Last updates:

  • 2025-07-05: Style and grammar review.
  • 2025-06-29: I got access to the transcription of Lina Prokofiev’s interview to Harvey Sachs, which Morrison uses as part of evidence of Prokofiev’s supposed travel ban. The section on Prokofiev’s Travel Ban was expanded and, since now it’s clear that Morrison’s evidence is very weak, I changed the final conclusions.
  • 2025-06-22: Completed the Analysis of Atovmyan’s memoirs from Ryadom s velikimi. The section on Atovmyan’s memoirs was expanded and reviewed.
  • 2025-06-16: I got access to the book Ryadom s velikimi, edited by Nelly Kravetz, which contains the full correspondence between Prokofiev and L. Atovmyan and Antovmyan’s memoirs. I transcribed all letters between 1932 and 1936 here and, with that, the section on the Atovmyan-Prokofiev correpondence was substancially changed.

In early 1936, Sergei Prokofiev, one of the most celebrated composers of the 20th century, decided to leave Paris and settle in Moscow, returning to the USSR (see the timeline). His return has been widely interpreted as a highly symbolic event—one that has fuelled conflicting narratives. A common claim in Western scholarship is that Prokofiev was deceived into returning, only to later find himself trapped by the Soviet regime. One of the most influential works advancing this view is Simon Morrison’s The People’s Artist: Prokofiev’s Soviet Years. But does the historical evidence support this interpretation?

Morrison presents a narrative in which Sergei Prokofiev was “lured” back into the Soviet Union under false promises that his international career would remain unchanged. He frames the issue as follows:

The reasons for his relocation are complicated and, in their own way, frightening. It emerges that the steel-willed composer never intended to remain in the Soviet Union. The regime needed celebrities, and he was lured into becoming one of them on the promise that nothing would change in his international career and that Moscow would simply replace Paris as the center of his operations. (The People’s Artist, p. 3)

I examine Morrison’s sources—in particular, the 1925 invitation letter from Nadezhda Bryusova, the letters between Prokofiev and Levon Atovmyan between 1933 and 1936, Atovmyan’s recollections, and Prokofiev’s loss of travelling permissions in 1938. The available evidence shows that Morrison’s story doesn’t hold up.

The 1925 Invitation: A Promise Fulfilled, Not Betrayed

Morrison claims that Prokofiev’s deception began with an official invitation in 1925. However, a closer look at this invitation reveals no broken promises.

In 1925, Nadezhda Bryusova, writing on behalf of Anatoly Lunacharsky, invited three Russian émigré musicians—Prokofiev, Igor Stravinsky, and Alexander Borovsky—to return to the USSR. The original letter is archived in the Russian State Archive of Literature and Art (Reference: Fund 2009, Inventory 2, Storage Unit 4). Morrison transcribes this letter in English, and a transcription of the original in Russian is available via Marina Frolova-Walker’s article Effekt prisutstviya: Prokof’ev v rossii 1920-kh godov.

Morrison frames this as a false promise, suggesting that Soviet authorities later violated it by revoking Prokofiev’s travel rights. But this is misleading for several reasons:

  1. Prokofiev did, in fact, travel freely in and out of the USSR between 1927 and 1938. The Soviet government honoured the guarantee for at least a decade.
  2. He was not “lured” to the USSR; he willingly moved there permanently in 1936.
  3. As I will show, when Prokofiev had to surrender his international passport, it was under circumstances that applied to all Soviet citizens, not as part of a secret plot against him.

Atovmyan’s Memoirs: Contradictions Morrison Overlooks

The second piece of evidence used by Morrison is Levon Atovmyan’s memoirs. Morrison notes that Atovmyan was one of the figures in charge of persuading Prokofiev to move back to Russia when “the time—and mood—was right” (The People’s Artist, p. 16).

At the time of publication of The People’s Artist, Atovmyan’s memoirs were unpublished. Morrison was able to consult the manuscripts via Atovmyan’s daughter, which meant that there was no way to check the accuracy of Morrison’s assertions. Luckily, in 2012 Nelly Kravetz published the memoirs, and the full correspondence (see next section) between Prokofiev and Atovmyan in the book Ryadom s velikimi: Atovmyan i ego vremya (Among the Great: Atovmyan and His Time), published by the Russian Institute of Theatre Arts.

While Morrison is right to highlight the importance of these memoirs in reconstructing the efforts of Soviet officials, and cultural agents, it is necessary to examine the nature and limitations of these documents. According to Nelly Kravetz, Atovmyan’s daughter indicated they were written between the 1960s and 1970s, decades after the events described (Ryadom s velikimi, p. 18). As such, the memoirs must be handled with caution: (1) human memory is notoriously fallible, especially over long periods; and (2) the text represents a single individual’s interpretation of events, often revealing more about Atovmyan’s thoughts than the objective reality of what occurred.

The memoirs are divided into four parts, and only the first part concerns the period leading up to 1940—before Prokofiev made the final decision to resettle in the USSR. Within this first section, three entries relate directly to Prokofiev’s return:

  • Section 5: Concerts of Soviet Music (Концерты советской музыки)—early 1932.
  • Section 7: S. Prokofiev (С. Прокофьев)—August 1932, first visit to USSR.
  • Section 12: S. Prokofiev in Moscow (С. Прокофьев в Москве)—April–June 1933, fourth Soviet tour.

Section 5 – Concerts of Soviet Music: Initial Contact and the First Invitation

In this section, Atovmyan recounts that he was summoned to the Narkomindel (People’s Commissariat for Foreign Affairs) and asked by the head of the Western Department to initiate contact with musicians abroad and try to convince them to return to the Soviet Union.

Though these letters were not published in the 2012 edition of the Atovmyan–Prokofiev correspondence edited by Nelly Kravetz, they align with the first surviving letter. This lends credibility to the idea that Prokofiev actively engaged in an exchange with Soviet institutions, and was not simply ensnared. In fact, this section supports the view that Prokofiev initiated and shaped the process that would later lead to his relocation.

Section 7 – S. Prokofiev: Debating the Move to Moscow

At a lunch attended by Prokofiev, Myaskovsky, Derzhavinsky, and Atovmyan, Prokofiev discussed the burden of performing roughly 100 concerts a year and composing while on the road. Atovmyan suggested moving to Moscow. Prokofiev expressed concern that concerts in a single country would not suffice to support himself. However, after reviewing the financial terms of contracts, he conceded that the idea was worth considering. Myaskovsky, Derzhavinsky, and Atovmyan supported this idea.

If Morrison’s claim is that Prokofiev was deceived into thinking he would maintain freedom of travel, this section raises significant doubts. Prokofiev appears to acknowledge that settling in the USSR would entail limiting his performance circuit largely to Soviet territory. Far from being coerced, he appears to be weighing the advantages freely and voluntarily. If Morrison is willing to cite these memoirs as evidence, he should also grapple with this passage that contradicts his main argument.

Section 12 – Prokofiev in Moscow: Settling In and Embracing Soviet Life

Atovmyan offered Prokofiev a portfolio of Soviet compositions to promote abroad. Prokofiev requested a copy of Lenin’s collected works, and was annoyed they were unavailable, suggesting his earnest interest in Soviet ideology. He said plainly that he found the Soviet Union conducive to creative work, and was tired of “torturing” himself with constant touring. He turned down the offer of a “detached house” (особнячок), and moved into an apartment.

This section reinforces the idea that Prokofiev sought to reduce concertising in favour of compositional work—a move that would be consistent with settling in the USSR. Prokofiev’s interest in Lenin is supported by a 5 December 1933 letter from Atovmyan, translated by Morrison himself, referencing a six-volume collection (versus the three-volume set in the memoirs), which further corroborates Prokofiev’s interest in Soviet life. His move to an apartment demonstrates that the promise of housing was kept even four years later. Notably, Morrison omits this section from his book, except for an endnote on the “not within my means” (ne po moemu karmanu / “не по моему карману”) quotation.

Further Contradictions in Morrison’s Account

Atovmyan’s memoirs, while inherently subjective and written decades after the events, do not support Morrison’s thesis that Prokofiev was deceptively recruited into a trap. If Morrison considers these memoirs valid evidence of Soviet recruitment, he must also acknowledge their contradictions to his central claim. To complicate matters further, Morrison acknowledges several facts that undercut his own argument:

(1) Prokofiev did in fact receive the housing he was promised, though he opted for a flat over the “detached house”. This is corroborated by his wife Lina’s memoirs, and his correspondence with Nikolai Bulganin, which Morrison also translates:

(2) Morrison confirms that the promises of “housing, commissions, performances, and income” were fulfilled: Morrison notes that 1935 was one of the most lucrative years of Prokofiev’s life, with the bulk of his income coming from Soviet sources. This included:

  • A 25,000-rouble honorarium for the Cantata for the Twentieth Anniversary of October
  • Author’s rights, and concert revenue arranged by Atovmyan (April 9, 1934 letter—original in Russian / Morrison’s translation)
  • Commissions for Romeo and Juliet, The Queen of Spades film score, and incidental music for Boris Godunov, Eugene Onegin, and Egyptian Nights

The Atovmyan–Prokofiev Letters: A Transparent Relationship, Not a Trap

Morrison also suggests that Prokofiev was actively recruited to the USSR through a concerted effort by Soviet officials. He states:

The forty-four letters and telegrams exchanged by Atovmyan and Prokofiev between 1932 and 1934 attest to the seriousness of the recruitment effort. A letter from May 4, 1933, finds Atovmyan meticulously tending to the logistics of Prokofiev’s latest visit to the Soviet Union. (The People’s Artist, p. 19)

Morrison himself published the English translation of the correspondence between Prokofiev and Atovmyan from 1933 to 1952, available in the Russian State Archive of Literature and Art. The translations are included in Sergey Prokofiev and His World. Of these, only three letters, transcribed at the end of this article, date from before 1941. In the preface to the translations, written by Nelly Kravetz, we learn that some of the correspondence between Prokofiev and Atovmyan is archived in the “Glinka” Museum of Musical Culture (renamed in 2018 as the Russian National Museum of Music, or RNMM), and some in the Serge Prokofiev Foundation Archive, currently housed at the Rare Book and Manuscript Library at Columbia University (when the book was published, the archive was held at Goldsmiths College, London).

GTsMMK [The “Glinka” Museum - C.B.] possesses the letters and telegrams sent by Prokofiev to Atovmyan between September 16, 1932, and September 7, 1952, but only two letters from Atovmyan to Prokofiev, the first from the early 1930s, the second from July 12, 1943. The GTsMMK holdings also include fourteen letters sent by Prokofiev to Atovmyan between 1932 and 1934, which concern the programs of his concerts in Moscow, the dates of his visits to the Soviet Union, and performances of Soviet music in Western Europe. These fourteen letters have not been included in this gathering, since they are being prepared by GTsMMK for a separate Russian-language publication, and are thus inaccessible. In addition, the Prokofiev Archive at Goldsmiths College, London, contains forty-four pieces of correspondence between Prokofiev and Atovmyan, likewise not included here. This material, too, concerns Prokofiev’s Soviet commissions and performances between 1932 and 1934, before his permanent relocation from Paris to Moscow. (Sergey Prokofiev and His World, p. 192)

Thanks to Nelly Kravetz again, we now have access to the full Atovmyan–Prokofiev correspondence, published in the same book—Ryadom s velikimi (2012). I have transcribed all the letters between 1932 and 1936 and made them available here.

The 4 May 1933 letter mentioned by Morrison is one of the letters at th Serge Prokofiev Foundation Archive. It’s a small letter with logistic and payment details of his at the time ongoing stay in the Soviet Union.

Although this letter indeed demonstrates Atovmyan’s logistic efforts, perhaps Morrison had in mind the letter from March 31, 1933, where Atovmyan details the dates of all concerts, talks and some of the rest days scheduled for Prokofiev’s visit.

The three letters translated by Morrison (two from Atovmyan to Prokofiev, and one from Prokofiev to Atovmyan) discuss logistics and commissions—in themselves they show no hint of a secret recruitment plan, much less of deception. When examining the full correspondence, however, beyond simple business discussions, we find transparent communication of terms, expectations, and financial arrangements, with Prokofiev actively engaging in the discussion and even raising his own concerns. From the very first letter, the purpose of the invitation (concerts featuring his works) and the timeframe for his visit are clearly stated.

Prokofiev actively engages in scheduling logistics, raising his own constraints and proposing solutions, indicating that he was not passively “lured” but rather an active participant in planning his visit. His responses consistently express willingness and enthusiasm for the proposed visits and activities.

Beyond just performing, Prokofiev expresses willingness to contribute to cultural exchange and discussions, suggesting a deeper, voluntary interest in collaborating with Soviet musicians and institutions.

Prokofiev even criticises some lack of communication and logistical issues, but presents them simply as such, not as intentional deceit aimed at “luring” him.

After Prokofiev’s 1932 visit, Atovmyan himself admitted to “a number of oversights” (целый ряд упущений) on his part regarding material transfers, and volunteered to remedy his and others’ mistakes.

So, far from any kind of allurement by Atovmyan or the Soviet Union to persuade Prokofiev to return, Prokofiev himself not only accepted the invitation, but proactively worked to establish his career as a composer within the Soviet Union.

One might argue (as does Morrison) that this was an active recruitment move by the Soviet state. But so what? Actively inviting Russia’s best-known artists to return to their homeland and offering commissions does not imply deception. On the contrary, the timing seemed to be right: the civil war had ended, the country was undergoing reindustrialisation, and international rivalries were intensifying. This kind of move was not uncommon: Prokofiev found the Soviet offer more appealing, but Stravinsky, one might argue, was also “lured”—by wealthy patrons—to the United States, where he enjoyed a comfortable life.

Was Prokofiev Officially Declared Nevïyezdnoy? Challenging the Claim

Simon Morrison, across multiple publications, claims that Sergei Prokofiev became officially nevïyezdnoy (disallowed from foreign travel) in 1938. This is when, according to Morrison’s narrative, Prokofiev was finally trapped inside the Soviet Union’s borders and cut off from the international artistic world to which he had once belonged.

To support this view, Morrison draws on indirect references to letters and recollections by Lina Prokofiev, includes a contribution by Leonid Maximenkov in Sergey Prokofiev and His World, a book he edited, and, most importantly, points repeatedly to the 1938 exchange of Prokofiev’s foreign passport for a domestic one, treating it as the moment of administrative rupture.

The Maximenkov Essay: Assumptions Without Access

In Prokofiev’s Immortalization, an essay by Leonid Maximenkov included in the “Documents” section of Sergey Prokofiev and His World (though it clearly belongs in the “Essays” section), the claim that Prokofiev was disallowed from foreign travel resurfaces.

Maximenkov makes this claim in the context of a 1969 episode when Lina Prokofiev was invited to Paris for the unveiling of a memorial plaque at the apartment she had shared with Sergei between 1929 and 1935. According to Maximenkov, Prokofiev had been nevïyezdnoy for the last fifteen years of his life, and, because posthumous changes to travel status were supposedly unheard of, his widow faced bureaucratic hurdles in being allowed to leave the country.

Although Soviet law used a lot of gimmickry to alter the personal records and official files of deceased Soviet citizens, there are no examples of someone being declared vïyezdnoy, allowed to travel, after his or her death. (Prokofiev’s Immortalization, by Leonid Maximenkov, in: Sergey Prokofiev and His World, p. 317.)

But the logic here is circular. This implies that even if official records might have been falsified, none show Prokofiev as permitted to travel after his death—therefore reinforcing the assumption that he had been nevïyezdnoy. But Maximenkov provides no documentation proving that such a designation was ever made. He presumes the existence of the travel ban, then uses the lack of posthumous reversal as indirect evidence for it.

This reasoning is not only speculative but internally contradictory. Crucially, Maximenkov also states that “The materials of the Foreign Travel Commission are still classified, and almost nothing is written either in Russian or English about its workings." (Sergey Prokofiev and His World, p. 317)

In other words, the only institution that could have documented Prokofiev’s official travel status remains inaccessible. If the records are classified, how can Maximenkov—or anyone—claim to know with certainty what Prokofiev’s status was? The contradiction is clear: he cautions us against trusting official Soviet records, admits that key materials are unavailable, yet still asserts a specific, and unverified, outcome.

Ultimately, Maximenkov’s contribution adds rhetorical weight to Morrison’s thesis without adding any actual evidence. The idea that Prokofiev was officially nevïyezdnoy is simply assumed—most likely based on the same circumstantial evidence that underpins Morrison’s own claims: the 1938 passport exchange.

Lina’s Recollections: Anecdote, Misquotation, and Misuse

In The People’s Artist, aside from the 1938 passport exchange, the only source Simon Morrison provides to support the claim that Prokofiev became nevïyezdnoy is a letter from Lina Prokofiev. The letter in question, which Morrison quotes, describes Lina’s own difficulties during her passport exchange.

Lina, however, had a much harder time. On May 14, she went to the NKID to exchange her external passport for her internal one, but was told that the latter had expired on May 5, and that she needed to obtain a new one at the passport desk of her local police station. There she was told that the passport would take several days to be issued and, adding insult to injury, that her passport photographs were the wrong size. She wrote, with sarcasm surely intended, that instead of traveling to Leningrad to see Hamlet, she spent the day “standing in line with the polite citizens” of Moscow. (*The People’s Artist, pp. 85-86)

But this letter (or the single phrase that is quoted verbatim), even taken at face value, proves nothing about Sergei Prokofiev’s travel status. It does not describe his experience, nor does it refer to any administrative decision regarding his international mobility. At most, it reveals Lina’s elitist discomfort with everyday Soviet life—perhaps mirrored by Morrison himself, who treats the inconveniences of regular people’s lives as emblematic of some larger hardship.

In Lina and Serge, a more narrative-driven biography published in 2013, the claim that Prokofiev became nevïyezdnoy is repeated once more—now supplemented by even weaker evidence, and more problematic rhetoric. Here Morrison commits several serious fallacies: mindreading, anecdotal reasoning, and quoting out of context. He writes that Prokofiev was “painfully conscious of his change in status”, and that “Serge never again requested permission to leave”. But the basis for these claims is a memory attributed to Lina.

The final trace of Serge’s existence in the West is a filing with the Préfecture de Police in Paris for a stay from April 6 to May 7, 1938. He and Lina had arranged to spend that month together there. Yet he left for the Soviet Union long before her. After crossing the border at Negoreloye and arriving in Moscow, he exchanged his external passport for his internal one. The internationally acclaimed composer was then declared nevïyezdnoy—ineligible for travel—by the NKID. So too was his wife. Planned tours abroad in 1939 and 1940 were postponed and then canceled, the war serving as the obvious excuse. Stravinsky substituted for Prokofiev at one of his planned New York engagements. Painfully conscious of his change in status, Serge never again requested permission to leave. “He didn’t ask,” Lina remembered, “because he was afraid of being refused.” (Lina and Serge, p. 206)

Morrison attributes this recollection to a source labelled “LPF 2/1”, referring to the Lina Prokofiev Fonds at the Serge Prokofiev Archive. Since 2014, this archive has been housed at Columbia University, which preserves the original Goldsmiths reference. The relevant document is a handwritten transcription of an interview Lina gave to Harvey Sachs in 1982—forty-six years after the alleged change in Prokofiev’s travel status, and eight years after she had permanently left the Soviet Union.

By that time, Lina had gone through a divorce, was arrested, released, left the Soviet Union, and was living between Paris and London—far removed from the context she was attempting to recall. As such, her recollection—already shaped by decades of personal and political transformation—can hardly be considered reliable. This is a textbook case of the anecdotal fallacy: using an isolated, decades-old personal memory as if it were direct historical evidence.

More troubling is that Morrison selectively quotes this recollection. The full paragraph from the Sachs transcript reads:

He was never refused permission to leave, he didn’t ask, afraid of being refused and had cut himself from Europe. Afraid of connections with the West. [My emphasis] SPA ID: 19087. Goldsmiths Identifier: Prokofiev/LP/2/1/3

Morrison omits the first sentence—“He was never refused permission to leave”—which flatly contradicts the very conclusion he wants to draw. In doing so, he distorts the meaning of the passage to align with his thesis. This is not a matter of interpretation; it is a misrepresentation of the source material.

Ultimately, Morrison’s use of Lina’s letters and recollections does not amount to evidence that Prokofiev was declared nevïyezdnoy. On the contrary, it reveals the fragility of the case: built not on documents or policy decisions, but on innuendo, omission, and retrospective storytelling.

The 1938 Passport Exchange: Routine Bureaucracy, Not Entrapment

As we have seen, none of the sources cited by Morrison—or by contributors under his editorial oversight—provide direct evidence that Sergei Prokofiev was officially declared nevïyezdnoy. The only institution that could have issued such a designation was the NKID or the Foreign Travel Commission of the Central Committee of the CPSU. Yet, the records of both bodies remain classified, and virtually nothing is publicly known about their workings. In short, the only potentially authoritative source of information on Prokofiev’s official travel status is inaccessible.

What, then, are we left with? The argument for Prokofiev’s supposed travel ban rests on three elements:

  1. A letter from Lina Prokofiev describing her own difficulties in exchanging passports.
  2. A transcription of an interview Lina gave decades later, which Morrison both misquotes and uses to draw conclusions that the original source explicitly contradicts.
  3. The fact that Prokofiev exchanged his international passport for a domestic one in 1938.

The first two are clearly invalid as evidence: one is irrelevant, and the other, distorted. This leaves us only with the third—the passport exchange itself—as the sole remaining basis for the claim that Prokofiev was rendered unable to travel. It is to this piece of evidence that we now turn.

Upon returning to the Soviet Union from abroad in early 1938, Prokofiev exchanged his external passport for his internal one bearing a Moscow residency stamp. Following this transaction, his ability to travel abroad came to an abrupt halt: the NKID henceforth declined to give him back his external passport, with various reasons being invented to explain the official change in his status from vïyezdnoy (allowed to travel) to nevïyezdnoy (disallowed). Even having the external passport would not have enabled him to leave the country, since he would also have needed to obtain an exit permit (razresheniye na vïyezd zagranitsu) from the police, issued on behalf of the NKVD. (The People’s Artist, pp. 85-86)

Was this the culmination of a long-planned effort to trap the composer in the USSR? No. In fact, there was nothing unusual in what Morrison describes.

  • Since at least 1926, Prokofiev knew he would eventually have to surrender his Nansen passport. His 20 January 1926 diary entry confirms this.
  • A Soviet decree from 22 April 1931 disallowed dual citizenship. From that point on, any émigré who became a Soviet citizen had to surrender their foreign passport.
  • The first standalone Soviet Citizenship Law of 19 August 1938 defined who was a Soviet citizen and, crucially, declared that persons (1) living in the USSR, (2) who did not acquire their citizenship after this law, and (3) who could not prove their foreign citizenship would be considered stateless.

Prokofiev chose to settle in the USSR in 1936, meaning that he voluntarily became a Soviet citizen and, like everyone else, had to follow Soviet law. Even after moving, he retained his international passport for two years (1936–1938). Not to mention the previous decade, when he already held a Soviet passport together with his international passport. So, contrary to what Morrison suggests, surrendering his passport was an absolutely standard procedure for someone in Prokofiev’s situation.

By 1940, Prokofiev’s planned tour to the United States was cancelled because he was unable to obtain the necessary travel permits. While Morrison suggests this was due to the Soviet government’s control over him, the broader context suggests otherwise. By this time, Europe was on the brink of total war, and international travel had become increasingly restricted. In 1941, as Nazi Germany invaded the Soviet Union, Prokofiev was evacuated—alongside many other artists—to the city of Nalchik in the Caucasus, further demonstrating that his situation was shaped by wartime policies, rather than a targeted plan to keep him confined.

Conclusion: No Evidence for the Narrative of Deception

In summary:

  • Prokofiev was allowed to travel in and out of the USSR for over a decade.
  • The promises of “housing, commissions, performance”, and less travel were kept.
  • Prokofiev actively worked to establish himself as a Soviet composer.
  • He chose to settle permanently in 1936, knowing the legal consequences.
  • The surrender of his international passport in 1938 followed standard Soviet laws.
  • There is no evidence to suggest that Prokofiev was actively prevented from travelling back to the West.

The claim that Prokofiev was “lured” back under false promises is not supported by primary sources. The very documents Morrison cites indicate that Prokofiev’s move was a voluntary professional decision, shaped by commissions, artistic opportunities, and political events. In the end, Morrison’s argument relies more on assumptions, selective interpretation, and anti-communist bias than on concrete evidence. His narrative aligns with a long tradition of ideological readings of Soviet history, but when scrutinised, it does not hold up.

Appendix

Below is a timeline of Prokofiev’s tours through the USSR and the transcription of Morrison’s translations of the three Prokofiev -Atovmyan letters from the 1930s.

Timeline of Prokofiev’s Movements Between the USSR and Abroad

  • 1918 – Leaves Russia for the United States.
  • 1920 – Moves to Paris, becoming a leading figure in the European avant-garde.
  • 1925 – Receives an official invitation from Nadezhda Bryusova on behalf of Anatoly Lunacharsky, offering amnesty and freedom of travel.
  • 1927 – First return visit to the USSR (two months). Concerts in Moscow and Leningrad, warmly received.
  • 1929 – Second visit (three months). Meets key Soviet cultural figures and secures commissions.
  • 1932 – Third visit (four months). Explores permanent relocation, negotiates commissions.
  • 1934 – Fourth visit (six months). Receives long-term Soviet contracts but still resides primarily in Paris.
  • 1936 – Moves permanently to the USSR with his family, settling in Moscow.
  • 1938 – Exchanges foreign passport for an internal Soviet passport, limiting international travel.
  • 1940 – Planned U.S. tour is canceled due to travel restrictions.
  • 1941 – Nazi Germany invades the USSR; Prokofiev is evacuated to Nalchik with other artists.
  • 1953 – Dies in Moscow on March 5, the same day as Stalin.

Letters between Levon Atovmyan and Sergei Prokofiev

December 5, 1933 - Atovmyan to Prokofiev

March 30, 1934 - Prokofiev to Atovmyan

April 9, 1934 - Atovmyan to Prokofiev