Vivos voco, mortuos plango
How my father was murdered
the face of his murderer
The Russians refuse me the entry visa to bury my father. Novorossiisk police denies that my 71 year old father was pushed down the flight of stairs by the drunk Belorussian Contra Admiral.
My father's funeral is on Wednesday in Moscow. See
http://www.astronet.ru/db/msg/1223663 for details.
My father was born in 1936 and lived through 1937. He survived the war, in which almost all of my family perished; he nearly escaped being crushed to death during Stalin's funeral, and many other ordeals. He was old and frail when he died. Out of all of my male relatives he lived the longest and the happiest life. He was a man of many talents: a scientist, a journalist, and a popularizer. He had friends in all walks of life, and he had the nobility of spirit to which people instantly responded. He lived on his own terms, and he left good memories of his life. I've been told that when one dies, one's whole life passes before one's eyes. I have a different belief: that in that last instance of bodily existence one relives the happiest day of one's life. I hope to spend this day with my father.
Dad's last photo