A memoire by Rev. Sylvester Salamon of the Križevci Eparchy
Upon graduating from the 11th Classical Gymnasium in Zagreb in June 1931, I toyed with the idea of studying singing and music. My friends told me I had a good voice; they particularly noted my solid knowledge of music theory, and everyone praised my playing of the harmonium. From the fifth grade of the gymnasium, I directed half of the Minor Seminary choir, while the other half was under the direction of an older schoolmate. The main conductor had singers who were less skilled, yet they managed their tasks better.
Thanks to the efforts of some theatre enthusiasts, I was able to secure a private meeting with the world-renowned opera director Krešimir Baranović. He remarked that I possessed "good vocal material" and advised me to apply to the Ministry of Education in Belgrade for a scholarship to study singing and music. It was difficult enough for a Croat to obtain such a scholarship—let alone a Rusyn! And so, my singing career came to an end. I decided to travel to Lviv in Galicia and enrol in the Ukrainian Theological Academy. The impetus for this came from the late Bishop Dionisiy Njaradi—a man of deep faith and a committed Ukrainian patriot. Theology candidates had the option of choosing other seminaries in Europe; however, only in Rome was one required to sign a declaration of celibacy. Living among the other nationalities of Yugoslavia, I knew little about Ukraine, even though I myself was a son of the Ukrainian people. The journey to Lviv opened up new horizons for me in my understanding of both physical and spiritual values. Lviv struck me as a soot-stained city—a stark contrast to sunny Zagreb. Yet, for me, Lviv was a treasure trove of national, religious, and musical life. I immediately immersed myself in the music library and enthusiastically joined the choir of theology students; they not only welcomed me warmly but also entrusted me with all the solo bass parts. Perhaps some felt slighted by this, thinking I had "taken the bread from their mouths." I, however, felt happy—for who among us is truly free from such petty, vain desires? At the time, the Theological Academy was home to many singing enthusiasts like myself; one could quite fittingly describe our Academy as a place "filled with song."
My acquaintance with the late Father Gabriel Kostelnyk served as the impetus for my literary endeavours, while I furthered my musical education under the guidance of our conductor, Volodymyr Zholkevych. The academic studies at the Academy, combined with the spiritual life fostered by our superiors, filled my soul with contentment and provided the insights I had hoped to gain. The Rector of the Theological Academy—His Beatitude Yosyf [Slipyi], now a confessor of the faith—guided both the seminary and the Academy toward the highest standards. In the shadow of a statue of the Servant of God, Metropolitan Andrey Sheptytsky—which stood proudly in the seminary garden—we lived the lives of the happy seminarians of centuries past.
Our theological choir participated in all the major religious and national celebrations in Ukrainian Lviv. Almost every Sunday, the choir sang the Divine Liturgy in the seminary’s Church of the Holy Spirit, and once a month, it performed at the Pontifical Divine Liturgies in St. George’s Cathedral. The choristers, led by the "krylos" cantors, constituted a kind of aristocracy. Also included in this group were the "loynyks"—the sacristans, who were the Rector's favourites. When all the seminarians joined in the liturgical singing, the sound of four hundred voices was so powerful that it felt as though the windows might crack and the walls crumble...
The Theological Academy choir possessed an extensive repertoire, encompassing both religious and secular works. It is fair to say that it was the finest choir in all of Western Ukraine. The public held our Theological Academy in high regard, and the youth were absolutely enamored with it. Naturally, we singers were the greatest favorites. Even the Rector himself would often crack jokes at the singers' expense... During the evenings of humor—though these were strictly censored—everyone came in for some ribbing. A smaller version of the choir would perform light, popular hits. There was plenty of genuine laughter, along with sketches, poetry, and jokes.
The Ukrainian Youth for Christ Rally in May 1933 remains an unforgettable memory. On that occasion, our choir sang during the Pontifical Divine Liturgy at the "Sokil-Batko" square and took part in a procession across the entire city to St. George’s Hill, where we all—all one hundred thousand of us—marched in review before Metropolitan Andrey. Every year, our choir participated in the Feast of the Jordan [Theophany] celebrations—which moved from the Transfiguration Church to the Market Square for the solemn blessing of the water—as well as in the processions to the Yaniv and Lychakiv cemeteries during the Green Holidays (Pentecost), and so on. In 1933, a select group of 16 choristers ["The Sixteen"] toured the major towns of the Lviv region, performing concerts dedicated to the works of Father Markian Shashkevych; in 1935, a group of 22 choristers toured all of Galicia, from Yaroslav to Stanyslaviv. Our concerts were no ordinary events; all Galicia spoke of them with great enthusiasm. The concert programs featured both religious and secular repertoire, complemented by recitations from the incomparable Zenon Narozhniak and performances by the renowned violinist Artemiy Tsehelsky. Volodymyr Zholkevych deserves great credit for his artistic leadership of our choir.
I did not travel to Yugoslavia during the holidays. Instead, I wished to get to know Galicia and Volhynia, and to study Lviv and its past. Churches were the primary focus of my attention—St. George’s Cathedral, in particular. I visited his crypts, where the mortal remains of our Church dignitaries rested. While staying in Pidliute during the holidays, I served Divine Liturgy for Metropolitan Andrey every day. On the Feast of the Transfiguration, I was invited to dine at the Metropolitan’s palace. There were trout from the swift-flowing Limnytsia River, as well as imported fruit—grapes, among other things. Taking advantage of this rare opportunity for a close encounter with Metropolitan Andrey, I asked him many questions about our Bishop of Križevci, Dionysius Njaradi.
Before long, dark clouds began to gather over Europe's horizon, and soon the Second World War—terrible and brutal—erupted. It scattered countless people across the globe and claimed many lives. In all likelihood, many members of our choir also perished or went missing. And what a magnificent choir it was—composed of students from the Theological Academy! At times, it was conducted by renowned musicians such as Stansyslav Liudkevych, Prokopovych, Pleshkevych, and Mykola Kolessa. Maria Sokil sang with us at concerts, accompanied by Anton Rudnytsky, and we were directed by the brilliant Borys Kudryk. A. Bohdan Vakhnianyn would attend our concerts, and Vasyl Barvinsky played the piano. I must mention at least a few of our soloists: tenors E. Levytsky and Petro Romanyshyn; baritones V. Bryniavsky, I. Hrynchyshyn, V. Matiiash, and Volodymyr Tarnavsky; and basses H. Brezden—who could easily hit the low 'contra' bass notes—and Dmytro Baziuk. Throughout my studies at the Theological Academy, I sang regularly in the 'krylos' (choir loft); I worked through the entire Irmologion (liturgical songbook), and in the library, I discovered the works of Bortniansky, Verbytsky, Vedel, and others. We performed excerpts from Tannhäuser—specifically Wagner’s "Pilgrims' Chorus"—and sang the Papal Hymn in Italian. During the holidays of my first year, I directed a mixed choir in Ostrivets, the native village of Bishop Izydor Boretsky. It was then that I first fell in love with the thatched roofs of the Ukrainian village and the charm of its songs.
Our choir was composed of students of various ages. Some had studied in other university faculties before enrolling in the Theological Academy. Unable to find employment under Polish rule, they joined the Theological Academy simply to remain with their own people and work for their sake. Our choir created an "unwritten history" of musical and vocal culture, fostering a sense of national consciousness among the population of Galicia. Once, we even traveled as far as Pinsk for the funeral of the local bishop. Everywhere I went, I was struck with wonder at the beauty of my native land. I traversed almost the entire Carpathian range…
Who could have imagined that all that would remain of the Theological Academy choir would be its history and the memories held in the hearts of its surviving members? The Church of the Holy Spirit in Lviv is gone—as is the seminary chapel, so beautifully adorned with paintings by Petro Kholodny. How I long to gather all our singers once more and, under the baton of Father Volodymyr Zholkevych, sing together again! Alas, a song reminds us: "Youth will not return—it will never return!" The good days of the Lviv Theological Academy have passed, as have the fine days of its choir. They shall never return. Yet, is there no hope for the revival of a vibrant, native life within this Theological Academy—an institution that has rendered such great service to the Ukrainian people and our Church? Christ the Lord spoke a parable about the mustard seed. I believe that it will be fulfilled for our people—fulfilled, in particular, within our spiritual and religious life, which will experience a powerful rebirth in a free Ukrainian state.
- Сильвестер Саламон, "Хор Богословської Академії у Львові 1931–1935 років," в Світильник Істини, ed. Павло Сениця, том. 2, сторінка. 427–429.
Addendum: Father Zholkevych led the clergy choir of the Western Exarchate (Canada) from 1949 ton 1956, when he transferred to the Toronto Eparchy. He was succeeded in Edmonton by Volodymyr Tarnavsky. This ensemble sang for Bishop Savaryn's onomastic and sometimes at the funerals of their fellow priests.
