Age 32; Russia, Moscow.

Igor Finogenov was born on September 16^th, 1970, and was about 3 years and 8 months my senior. He was my biologic brother, and many of his interests had an effect on my life: his music studies, his hobbies in photography, cinematography, and sports — all these became my interests and hobbies as well. Back when we were kids, we grew up in a simple, half-empty Russian village, somewhere on the edge of the Penza region. Our aunt was like a second mother to us, and we spent almost every summer vacation with her. We had a warm and happy childhood.

I do not know where he learned it from, but even back then he knew how to do everything – he had “golden hands”, and, of course, taught me an awful lot.

In first grade he was in the figure skating section, and later he entertained himself with chemistry, boxing, swimming, heavy athletics, computer programming, and in his later years he read science fiction, psychology, philosophy, history, and about travels through the heart of the Russian interior. He read a lot, and quickly, too. Once he even gave away his television so that he would not be distracted. Many “fierce arguments” occurred with regards to our nation’s recent past, especially with the appearance of new treatises on Russian history. With the help of philosophy and psychology, we attempted to formulate the meaning of life, and to understand our place in the world. Igor was not a religious person – his study of Russian history had destroyed his respect for the ecclesiastical elite. Therefore, a faith in Christian values, implanted by our mother down to his absolutely pragmatic and materialistic core, created within him an inexplicable cocktail of harsh and completely merciless logic, and an unexplainable, insurmountable faith in goodness and justice, which was often destructive to his own self.

On finishing school, Igor entered the Moscow Institute, but for some reason left after the first class, and went to serve in the army. I still do not understand how our parents allowed this. Those were some dangerous years, and he found himself in hot spots in Nagorny Karabakh, Nakhichevan, Tskhinvali, and Pridnestrov’e. He earned the right to wear the beret of an elite army unit and became a member of the interior ministry’s special forces. I remember how the family would sit front of the television in the evenings, listening to the names of those killed in action in the places where my brother was serving.

We were fortunate – in the fall of 1991 Igor came home alive and well, though he never wanted to talk about his service in the army. Obviously, he had his reasons.

That same autumn, after passing through the “gauntlet” (when you have to fight 10 to 15 soldiers in a row without a break), Igor was accepted into a special operations unit of the Moscow police department, where he served right up until ‘Nord-Ost’.

I do not recall when it was that he ceased to rear me, and when it was that we established a solid dialogue. Perhaps, it was when I was in 3^rd or 4^th grade. Later, everything was ideal. I never tried to evaluate our relationship – we simply understood and trusted one another. It was very important, since our stepfather had returned to his old family at the end of 1991. We had to orient ourselves in life to one another, while our mother, though she still loved us as much as she could, never understood us at this level. My brother and I could pass volumes of information between each other with a simple look in the eye. We could get by without words. It was like breathing fresh air – you just knew that it was normal, as it should be, and as it always would be.

Igor did not like musicals (he preferred books to plays a hundred times more), but he could not refuse to watch ‘Nord-Ost’ with his girl. That is how they went – Igor and Lena. That is how they sat there under the gun barrels of the bandits, in the 9^th row, in seats 31 and 32, right up until the storming of the theater. When they noticed and felt the gas, they tried to protect themselves with handkerchiefs, but Lena lost consciousness after 15 minutes.

Mother was sick at the time. I did not tell her that Igor had been taken hostage. I lied, and said that he was able to escape and was on duty with his unit at Dubrovka. At the time I was more afraid of the terrorists than of a hostage rescue operation. More than anything, we were afraid that he would do some crazy heroics, as he did in 1993, when he saved a wounded fellow by yanking him out of the line of fire almost from under the wheels of a burning BTR. He did not fear death or supervisors, many of whom he was always irritating, but he conducted himself at work and in life as one who would not bow down. We were hoping that Lena would stop him from doing something foolish, especially when the moment of the assault would come.

Igor called his unit’s command post when the terrorists seized the theater, and they were able to go on alert, draw weapons, and arrive at the scene even before orders came from higher up. They were the first to take charge of the situation and close the approaches to the theater complex. They were ready to fight, but received orders to disengage, and the whole operation was then taken over by the FSB. Igor’s mates were disappointed that they did not go in and save him and the others, in those minutes before the terrorists could set their explosives all over the theater hall. Who knew back then how everything would turn out?

Igor’s comrades, and later myself, were only able to see Igor on October 26^th, in Morgue #7. Physicians brought mother to the cemetery in a wheelchair – her illness had seemed to lessen, but then internal bleeding began unexpectedly.

I do not remember what happened afterwards. Igor’s friends took care of all the details of the funeral. I only recall how many people came to bid him farewell – many even from first grade. Igor, obviously, was not only a good friend to me, but to many, many others. I still do not understand how he could have touched the hearts of such a huge number of people. I have a feeling that there was a lot I did not know about my brother.

Igor’s friends still come visit our mother: they talk about him, and they are supportive with gifts and money. I cannot even begin to mention how many calls we receive.

Only now have we been able to begin to look through the old family albums with Igor’s pictures. We still are not ready, however, to look at videos, or to read his diaries or writings.

On October 25^th, while still a hostage in the theater hall, Igor sent a message to a former classmate, Masha Rumyantseva. She was with us during the days of the hostage crisis, and Igor text-messaged her instead of me in order to spare me the worry. He wrote: “If there was something – please forgive me.”

Yet, can we forgive ourselves, can we be pure of heart before the memory of our relatives, can we look into the eyes of their friends and loved ones, if people still do not know what went on at ‘Nord-Ost’? If our compatriots still do not know who were the heroes and who were the traitors there? If we have not rendered to each in turn their just reward?

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