Mieczysław Weinberg / Symphony No.18 Op.138 - III.’Dearest little berry, you do not know the pain in my heart’
performed by USSR Symphony Orchestra (Fedoseyev)
This is my favorite movement of Mieczysław Weinberg’s 18th Symphony and has some of the most beautiful choral writing I have ever heard.

via The Haunting Beauty of Moisei Weinberg:
Weinberg, who was victimized by the two most murderous regimes in European history, survived to write music that was poised and passionate, but rarely self-indulgently tragic. For this, he has not been forgiven, which is why you have most likely never heard of him.
But let’s back up. Weinberg was born a Jew in Poland in 1919, which meant that he suffered official anti-Semitism of the Polish, Nazi, and Soviet varieties. His close family died in a Nazi extermination camp, but he eventually made his way to Moscow. In 1948, Stalin ordered the murder of his father-in-law, the well-known actor Solomon Mikhoels, heralding the start of a terrifying new pogrom. Only in a context of such grotesque misfortune could you call it lucky that the composer was arrested and sent to a gulag in 1953: Stalin died that year, and Weinberg was released. He outlived all his persecutors, and died in 1996. The permutations of his name are eloquent of the shifting, treacherous terrain in which he spent his life: Mieczyslaw, Mieczyslav, Moisei, and Moishei, and Moisey were variously combined with Weinberg, Vainberg, Wainberg, and Vajnberg. He is a librarian’s nightmare. (Searching on eMusic isn’t simple, either.)
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You can’t hear this Muscovite music teeter between humor and tragedy, between buoyant harmonies and clanging dissonance, without thinking of Shostakovich. That nervous titan of Russian culture so dominated musical life that Weinberg has been dismissed as a “little Shostakovich,” as if there were only room for one composer in the story of Soviet music (okay, two: Sergei Prokofiev).
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But in Shostakovich, you can usually hear the mark of terror; Weinberg possesses a more romantic core. He does not share the tendency to explode moments of serenity or mystery with an outburst of violent crudeness.
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All this restraint saddled Weinberg with a reputation as a minor dullard, but there is something heroic about scraping straightforward beauty out of ugly times. During the battle of Sarajevo in the early 1990s, a cellist defied the snipers to play Bach in a central square, determined to fight violence with sublimity. The opening adagio of Weinberg’s solo cello sonata, with its ceaseless, Bach-like invocation, hints at a similar belief that somehow a lone line of music can stand as a bulwark against terror.