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| Ustinovskaya, Yekaterina |
| Óæå 22 ãîäà... |
| 24/10/24 13:38 more... |
| author Àíîíèì |
| Kurbatova, Christina |
|
Äåòêè Ìèëûå, õîðîøèå íàøè äåòêè!!! Òàê ïðîñòî íå äîëæíî áûòü, ýòî áîëüíî, ýòî íå÷åñòíî, ýòî óæàñíî. |
| 30/06/24 01:30 more... |
| author Îëüãà |
| Grishin, Alexey |
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Ïàìÿòè Àëåêñåÿ Äìèòðèåâè÷à Ãðèøèíà Ñâåòëàÿ ïàìÿòü ïðåêðàñíîìó ÷åëîâåêó! Ìû ðàáîòàëè â ÃÌÏÑ, òîãäà îí áûë ìîëîäûì íà÷àëüíèêîì îòäåëà ìåòàëëîâ, ïîäàþùèì áîëü... |
| 14/11/23 18:27 more... |
| author Áîíäàðåâà Þëèÿ |
| Panteleev, Denis |
| Âîò óæå è 21 ãîä , à áóäòî êàê â÷åðà !!!! |
| 26/10/23 12:11 more... |
| author Èðèíà |
| Ustinovskaya, Yekaterina |
| Ïîìíèì. |
| 24/10/23 17:44 more... |
| author Àíîíèì |
| Near Anya |
| Written by Ãàëèíà Ìóðñàëèåâà, Íàòàëèÿ Ðîñòîâà | ||||||||||
| ×åòâåðã, 28 Àâãóñò 2008 | ||||||||||
 On August 30th, our columnist Anna Politkovskaya would have turned 50. She lived a year less than her favorite poet, Marina Tsvetaeva, who once wrote in a letter to Boris Pasternak: “All of the lightning strikes you, but you must live.” All the lightning also struck Anya, and though she very much wanted to live, and you can feel this as soon as you read the recollections by her daughter Vera that are published here. No one could force Anya to betray Tsvetaeva’s Law: the Law of the Outstretched Hand. Living under this law, she was always there, where she was needed: near the hospital cot of a wounded captain, near the parents of a girl who had just been abducted and raped, near the hostages at the theatrical center…  There is no need to enumerate: everyone already knows. There is already a book, titled: ‘Why’, and if you have not already read it, do so. Read it, in order to understand. Almost everything that Anya wrote, and did, falls into Tsvetaeva’s style of behavior, and the credo that infected Anna since her school years, when she wrote such a thesis at Moscow University’s college of journalism  that she simply shocked the legendary Dean Yasen Zasursky. Do you remember: “I refuse to swim down where moving backs make a current”? (Marina Tsvetaeva’s 1938 “Poem to Czechoslovakia” – ed.) It was forbidden to do so during the years of Stalin’s repression, and there were so many “invitations to death” for Tsvetaeva that they were impossible to count. These days it is almost as difficult to survive, although today we absolutely would rather not talk about how Russia’s “golden pen” has been “physically removed”. There will be other days for this, there will be trials, and the tragic date of October 7th. Today, however, we are not talking about Anya’s murder, but about her birthday, and on this date only those who were closest to her will talk to us about her, they will talk as if they had gathered around a table to remember their favorite stories, and tales, and funny episodes with her. They talk about the living Anya, who simply turned invisible. But she is still near…Anna Politkovskaya’s mother, RAISA MAZEPA: “A person holds on as long as there is someone to hold onto”  I am driving to home of Anya’s parents, and I prepare myself to meeting an elderly person who probably finds it difficult get about, or talk, but I see a slim, “I think,” she tells me, “Anya would be running off to Georgia right now. I listen to everything on ‘Echo (of Moscow)’, when I’m in the kitchen I have a receiver with me. I listen all the time… I don’t like it, though, that they have already started inviting Prokhanov. It’s impossible to listen to such as these.” - Raisa Alexandrovna, would Anya have celebrated her 50th very noisily? With her it was so: she never specifically invited anyone. She would say: “Whoever wants to come can come and congratulate me.” - And they would come? Of course: school friends and their families, and relatives, a whole bunch would gather… But when she was little, we always celebrated her birthday, and here we observed everything, and guests were invited. The boys in school adored Anya. - She never had conflicts? Not with the boys… with the teachers, yes. She would just say right to their face: “You’re unjust!” Once she remarked to her English teacher: “You’re mispronouncing such and such a word.” But the boys would go to her as an intercessor: “Ann, look, they lowered my grade!” And she would go get to the bottom of it. Such was the child. Here in this room there were so many school kids showing up, even from other classrooms! Even now they still say hello and come over. Many have moved, but of those who stayed in our area, when they see me they just rush over: “Oh, hello, Raisa, how are you? How are you holding up?” - Raisa, is that your husband in the picture? Yes, Stepan. And near him in the frame you can also see ‘Anyutka’ (little Annie). Every evening I tell them: “Well, good night, guys.” And only then do I go to bed. In the morning I get up and say: “Well, good morning, guys!” Stepan and I gave the girls everything we could: we took them to music and figure skating lessons. Lena, she is over a year older than Anyutka, and taller, so the skating coaches saw more prospects with Anya, and actively offered to let her engage in it seriously, to go this route. - She could have been a famous figure skater? We did not send them there for that, but for their overall development. They both also did well in music school, and the teachers said that they should go that route. They read a lot. There used to be the Krupskaya Library nearby, but now it is a bank, restaurant, and some offices. The first time I saw that I thought: “Lord, how’s this possible?” I used to go there with ‘Lenochka’ (little Lena) and Anyutka, and then they started to run over there on their own. That whole great big building used to be the library. The librarian once talked at school and said: “The two most - Your surname is historical, a hetman (Ukrainian chieftain). My maiden name is Novikova, while Mazepa was my husband’s last name. While my husband was still alive, his nephew from Kharkov brought him his book. It was published in the Ukrainian language. He discovered that Stepan was from the very same branch as the Hetman, a direct descendant. Well, my husband laughed: “I’ll read this,” he said, “and remember the Ukrainian language.” He attended a school in Ukrainian in Chernigov, but later he finished his education, in Russian, after the war — together with me. - So you met your husband in school? In night school there were mostly older people. He was with the fleet in Kerch, and I was from there. We were not able to stay in school because of the war, and Kerchans were forced to go to Germany. Bombing began, but the Soviet prisoners of war who built the fortifications for the Germans hid several people, including me, under reeds on horse carts, and we were taken to the nearest Ukrainian village. Two months later, our boys broke through at the Dnieper, though the Crimea was still in Germans hands. They crossed the Dnieper right where we were. We could not go back to school until after the war, and Stepan was only allowed to leave the ship for training in the evenings. He was drafted when he was 17, and he served for 8 years, because there was no one to replace him. They kept extending the service obligations, and it was not until he got into the institute that they took him off the ship on a boat to go study in Moscow. He arrived at the institute, and exams were already underway, but on the very same day he passed three of them. Right there in his navy uniform: because, after all, he had nothing to change into. So there he was, a - In this apartment? No, we got this apartment in 1962. We bought it while we were working in America. These were the first - They never let you get bored? No. A person holds on as long as there is someone to hold onto, and our family is such that it holds on. Even my nephew, my sister’s son, he says: “Hold on, because everyone around you, even my children, we’re with you.” My daughter Lena lives in London, but she calls every day. On my birthday, August 2nd, they all conspired together on the phone and they all showed up here, the whole family, with holiday food and drink: Lena and Yura and all the grandchildren, and my nephew and his children. His mom, my sister, she lives in Kerch, and every year during school vacation we used to send our children down there, and she always tried to time her vacation for them. Lena and Yura were a great help to Anyutka after the divorce. They passed this on to the grandchildren: Ilya is very careful, and actively cares for his sister Vera and her baby Anechka. He is a great lad, and for him it is like a holy matter. At work he is respected, and in September he will receive a second college degree. Anya and Grandpa insisted on this, because his first degree was not exactly what he needed for the line of work he is in. Now, during the sessions, as he passes his exam he calls up and says: “A 5! (‘A’),” and we all rejoice together. But now Grandpa and Anya are no more, but Ilya still gets 5’s, and I say: “Ilya, Mom and Grandpa would be so happy!” But he says: “Grandma, if you continue to respond like that, I won’t call you up with my grades anymore!” So I promised I would not be like that. - Raisa Alexandrovna, before this could you ever have imagined that Anya would become a hero about whom the whole world would be talking? You know, some friends of my husband, foreign ministry veterans, they told him: “Stepan, here you’re always writing mostly about Anyuta, why is this: do you love her the most?” Not so: he loved both of our girls the same. There was a year difference between them, and we dressed them like twins, and they both got good grades and both went to the same university and the same college, one after the other. But we always felt more sorry for Anya. That is how Stepan explained it to his friends: “I feel more sorry for her.” - Because she did not protect herself? Yes. So many times we tried to talk her out of going to Chechnya. We feared for her. Her reply was: “So who should go? If not me, then who?” We worried about her, but we were proud: Stepan collected every one of her articles. He clipped them out, and wrote on them the day and year. - That must have been a lot of clippings! Yes, but he clipped them all. I could not get them all into the folders. If she was in Moscow, you could not just come over. She was always working. I would ask her: “What time did you get to bed?” She would say: “Three am.” I would ask if that was really necessary, and she would say: “I must, I must, I must.” She had to, and that was all there was to it. - What do you remember most nowadays, Raisa Alexandrovna? What time in her life? They always said about us: “What a beautiful family! Two little princesses, and their dad and mom are young and dance so beautifully.” Stepan and I were in every dance competition and party. We danced the waltz and could do the tango, and we always got first place or some prize. It was the happiest time, and I remember it quite often. Our girls, when they were grown up, were always joking: “We thought that all men were as ideal as Dad.” He did not drink or smoke, and he put his heart and soul into bringing up our children, and then the grandchildren. He did not have a single gray hair when we buried him. Just before this he had his first dental treatment, but before my surgery he died of a massive heart attack, even though before this he never once had problems with his heart. - You were together for almost 50 years? 54 years. Yura, my …I waited, and visiting hours were already over and he still had not shown up. In walks the doctor, and she says that my relatives phoned and said I should not expect my husband. He was stuck in traffic and could not be reached. I thought: “What traffic, if he was going to take the subway?” I called home and here Ilya picks up the phone, and I realize that if Ilya was there then that means that something has happened to Grandpa. I asked: “Ilya, what happened to your grandfather?” He said: “Grandma, I don’t know. He’s in the hospital. Mom will tell you.” Even though he was the first one there, together with Yura. Stepan had already taken the subway and went outside and asked a woman where to catch the trolley or bus that goes to the hospital. She started to show him, but right in front of her eyes he started to collapse. Early in the morning — they hadn’t even started taking temperatures yet — they came in and gave me a shot. Right after that, Lena and Anya came in. When I saw Lena, who lives in London, right away I already knew: “Girls, has Grandpa died?” - You were supposed to have surgery on that day? Yes, and here walks the doctor in and she says: “Get ready for surgery, no time for funerals.” Two weeks later, early in the morning, before they had taken temperatures, just like before, they came in and gave me a shot, and right after that the door opened, but instead of Anya it was Yura with Lena. And my first words to them were: “They killed Anya?” Father would never have survived Anyutka’s death, if he could not survive me… Anna Politkovskaya’s daughter, VERA POLITKOVSKAYA: “She told me: Do you know how much vacation I’ve saved up? When you have the baby, I’ll take it all. We’ll raise the baby together” Two words that I spoke literally transformed my mother: “I’m pregnant.” I called her as soon as I had a special blood test, and was convinced of the accuracy of my condition. Mom at this point I think was at work, or at least on the job. She asked: “Yes? You’re sure? I'll call you back.” So casually, as if nothing important had happened. I never even suspected that from that moment on I would see in front of me a quite different mother. She came over with a bag full of food: “Correct nutrition. You must eat this! You've quit smoking?” In general I was never that fond of drinks such as Coke or Sprite, but once she saw me with something like that screamed as if it were potassium cyanide: “How can you feed the baby THAT?” Somehow, in two months, Mom managed to grow at her summer cottage garden onions, fennel, and carrots: pure products without chemicals. Her granddaughter was only supposed to eat things like that. Previously, I never could have imagined my mother out in the garden. And on October 6th, the day before Mom died, there was a false alarm with my baby. It was not confirmed, but at that moment Mom gave me curt orders: “Lie down! Don’t move!” And she called up a special ambulance that is not covered by health insurance. I think she was more scared than I was. She calmed down when we were on the ambulance on the way to the hospital, and even joked: “Well, I at least don’t pass in the oncoming lane.” She drove very carefully, and never ever broke the law. It was on or around six in the evening, during rush hour, and there was a huge cluster of vehicles. The ambulance chased them all away with the siren. “Traffic jams are a breeze,” Mom said. She also told me: “Do you know how much vacation I’ve saved up? I’ve never taken any. When you have the baby, I’ll take it all. We’ll raise the baby together.” Anna Politkovskaya’s sister ELENA KUDMIMOVA: “Everybody thought she never cried, but she was afraid of the dark” Anya is seeing me out to the door, and after another second and I am waving to her and getting into that fateful elevator, never knowing that we are seeing each other for the last time. She asks: “Len, is it scary to pick up and hold a newborn in your arms?” She mentions the thing that had been worrying her the most lately. We were once again happy, since the night before an experienced physician had dispelled all doubts about Vera’s pregnancy. At this point in my dream I wake up in a cold sweat, just like yesterday and the night before, and many times since her death. My subconscious has put some kind of a block here, apparently to shield my mind from the unfolding of further events. But the dream is still painful, and once again I see Anya in the kitchen, cutting up soaked prunes and dried apricots, just like they taught her to do the day before at the hospital, to prepare “breakfast for the pregnant” — for Vera, who is still asleep. During our 40 minutes in the kitchen, Anya treats me to tea, and, as always, we manage to discuss a list of topics: yesterday’s search for a hospital for Vera (in detail); our first doctor’s lack of professionalism (briefly); the day’s happy ending, when we got advice from Moscow’s leading expert on pregnancy (in detail); last night’s TV news, which I did not see, but it showed Putin in Chechnya, sporting a We are talking quickly and quietly: we never have enough time to discuss everything that is happening to us, and Vera is still asleep in the other room. Our father’s portrait on the commode listens kindly to our female gossip. We buried him two weeks ago, on a serene, sunny day like this morning, October 7th, 2006. Somewhere deep inside, we believe that his soul will live with us for the whole forty days (an Orthodox belief that the departed remain near their loved ones for 40 days before ascending into heaven — ed). Actually, I have only come over for a moment to pick up at Mama’s things at Anya’s and take them to the hospital. Today is Anya’s turn to visit Mother, but we need to get the door to Vera’s apartment fixed, so we decide that I will go again, and Anya will go tomorrow. After Father’s death we take turns every day sitting with Mom in her hospital room, doing amateur psychotherapy. And over Anya’s head, hanging like the sword of Damocles, is the unfinished first chapter of her new book, which she had vowed to finish by the end of September at her summer cottage, where no one would interfere with her work, but life writes its own scenario: Father’s death, the funeral, Mother’s operation, complications with Vera’s pregnancy, and, in the general, no time. And there was still her work at the office. Everyone thought that she never cried. But once again, after raising the roof in a shouting match with Muratov over another article, she was talking with me over the phone, and she was sobbing, unable to get over the offense. Anya often went to Chechnya without telling our parents, letting them have an extra day without worry. They would find out the next day, when they called the grandkids, but that would be later, and then they would listen ever more closely than usual to the news on the radio. Vera’s pregnancy sobered Anya up. She wants grandchildren. She was so happy, and good-naturedly envious, when she saw my “Len, is it scary to pick up and hold a newborn in your arms?” It is already midday, so I rush to Mother, waving to Anya from the elevator. She has only 4 hours left… Relatives, colleagues, and readers recall Anna Politkovskaya  It is a blank sheet of paper with five holes in it. It is a salvo of new texts, which Anna Politkovskaya could have, and was ready, to write: words that are too vivid, and too sharp, to miss our time. The page is white, because it has turned to a marble. Anna’s monument was dedicated on August 30th, 2007, the day she would have turned 50. The triangles are not black, as is traditional, but from white marble on a white marble page. The five holes are an argument for silence, the pledge of a blank page, but “the past is yet to be” because still missing are the authors and performers of the script, the assassination of an independent and honest reporter. Instead of silence, they receive a shout: the entire world now breathlessly reads her texts.We will continue to publish stories about Anna Politkovskaya on this anniversary. Recall what her loved ones — her mother, sister, and daughter — said in the previous issue. Today it is the turn of her husband, friends and colleagues, and our readers. Alexander Politkovsky: Concerning a flat tire, and a wife’s impenetrable sense of duty  It is a gloomy morning on the first day of the next year. Anna has to write something. Se is in a hurry, and passes other cars on her return to the hung over, heroic city. I do not have to be there, so I am in no hurry. The snow is not snow, but like some sort of white cereal sprinkled on the road. The car is not running well. It shudders and clings to islands of asphalt. Together with my son we barely get the flat tire off, under the nervous whining of our Doberman. We are getting closer to Zvenigorod. On the road we observe an accumulation of vehicles and the eternal fuss of a worthless Russian rescue: a Japanese car, having lost all its beauty, is lying in a ditch. They wave invitingly to us for help. I usually do not stop when I have the kids in the car, but this time Anna is next to me, so there is no point in even repeating her words: “We should definitely help, we have to…” After a few minutes we are already dragging the overseas beauty out of the roadside ditch. We drag it out. Smiles and pats on the back, just like in the Kremlin after the end of a meeting. Then Anna notices that our car is somehow leaning. Yes, we lost another tire, and there is no one around. Wait, over there! The car we rescued! Not far from us, they are calmly putting things to right. It is getting colder. Anna says that in Russia it is better to be lying on the roadside than to stand in a rut. She persuades the people we rescued to take our son with the wheel over to the tire repair shop. They both agree, and we are grateful. Anna is walking the Doberman along the roadside. “Save us, the saviors!” I yell, trying to stop a Anna reminds me about how a few months ago I was in this same car near the Ruza Reservoir, and I drove up on the grass and across an And so it was at this time: our son came back with nothing. After getting to Moscow, they did not find a single tire repair shop. My cell phone makes a gurgling sound, and wishes to bid us farewell. Anya manages to get through to her sister, and Lena is sending a car with a driver. Our son calls a classmate about our problem in nearby Zvenigorod. He arrives in some sort of a horse cart, takes the wheel rim and squeezes onto it a tire from a Volga car. What a Kulibin (Russian Thomas Edison)! On the brink of a foul, but we are off! The children and the dog go in the sister’s car, while Anna and I drive cautiously behind them. Everything bad is forgotten. It is warm and we talk of other things. Then, quite unexpectedly, in the darkness I hear her words: “Still, you did well to stop.” Me? Elena Morozova, childhood friend: Vamps on the high seas Before leaving on vacation, I was wandering around a bookstore, looking for something “light” for the road. Suddenly I felt someone’s eyes on me. On the cover of a book was Anya, looking at me. The question ‘Why?’ — to which there are many answers, though not a single correct one, once again reopens a wound in my soul. On the way home I go over in my memory some happy episodes from our many years of friendship, and I remember how we traveled together. 15 years ago, Anya won a voyage for two to the capitals of northern Europe. Fortunately for me, her husband Sasha could not go, so Anya invited me along. Since childhood and the days of our youth, it was our first and last journey together without children and husbands, just us girls. We left a country, which at the time, as the jokes go, stores labeled ‘Meat’ had no meat, and stores labeled ‘Fish’ had no fish. It is clear that in addition to taking away impressions, we had to get clothes, gifts, and souvenirs for our loved ones, so the list of necessary things we made was impressive, while there was certainly not enough money. After a city tour, our guide allotted us 2 hours for shopping. To our misfortune, we entered a multilevel store through the dinnerware department. Salt shakers in the shapes of birds in baskets, sparkling chrome salad and sugar bowls, dishes with divisions for snails, which could be used for devilled eggs, paralyzed our imagination and caused serious damage to our purse. Something was going on in the women’s clothing section, something that was still unknown in our country: a wonderful event called ‘a sale’. We got back to our group just a few minutes before the appointed time, our arms busy with packages of dishes, which in later years we enjoyed with pleasure, and two black, fashionably We were helped by our ability to turn out anything, which is perhaps inherent at the genetic level in every woman from the former Soviet nation. We decided that evening to become Siamese twin female vamps. We were bailed out by our new ‘naked’ tops, in which we felt dressed like queens, and by some long, black skirts (our main wardrobe was white on top and black on the bottom). Black socks were turned into luxurious opera gloves, and candy foil rolled into balls formed the basis of beads and sequins on our skirts, while on our cheeks we painted identical black beauty spots. Thus we spent the entire evening, I think that we would also have remembered these on August 30th, on Anya’s birthday. We always celebrated that day with friends who were returning from summer vacation, well rested and ready to share their pleasant experiences. On Anya’s birthday we will one again gather to talk about her, and try to answer the question on the cover of that book: “Why?” Marina Goldovskaya, documentary filmmaker: “Through her, I wanted to tell about us” I think about Anna all the time, and, when you ask about her, it is hard for me to tell about any individual event. Her name for me is associated with the best days of my life. Her husband, Sasha, was my favorite student at the journalism college at Moscow University, and he and I were close. When he introduced me to his future wife, Anna, I immediately felt for her, and right away I got a very warm feeling. They were such a bright and nice couple that when I was asked to make a picture about 1990, about the year of changes, the first family I thought of was the Politkovsky family. Sasha was on the crest of fame, traveling to all the hot spots, while Anya was a very nice woman with two children. I thought that through them I could tell about all of us. They agreed, I think, because they trusted me. I ‘settled’ in their house, and equipped the whole apartment with lights and microphones. I filmed them for nearly two months, and it coincided with some very exciting and nervous moments for our country. At that same time there was the demonstration of February 25th, 1990. It was preparing to be a revolt against the Communist Party, which had abolished paragraph 6 of the Constitution. There were lots of problems with organization, and state television warned everyone that there could be bloodshed, that the ‘Memory’ society was preparing to go there, and so there was no need to take part in it. There were a lot of threats, even on Sasha’s answering machine. We were all terribly worried. It was a very tense situation, which kept us all very nervous. My mother, for example, cried and begged me not to go there. I found a good place to film the demonstrations, from the sixth floor of a house on the corner of Garden Ring and Zubovsky Boulevard. There were more police than I had ever seen before in my life. I think that half a million people came to the demonstration. They held hands and sang Okudzhava’s song: “Let’s join hands, friends”. I burst into tears on that balcony. It was a spiritual ascent that I was feeling for the first time my life, and we all understood that we were standing on the threshold of incredible change. It was euphoria, and an understanding that you were experiencing a moment in history that will never happen again. The film from the demonstration was key to the picture, and it was all happening at the same time as the first migrants, the first refugees were coming from Baku. Sasha interviewed them. And then there was Anya, waiting for him at home with their two children, thinking about the present and the future. The picture did well abroad, and participated in film festivals. It turned out, I think, because there were very personal moments in it. Anya was very open with me, and that is what really connected me with her. Sasha was already a member of the Supreme Council, while Anya and I, like two women, we quickly understood each other. When I got an opportunity to show the picture in Russia, I showed it to them first. And we decided not to show it. Standing on that balcony in February 1990, I thought I should buy a camera and record everything that we were experiencing, and ever since them I have taken it with me and have taken a lot of pictures of my friends. Every time I was in Moscow, I photographed Anya, sometimes several times a year. Almost all of her life passed in front of me — with her little puppy, Martin, when he got his ears cropped. With Martin, who grew old and died. With a new dog named Van Gogh. And with the kids who were young and studying music, and who later grew up. And family life, which later fell apart. The last time I photographed Anya was in 2005. When I saw her for the first time after a ten year hiatus, in 2000, I told her: “Anna, you’ve changed so much, you’ve become a different person! I would have never thought that you could be so modern.” Of course, back in the 90’s she was writing for “Air Transport” (Aeroflot For me, Anya was a very close friend, whom I think I understood very well. I was struck by her dedication. She would change clothes and go off into the mountains alone. She was a very passionate person, but at the same time she very vulnerable and very proud. I also tried to stop her, as I am sure many tried, but she said that she would ashamed otherwise, it would dishonor those who were waiting for her help. She was a person with a very high moral foundation. Such people are very few. Anya was able to “summon grace for the fallen.” Many of my friends — Anya and Olya Kuchkina and myself — we all are the same as we were, time does not change us. I am doing my tiny little part, but who watches my movies? Who needs them? But still I have this feeling that I have no right to stop. Somehow she got to the U.S., and came to Los Angeles. I was only able to see her for one day. I had to fly to Germany, where I was on a film awards jury and could not refuse. I met her at her hotel, and she was in very high spirits: she had just been to New York, where she was given an award for courage in journalism. “Finally, I feel like someone needs me,” she said. “What I could tell the children. Too bad they weren’t there to see it!” “I have absolutely nothing against fate,” she then said. “I’ve seen and experienced more than anyone else has ever seen, or will ever see, and it helped me become better and more interesting. Not for the world, but for myself.” That evening I flew away, leaving her with my husband, George. And when I got to Germany, I turned on CNN and I immediately saw footage of But how can one tell all of this? Elena Masyuk, journalist: “She knew how to write people stories” I did not know Anna personally. I never went to the second Chechen war, and she was not at the first, so we never crossed paths. I had only one telephone conversation with Anya, sometime in 2000. I called her, because I had read an article of hers in ‘Novaya Gazeta’. It was a wonderful article, written about wounded civilians in Chechnya, and written as only Anya was able, a Back then she was surprised by my call. She thought that after the situation in 1997, when the Chechens took my film crew hostage, no Chechen story, even about a little girl’s tragedy, would ever cause me any emotion. I asked Anna to transfer to the hospital some medicine that I had purchased. I knew all the tricks associated with humanitarian aid to the Caucasus, and in our country in general, and it was very important that these drugs get to this girl. They were for exactly that phase of treatment that she needed. Anya gave me the phone number of the hospital, and later I called them up: some of it got to the girl, while the rest was spread out among the other patients, so I was not able to help her all the way. I do not know what the girl’s fate was. I hope she survived and recovered. Julia Kalinina, journalist: “Anya was a bird in beautiful clothing” I think it was in 2000 or 2001. The Helsinki Group had organized a trip to Denmark to study the origins of Danish democracy. At the hotel in Copenhagen, Anya and I were in the same room. On the first night we only talked about Chechnya. I told her about the horrors I had seen during the first war, while Anya told about the horrors she had seen in the second. Our stories were scary, and our speech feverish. I think we may have given people the impression that we are both a little sick. Not completely crazy, but of course not something you could call normal. One evening, our leader took us to some small island to get acquainted with Danish folk culture. Right on the street we found ourselves in a natural, outdoor auditorium. Along the walls were chairs, music was playing, and in the center of the room were Danes dancing. Thirty people, I suppose. Men and women were dressed up and dancing in pairs around and around, stamping and jumping, as they do in their folk dances. The Danes moved over to us, and the men snatched the ladies, while the women grabbed the hands of the gentlemen, and so it was impossible to give way. Half an hour later, our whole group was in a lather and went to hide around the corner from the Danes. Only Anya continued to dance. She stamped and spun better than the most skilful of the Danes, as if she had rehearsed her whole life these intricate local dances. Her face was flushed, and her eyes were burning. She flew like a bird and it was evident that all of it was giving her real pleasure. At the time we even thought that this should have been her vocation: not digging around in the dirt, but up on stage, dancing in beautiful costumes. We headed back to Moscow through Copenhagen, and on the last night we once again proved to be in the same room at the same hotel. You know, what we talked about that night? Anna told me about a remarkable little shop in Moscow, where they sell wonderful silk scarves, and quite inexpensive at that. And I remember we also debated the merits of certain creams, cosmetics, and other wonderful feminine stuff. And we never thought about Chechnya. Never, and that is amazing. In a country where they value human life above all else, our burning need to constantly fight against barbarism and the atrophy of the heart from watching these transcendent horrors finally left our inflamed souls. We turned into normal, human females. But, unfortunately, not for long. Jonathan Sanders, former CBS correspondent in Russia who covered six conflicts in the Caucasus, head of the ‘Project on the Russian future’: It is very, very difficult for me to I speak about her, and I talk about Anna very little. I think she is a rarity, like Artyom Borovik, a star such as we see once in a lifetime. I knew her husband at a time when he worked in the program ‘Vzglyad’, and the first time I saw Anna Stepanovna, I told her bluntly: “How is it possible that we are in this small world of progressive journalists, and we’ve never before met in Moscow?” And she replied: “I was not me back then.” I understood that it was very difficult psychologically for her to live like she did. She knew she needed to do to be a good journalist, but after she saw what she saw, I think she felt the need to speak the truth. Not even the truth, with regard to her, she needed to speak a word we rarely use, the I did not quite understand her character, but I think that this need changed her. She was a very complicated woman, while before this she used to be very calm. In American history, there was a man named John Brown. He was very active against slavery. At the end of his life he made a lot of illogical steps, but he did what he thought was right — for the Truth and for the liberation of blacks. I think she was the same sort of rare person. Anya and our readers: “It was a godsend to be able to speak with such a person” When I was 17, the hostage taking at Dubrovka took place. I was confused, and strange thoughts crept into my head. I did not know where to go with them, so I decided to write a letter to ‘Novaya’. I typed it. About a year passed, and I was at a rally against the war in Chechnya. I saw Anna Stepanovna and got very nervous, but still I decided to go up to her. Imagine my surprise when she remembered me, and remembered details from my letter: a phenomenal memory. Outwardly, she seemed very fragile to me. We chatted a bit, and then parted. I do not want to say any extra words, but Anna Stepanovna back then was an example for me, and almost a beacon in a world where no one understood me. Sincerely, Anna Uyutova It was the summer of 2000. My wife and I were going into the Chinatown subway station, and we saw Anna. She was walking toward the exit. We had never seen her like that before, only on TV, and we learned right away that she was so beautiful. We greeted her, and thanked her for her reporting from Chechnya. We talked for about five minutes. Maybe this episode will not seem very important, but we ordinary Chechens thank her for what she did for the Chechen people. Ramzan Tevzan I am a Frenchman. Sorry, I am not very good at Russian, but I have been studying. I love Russia, because my son is Russian. He was an orphan. I am now reading a book about Politkovskaya (Douloureuse Russie, journal d'une femme en colre) and that is why I know her. We, of course, have never met, but I know that she was very fond of Russia. Anna was very great. I hope that Russia will someday be a democratic country. Roland She not only wrote about us, about me and my son, but about many who are scorched and burned in our home country of Russia by injustice, cruelty, and lack of humanity. I believe that it was a godsend that I was able to speak with a person of such magnitude. Today, going through documents for the next trial, I saw a note in the margin of an old, forgotten document: “Call Anna Politkovskaya.” Once we talked about injustice, about life and everyday problems, and about children. And to her question, I replied that I wanted to teach my son to live without me, that is, when I am no longer around. I did not even have time to get home when Anna Stepanovna calls me up and says that she has some people who are willing to help me. And these people are helping me to this day. Marina Anatolyevna Kondratyeva and Denis Vasiliev In ‘Novaya Gazeta” Views: 6412 |
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