G Profile: Edvard Tchivzhel

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Maestro of Main Street

G Profile

On a sunny, unseasonably warm February day in 1991, Edvard Tchivzhel stood on a downtown Greenville sidewalk, drinking in the giddy sweetness of his newfound liberation. A life under the thumb of a strong-armed police state was behind him at last.

“It was one of the strongest feelings I ever have. I am free. I don’t have to go back to Russia,” he says in a heavy Eastern European accent that remains as a remnant of a distant, though unforgotten, past.

It was ten years ago the former Soviet Union national and his family were naturalized as American citizens and eighteen years since they first found political asylum in Greenville. His improbable journey is a story of intrigue, complete with high-level espionage, serendipitous friendships, and a deep bond with an adopted hometown where the natives still need help just to pronounce his surname.

This year also marks the tenth anniversary of Tchivzhel’s appointment as conductor and musical director of the Greenville Symphony Orchestra. During his tenure, season subscriptions, ticket revenues, and concert attendance have all steadily climbed to match the improving quality of the orchestra’s musicianship.

GSO’s growing prominence encouraged Tchivzhel to end his fifteen-year relationship with the Fort Wayne (Indiana) Philharmonic Orchestra and return to live in Greenville, his adopted hometown. A decade ago the Fort Wayne Philharmonic was clearly the better-funded of the two orchestras. But today, the maestro acknowledges advantages here, including the Peace Center’s superior acoustics and the absence of a labor union. “Music making here is so much more rewarding,” he says.

By casting his lot exclusively with GSO, he’s betting the city’s vibrancy will continue to increase public support that may one day pay off in a full-time, paid orchestra. His decision to return here transcends purely professional considerations, however. It’s an expression of gratitude by a man whose musical virtuosity provides him with many options.

Tchivzhel, who was born in Leningrad (now St. Petersburg), Russia, to musician parents, was both a product and captive of the Soviet Union’s efficient totalitarian machine. When he showed promise on an aptitude test at age five, a boy who dreamed of becoming a fighter pilot was hustled off instead to a national school for the musically gifted. After graduating from the Leningrad Conservatoire with highest honors, winning a national conducting competition, and then being hand-picked to assist conductor Evgeny Mravinsky of the prestigious St. Petersburg Philharmonic Orchestra, he appeared destined for stardom in a culture that heaps adulation upon its classical conductors as Spain does its bullfighters.

Tchivzhel later served as conductor of other important orchestras that toured internationally. On his first visit to the West in 1980, he walked the streets of Stockholm, Sweden, astonished by its affluence and freedom and stung by his own corresponding oppression. “All of a sudden you realize you’re not master of your career,” he says.

Tchivzhel longed to run away. But KGB agents hounded his every step, musicians were pressured to spy on one another, and the government refused to let Luba, his wife, travel with him, a strategy calculated to assure his return home.

In 1991, as a reward for his supposed loyalty, Luba and their young son, Arvid, were permitted to join him on a thirty-day American tour with the Russian State Symphony Orchestra. The first stop was Greenville where the orchestra was scheduled to open the brand-new Peace Center.

Lena Forster, a local ballet instructor who speaks fluent Russian, served as Tchivzhel’s translator for interviews here. She invited the family to join her and her young children at Chuck E. Cheese’s where, over pizza, the conductor whispered a plea for her help to defect. “Somewhere my heart started palpitating,” she recalls. “And I thought, ‘Oh, my God.’”

Forster contacted her friend, Greenville attorney Larry Estridge, who agreed to assist the Tchivzhels. For Estridge, who specializes in corporate real estate, it was to be the first—and only—time he waded into immigration law. The problem was that defections are so rare, even immigration lawyers were stumped. Complicating matters was the fact that he had only a month to figure it out.
Estridge learned through conversations with the FBI and then-U.S. senator Fritz Hollings’ office that the federal government could not help potential defectors because of legal and diplomatic considerations. So Estridge obtained the appropriate forms himself and began work on the application for political asylum.
On each stop of the tour, assuming hotel phones were bugged, Tchivzhel would don his jogging outfit, fill his pocket with dimes, and run for a distant pay phone to call Forster who, in a three-way conversation with Estridge, translated their conversations.

The defection was scheduled for the final tour stop in Washington, D.C. Armed Immigration and Naturalization Service agents staked out the airport and worked with airport security to clear traffic in front of the terminal. Forster was given a blue ribbon to tie around her arm to identify her in case of trouble. As the orchestra loaded on buses, Forster handed the packet of forms to Tchivzhel who, in turn, presented them to an INS agent. The family was then whisked off to a waiting van and escorted to Baltimore—tailed the entire way by Soviet officials—for a formal interview.

The Tchivzhels’ application for asylum was approved a month later—but freedom came at a price. They left behind family, resources, and personal effects. (Tchivzhel never saw his mother alive again.) Homeless and essentially penniless, the family found refuge in Forster’s Greenville home. Over the next six months, she became their lifeline, translating, teaching Tchivzhel to drive a car, and easing their adjustment to this strange, new world. “Basically,” she says, “we adopted a family.”

A press conference hastily arranged in Estridge’s law office, at which the bewildered, four-year-old Arvid testily answered “nyet” to every question, attracted public attention. “We will be a very strong, very dangerous family,” Tchivzhel, still struggling with the language, promised in a newspaper report. Fundraisers and gifts provided the family’s necessities, while a local company offered a corporate apartment for their use. Luba found work playing the violin, while her husband took odd jobs guest conducting and teaching music classes.

Estridge, who accompanied Tchivzhel to early guest appearances in Charlotte and Columbia, recalls his new friend’s talent shone through, despite the linguistic and cultural barriers. Ovations were long and loud, and musicians spontaneously stomped their feet in a time-honored display of approval.
Tchivzhel was appointed conductor in Fort Wayne in 1993 and added the GSO position six years later. He set out at once to improve the quality of the local orchestra that has relied on part-time musicians for all of its sixty-year history. He increased the number of rehearsals and worked to increase musicians’ pay, raising the bar of professionalism, and attracting better talent.
“Musicians like to play for great conductors,” says Bob Howard, who served as GSO’s executive director from 1999 to 2008.

According to Howard, Tchivzhel possesses an exceptionally sensitive ear and provides personal feedback musicians thrive on. During performances, he commands the stage with an exuberant physicality and flair as if coaxing excellence from his orchestra. World-renowned cellist Yo-Yo Ma was so inspired he penned a handwritten note of appreciation to GSO following his 2003 Peace Center appearance.

The return to Greenville also allowed Tchivzhel to show his gratitude to Forster by conducting the music for her International Ballet Academy’s performances of The Nutcracker last holiday season.

Above all, Tchivzhel remains indebted to the country that gave him his freedom. To begin each symphony performance, he turns to face the audience and proudly leads a rousing rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

Says the maestro: “It’s very important to remind myself what really happened.”