disappointment, shook his head and said: “So it’s not fate!”
I returned from tour, and a terrible story of adoption befell me. Leva and I were not officially registered, and the whole problem was the child. Firstly, Leva was legally supposed to pay me a gigantic amount of alimony, which he did not have.
And secondly, Maxim, the son of an emigrant, could have enormous difficulties in the future, in particular with entering college. So Maxim Zbarsky became Maxim Maksakov. Since then, she and her father never saw each other again.
At the trial, I took the blame upon myself, declaring that Leva is not the father of the child. And all so that he could go abroad. But that’s not what brought me down. We loved each other, but separation was imminent forever...
In 1989, I went with Igor Kvasha and his wife Tanya to New York. There we met Leva, as if we had never parted. We sat all night in the bar of the Plaza Hotel, where he listened to my version of our relationship. “It’s so interesting, it’s like listening to a story about another person,” he said. In love, as a rule, everyone has their own truth...
When Leva left, I became friends with Tanya Egorova, to whom I am very grateful for her support. When I left the courthouse, I was almost hit by a car on the Garden Ring - I seemed to go blind from grief. I don’t remember how I ended up on Arbat. Someone touched me on the shoulder - it was Tanya, who lived nearby.
We went to her, and she consoled me as best she could. It's funny, but she is also involved in my second marriage, which has lasted for thirty years...
Once a friend of Tanya brought me a rabbit fur coat from Poland. So, it was this fur coat that played a fateful role in my life! One person was looking after me at that time. One day he gave me a ride in his car. When I got out of the car and looked around, I couldn’t help but gasp: the whole seat was covered with rabbit fluff like snow! I thought: “Wow! As if she had marked the place. This is a sign of fate!
This man's name was Peter Igenbergs. Peter's parents met in the Czech Republic, where his father worked at the Latvian Embassy, and his mother, Zinaida Rudolfovna, was a trade representative of Estonia. It was 1937.
They were in danger in their homeland, and they remained in Prague. That's where mine was born future husband Then the whole family moved to Germany. My husband’s mother, out of ardent love for Russia, organized the “Friendship Society of Germany and the USSR.” She often visited the Soviet Union, organizing cultural exchanges between countries.
Peter worked as a tour guide in Germany and one day in a group of tourists from the Union he saw the actress Mikaela Drozdovskaya and fell in love. This romantic feeling brought him to Moscow, where he began working in a Western company.
At that time, all of us actors were very friendly, often got together and called each other. When I was awarded the title, Michaela called: “Luda, come, let’s celebrate!” “I can’t, Mika,” I say, “I’ve been celebrating for so many days!” I'm afraid I can't stand it."
She did not listen to my objections and sent a car to pick me up. At the entrance, I encountered those accompanying me - Mitta’s wife (it so happened that Lilya more than once performed the “function of Hymen” in my life) and a tall stranger in a funny earflap hat.
As it turned out later, this was Michaela’s foreign fan, whom the company simply called Ulya. That same evening Peter proposed to me. The next day he met me with flowers at the service entrance of the theater. He literally didn’t let me come to my senses! During the entire year and a half of his persistent courtship, I didn’t know what to do out of fear.
- With such a prominent groom, there must have been a battle going on!
No, you know, no one particularly chased him: it was very risky.
Once again, Peter’s mother came to the Union. She always stayed at the National, in a room with a view of the Kremlin, and according to her status, she was entitled to a Chaika with a driver. One day Ulya conveyed to me Zinaida Rudolfovna’s wish to meet with me.
Before that, she called her mother: “Lyudmila recognizes me immediately! I will be wearing a luxurious fur coat. I’m blonde and my hair is like Catherine the Second’s!” "Nothing. My Lyudmilochka is also prominent!” - Mom retorted, obviously hinting at my shabby rabbit.
At a table in the hotel cafe we had small talk and talked a lot about the theater. A year and a half later, realizing that things were heading towards a wedding, Zinaida Rudolfovna made it clear to me: “If you think that you received a golden bag, you are mistaken!”
I understand her very well: she and her husband did not flee from the horrors of Soviet power so that their son would marry a Russian and stay in the USSR. I set a condition for Ole: “I won’t leave Russia!” He didn’t argue, although I don’t think he understood me. He was born in the Czech Republic, studied in Germany, worked here in Russia, and was not tied to one place. Interesting - although we lived together long life, I still continue to live with a foreigner. I have the psychology of a Russian person, and he has a Western one.
Ulya lived at the Metropol Hotel. Once he invited Egorova and me to visit. We fearlessly went to his room. And when he left the room, Tanya suddenly turned to me, pressing her finger to her lips. “Be quiet! - I had difficulty reading her lips. “Everything here is bugged!”
I burst out laughing: “What if we’re being watched here?” I naively thought that after the wedding I would live in the Metropol with my husband, but on the second day we were kicked out of there, and we had to move to my mother, where we lived in cramped conditions, but not in any way.
- Was it difficult to marry a foreigner at that time?
Although no one formally objected to our marriage, in fact, its conclusion required so many documents that it would not take a lifetime to collect them. Our nerves were very frayed. Let's start with the fact that my fiancé was called to the Griboedovsky registry office, where marriages with foreigners were registered, and was informed: “Mr. Igenbergs! Do you know that your wife is not a girl?” “Yes,” he replied, “I guess, because she has a child.”
Ulya, already familiar with the Soviet bureaucracy, was fully armed: he came to the wedding ceremony with a huge briefcase chock full of all kinds of certificates.
For every stupid question - who was his great-uncle and whether his grandmother suffered from gout, who was buried where - he had a prepared answer. “Do you have a certificate of...” - they didn’t have time to finish the sentence, but he was already taking out another piece of paper with stamps: “Please!” Our witnesses at the wedding were Tanya Egorova and Alik Shein. Alik later admitted that his legs were giving way from fear.
But in addition to various formal difficulties, there was another problem - choosing a free day for the wedding. I was so busy with the repertoire that I said: “Any Tuesday!”, knowing that the theater had a day off on that day. It turned out that we were getting married on March 27, Theater Day, and, naturally, the day off was cancelled.
As a result, after the wedding table set at our house, I ran to the performance. Yuri Yakovlev, who also walked at our wedding, played with me that day. In a word, we “celebrated” so much that we played with him almost in an unconscious state: at some point on stage we did not recognize each other and rushed past, forgetting about the dialogue. Thank God the public didn't notice anything.
My husband, a physicist by training, went into business in the USSR. At that time, the country had an article “Spread of the bourgeois way of life”, according to which foreigners were not allowed to live in the Union for more than three years.
Each time Ole had to process his entry and exit for a long time. It was such torture! Once we even joked that if we have a boy, we’ll call him Ovir, and if it’s a girl, Visa.
One day my husband went to Germany on business. I stayed at home with little Maxim and my terminally ill mother. Peter was suddenly denied an entry visa. Out of despair, I had no idea what to do. In the help desk I found out the phone number of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. I called there and asked for Gromyko.
To my surprise, I was immediately connected to his reception. “Actress Maksakova is speaking to you! “I have a sick mother and a small son in my arms,” I blurted out as soon as the personal assistant to the Minister of Foreign Affairs answered the phone. - My mother, a People's Artist, is dying, there is not a penny of money, the theater is on vacation, there is nothing to feed the child.
If my husband is not allowed to return, I will go up to the ninth floor and throw myself out of the window!” And strangely enough, Peter was immediately allowed into the country. He broke into the apartment two hours before my mother died...
- After you married a foreigner, did the attitude towards you change?
It changed, but gradually, as if some kind of ring began to tighten around me: the phone stopped ringing - there were no offers to act in films, relationships in the theater became tense. A kind of vacuum was formed, my colleagues and friends began to disappear somewhere.
But some strange people appeared, who for some reason were not afraid of anything and quickly realized that they could have a good time with us - my husband brought rare drinks and other delicacies from Berezka. Gin and tonic, Marlboro blocks, checks for a currency store - attributes of a beautiful life... Random people filled the empty space around me.
Meanwhile, our theater was going on tour to Greece. Naturally, suspecting nothing, I packed my suitcases. Two days before departure, my colleague comes up to me and whispers: “Lyuda, do you know that you’re not going anywhere?”
It struck me like thunder: “How? What? Why?" I rushed to the Minister of Culture Demichev, who was then also a member of the Central Committee. I think he guessed why the artist Maksakova made an appointment with him. “They won’t take me to Greece! It’s not my fault!” - I almost sobbed, sitting at the long oval table in the ministerial office.
He listened to me silently, then picked up the phone and said to someone: “Ivan Petrovich, this is Demichev. Here the Vakhtangov Theater is leaving for Greece. You know, right? So, don’t forget Maksakov!”
When I arrived at the airport the next day, some theater artists, who, by the way, often visited my home, immediately turned their backs to me. This is something I will never forget.
Maybe your colleagues were jealous of you? After all, they say that in those deep Soviet times you drove up to the theater in a Mercedes...
The first car my husband gave me was a Pontiac sports car. Due to its low seating position, it was impossible to drive on our roads. We bought a car in Munich and used it to return to Moscow. When I went abroad, naturally, I bought banned literature in stores and voraciously read Solzhenitsyn, Maksimov...
These books could not be imported into the USSR. And I forgot that I have Maksimov’s novel “Seven Days of Creation” in my bag. “I won’t throw it away for anything!” - I decided and put the open bag on the front seat. At the Soviet border, our car was thoroughly searched - the bicycle was removed from the trunk, the trim was tapped, but none of the customs officers thought to look into the bag, which was lying in the most visible place.
I drove to the theater in this Pontiac. It was probably stupid. If I understood that I was causing irritation with an expensive car and thereby “teasing the geese,” I would drive a Zhiguli like everyone else. But I wasn’t the only one who had a foreign car, for example, Mikhalkov and Vysotsky drove Mercedes at that time. But I was so sure that everyone loved me as much as I did...
A funny story once happened to me. Once, having already lived with my husband for seven years, I came to Munich. I lived in a wonderful hotel in the city center and ran around museums and theaters, but, naturally, I could not indifferently pass by the bourgeois “dolce life”.
In the window of a store that was outlandish for a Soviet person, I saw a lynx fur coat. I liked it so much that I begged my husband for it for a long time. Finally he gave in and gave me a fur coat, although even for him it was an expensive purchase. That same evening I went to the theater to see a fashionable production of Kleist’s play “The Broken Jug.”
I sat in the hall, but the thought of the new thing, hanging forlornly in the wardrobe, did not give me peace. “What a pity that I’m not in Moscow! I wish I could go to the Cinema House in it now!” After sitting through two acts on pins and needles, I walked to the hotel. Suddenly two handsome men grabbed me by the arms. The spitting image of Alain Delon and Helmut Berger! “We will see you off, madam.”
I didn’t have time to come to my senses when one whispered: “500 per evening?”, the other interrupted: “1000 per night?” “Well, I think they took me for an expensive prostitute!”, but they immediately dispelled my guess: “Madam, are you willing to pay?”
It turns out that these two gigolos mistook me in this fur coat for a rich lady who picks up boys for money. Voznesensky, to whom I told this funny episode, wrote poems about it.
When I was expecting my second child, I decided that I would only give birth in Germany. Well, what about the West, civilization! We lived outside the city, I breathed fresh air- preparing for the upcoming event.
Every week they sent me a special brochure by mail for expectant mothers, where the entire nine months of waiting for a child were outlined week by week: what to eat, what exercises to do and what to buy for the baby.
We were especially amused by the obligatory note at the end of the recommendations: “Have you already packed your suitcase?” I remember that this phrase made us laugh Homerically, because according to our customs, on the contrary, buying baby things before giving birth is a bad omen.
On the eve of Masha's birth, we went to a restaurant where I danced and drank a glass of champagne. So they had to take me to the maternity hospital, like my mother, at night, bypassing all the traffic lights. When Peter and I arrived, the first thing they asked us as soon as they opened the hospital door was: “Frau, where is your suitcase?” Peter, enraged, pulled off the nurse’s white coat, wrapped me in it and pushed me into the room.
It was with difficulty that we found the doctor with whom we had agreed in advance that he would deliver the baby. When he finally arrived and bent over me, I felt the familiar and familiar smell of barbecue and alcohol.
After Masha was safely born, the doctor admitted to me: “I have never been as drunk as I was that night, Frau Igenbergs. We won the football game and I drank two bottles of whiskey." So much for Western medicine!
- Interesting, do you make plans for the future?
No, I live one day at a time. They say it right: if you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans. Life is written in blank, there are no drafts. What happened, happened! And what will be, will be. I'm a conservative and don't like to change anything.
By the way, I am not betraying the Vakhtangov Theater either. I rehearse with director Pavel Safonov for Arkadina in “The Seagull”, and teach at the Shchukin School. Like my mother once was, I am very worried about my students and try to pass on to them everything that she gave me.
Granddaughter -Family is like a tree. The deeper the roots, the stronger they hold; it is almost impossible to pull out such a tree. Over time, every normal person becomes interested in who his ancestors were, because the roots of the family are the pedigree.
Unfortunately, there is no one left in the family from the older generation, but a fairly large archive has been preserved. The successor of the opera dynasty, Maria Maksakova, the daughter of an actress who inherited from her grandmother not only her name, but also a beautiful voice, helped Lyudmila Vasilyevna sort out the documents and begin her search.
Lyudmila Vasilyevna began her search for her roots from her mother’s side. Most of the family archive is photographs of Maria Petrovna, a gallery of her stage images. The People's Artist of the USSR had great dramatic talent and a bright temperament; “the leader of the people,” Joseph Stalin, loved to listen to her velvety voice and called her “my Carmen.”
My grandparents lived in Astrakhan and bore the surname Sidorov. Maksakov is the stage name of opera singer Maximilian Schwartz, the first husband of Lyudmila’s mother, whom the actress never saw, since she was born after his death.
Before going to Astrakhan, her mother’s hometown, Lyudmila turned to the specialists of the genealogical center and submitted a request to the archives of the Astrakhan region. Once in the city itself, the actress finds out that her grandfather is from Saratov. Most likely, it was on merchant business that he ended up in Astrakhan, where he met his future wife. The archive staff managed to find a unique document - the passport of Lyudmila Maksakova's great-grandfather.
As for the main question that the actress asked when starting to compile her pedigree, according to the main version, which she adhered to earlier, her father was Alexander Volkov, a wonderful singer. According to eyewitness accounts, some kind of relationship existed between Alexander and Maria, but was not properly advertised, so Lyudmila never received a definite answer. The actress decided to go to the Bolshoi Theater Museum to at least slightly lift the mysterious curtain of her family’s history. The museum preserved stage costumes and some personal belongings of Maria Petrovna, among which was a portrait of Maximilian Schwartz, but details indicating acquaintance with Alexander Volkov could not be found.
Is it possible to ride through the centuries on the “Time Machine” - our famous singer thought about this:
- Family rarities of Andrei Makarevich..
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