Moscow, Cheryomushki, a 1959 Soviet Operetta

What unfolded on stage was something the Soviet audience could instantly recognize and relate to. At the time, the city was undergoing a major wave of housing construction, and people had begun receiving long-awaited keys to new apartments. The operetta’s plot was straightforward: a group of young people dream of escaping cramped communal living and eventually receive a warrant for an apartment in one of the newly built houses in Cheryomushki. These residential blocks began appearing after 1957 and quickly captured the imagination of city dwellers—the Soviet housing problem, it seemed, was finally on the verge of being solved. While the theme and message of the operetta aligned closely with official party directives, the creators understood that propaganda could not afford to be dull. That is why they opted for the light, buoyant style of a theatrical operetta, filled with catchy songs, appealing music, and a clear, optimistic narrative.

At the same time, socialist realism has always required that the protagonists of novels, plays, or films confront certain challenges—obstacles that can and must be overcome through the guidance of the new socialist morality. In Cheryomushki, the young wife of Drebednev, the head of the construction trust, exhibits signs of “bourgeois morality”: she demands a four-room apartment instead of the two-room flat allotted to her by the state. With the help of the obsequious manager Barabashkin, Drebednev commits a fraud—they demolish the wall between two adjoining apartments, effectively stealing a home that had already been officially assigned to a citizen named Baburov. But the young builders of communism intervene. An investigation follows, and justice is restored: Drebednev and Barabashkin are stripped of their positions. Evil is punished, harmony is reestablished, and everyone can once again believe in a radiant socialist future.

Shostakovich’s music in this operetta came as a surprise—light, playful, filled with quotations and references to urban folk culture. Connoisseurs of high Soviet art awaited the premiere with particular anticipation: no one quite knew how the composer of symphonies and a master of high style would approach the more populist genre of operetta. Even before the premiere, Federal Chancellor Julius von Raab, who had visited Moscow in 1955 to establish the Soviet-Austrian Society, expressed interest in staging Soviet operettas at the Vienna Volksoper. Hans Pitra, director and artistic head of the Berlin Metropolitan Theater, traveled to Moscow for the performance. The operetta was met with enthusiasm from both critics and audiences. In tone and structure, it closely resembled a vaudeville centered on everyday Soviet life, yet it remained within the canon of official Soviet art—thanks in large part to the talent of its composer and lyricists.

A powerful reflection of how crucial the housing issue was for Soviet people is found in the song of a young couple who dream of having their own apartment:

“When I wander the streets, I look into other people’s windows, and I dream of having my own. It’s a pity we don’t have a common roof, and we have to live apart. It’s a shame that every time we part, we must say: ‘Goodbye, Masha, goodbye, Sasha, see you tomorrow, at six o’clock sharp, at the theater.’ By the way, it’s very difficult to say goodnight when the newlyweds have to sleep in different areas. ‘Goodbye, husband, goodbye, my friend.’ Look [the actor gestures toward a tree], the starlings are hurrying to settle into their palaces [here, the birdhouse symbolizes a home]. The time will come when we will enter our new house together. Oh, it’s a dream, yes, it’s a dream, but know that it will come true! No longer will strange windows call to us in the late hours, and we will no longer wander together in the rain.”

[Russian version: Когда по улицам брожу, в чужие окна я гляжу, о как мечтаю я давно иметь свое окно. Жаль общей крыши нет у нас, и врозь должны ми жить, как жаль что каждый раз должны друг другу мы говорить : «До свиданья Маша, до свиданья Саша, значит встретимся завтра, ровно в шесть у театра». Очень трудно между прочим, говорить «спокойной ночи», если в разные районы спать идут молодожёны. «До свиданья супруг, до свиданья мой друг», посмотри (дивиться на дерево) – спешат скворцы, заселить свои дворцы… (тут шпаківня є метафорою будинку). Прийдет пора и в новый дом с тобою вместе ми войдем. Ох это сон, да это сон, но знай, он сбудется наш сон! Манить не будут в поздний час чужие окна нас, и мы бродить с тобой вдвоем не будем под дождем].

The viewer is drawn into the young couple’s plight, empathizing with their inability to live together, despite being married, and the daily separation they face. This situation was all too common in postwar Soviet cities, where young couples often married but were unable to share a home due to housing shortages. As a result, they continued to meet as though still engaged, unable to fully embrace their new roles as a married couple. We can imagine them wandering the city, gazing into the windows of other people’s homes, dreaming of a place they could call their own. This dream is not just about a physical space but represents an idealized future—a fantasy where they are united in their own home. The conclusion of their “dream” resonates with a sense of joy and fulfillment, as the seemingly trivial details of their new home take on almost existential significance:

“Here is our hallway, here is our coat rack, our room, Sasha, our room, Masha, the whole apartment is ours, all ours… the kitchen is ours too, ours… our windows, our doors—I can hardly believe my eyes… there’s a cozy study, the parquet shines like glass, we can invite all our friends, we can even dance.”

[Russian version: Вот передняя наша, вот и вешалка наша, наша комната Саша, наша комната Маша, вся квартира наша, наша… кухня тоже наша, наша… наши окна, наши двери, я глазам своим не верю… есть уютный кабинет, как стекло блестит паркет, можно всех друзей созвать, можно даже танцевать].

The repetition of the word “ours” in relation to the apartment (and its elements, such as the coat rack provided by the Soviet state) serves to emphasize the significance of the moment: young people are asserting their right to space, relishing the autonomy and the opportunity to live together. This repetition highlights their joy in having a space they can call their own. The text also carries an ironic undertone, hinting at fatigue with the Soviet ideal of collective living in communal dormitories and the unification of daily life. However, given the context, we are looking at Soviet individuals who value the collective, so the joy of shared space is also linked with the ideas of openness and sociality (“you can invite all your friends, you can even dance”). This song reflects the optimistic mood, energy, and sense of freedom that social apartments provided to young Soviet citizens.

From Moscow’s perspective, the operetta appeared as an ordinary form of entertainment designed to convey the excitement and joy of the party’s achievements in housing construction in an accessible yet high-quality and light-hearted manner. However, it also reinforces the imperial logic of urbanism. The Soviet government aimed to project Moscow as a center of “friendship of nations” and a symbol of modernity, often imposing standardized living forms and architecture on the territories of other Soviet republics. The ostentatious development of new districts in Moscow embodies this imperial logic, where housing became a tool for discipline and centralization of power. The name “Cheryomushki” itself serves as an indicator of Moscow’s—central or imperial—modernism. Just as colonial administrations often dismantled traditional spatial structures in conquered territories, the Soviet state similarly restructured the spaces of other cities to suit its ideological goals.

The main characters in the operetta are often young women who represent the ideal of the “new Soviet woman,” who supposedly enjoys equal rights and can actively participate in the development of a new society. However, the complex national and ethnic composition of the USSR and entrenched gender norms did not always align with these ideal models created in Moscow. The operetta, and later the film, were dubbed in the “unifying” Russian language—the language of the empire—and while the operetta is comedic in nature, it also satirizes the bureaucracy, corruption, and social ills of the young socialist empire. In this sense, the work reflects, much like socialist realism, an idealized world (the way things should be), rather than the actual reality of life in the USSR.