I am writing about my son. Just something brief, a few sentences. Not so long ago I would have said that this was impossible.

I do not know whom I am writing to. To you, my son? To others? To myself?

My Son, my love, my happiness. It all merges into one. Is it possible to place limits on happiness? Boundaries? Apparently, it is. Life is not straightforward. On the heels of motherly love, which in my case was definitely blind, came a rude awakening, sudden and unexpected.

A granite slab with a set of dates. The first date is the happiest: November 18th, 1986. The last... the last date is October 26th, 2002. These are the 'boundaries' of happiness.

When talking about a child, people usually describe that first smile, that first word, the first step, and the first book, but with Yaroslav everything is different. My description begins from the end, because most precious to me are his last words. While we were imprisoned in the theater, Yaroslav still remembered us, his loved ones, and others. He was even more concerned about those 'on the outside' than he was about himself. He did not utter a single word about his discomfort, or the stuffy air, or his thirst, or even his fear.

"Mama," he asked me. "Are you afraid?"

Yes, my son, I am very afraid. I am afraid to live without you, for I cannot.

It seemed like we had been together forever. Yaroslav could always find a word of support for someone. To convince, to pacify, to comfort and reassure them. Not yet 16, he would sit quietly and hold my hand on those days when words were just not needed. His heart was wise beyond his years.

Your last steps, my son, were more precious than your first steps in childhood: you went over and hugged your sister. She was older than you, but suddenly you were so much stronger. Then you took my hand, and those doubts you once had, when you were unsure of yourself and felt that you were too weak, that you were not as good as the other boys, those all dissolved in an instant as you shielded us and tried to protect us from everything that was ugly and frightening and cruel.

Yaroslav loved Moscow. It was his city. He loved his neighborhood, and his street. I am not going to list all of his favorite places, because they are too numerous, as numerous as his favorite theaters and exhibitions. We used drive around Moscow in the evening. It was a good time to share our problems and voice our concerns. I often presented my reasons and arguments for him to judge. This was our method of managing his teenage and my 'mid-life' crises. "The city at night is the best psychologist," said my son. Not quite 16, Yaroslav was like an adult inside, and took an adult approach to dealing with both his and my problems. He gave serious and thoughtful consideration to the most minor occurrences. While some teenagers may lie, or talk back to, or just not pay attention to their parents and others, Yaroslav always took care not to hurt someone. Words moved him easily and deeply, as did the tone of a voice. A harsh word, or a loud one, would cause him pain. He would not take anything lightly. Happiness and joy meant sunshine. Bad news - darkness and gloom.

Yes, my only son, you were not like other boys - you were better. You were better than me. I know it was difficult for you to live with such a sensitive heart, but you managed somehow.

Friends and relatives found Yaroslav's ability to distinguish good from evil surprising. At times it was difficult for him to explain all those thoughts and feelings that were buried inside.

This changes with age, Yaroslav. If one gets to live that long.

More about him. What did he accomplish? Yaroslav graduated from the school of music. "Like many others," you could say. No! He was too shy to play for other people. Even at school, when friends asked, he would not dare. I scolded him for that, but now I ask his forgiveness. He needed the music! Oh, how beautifully he played for Ksusha, his girlfriend. It was like his secret language, without words. On October 26th, 2002, his conversation was interrupted. Mozart and Rachmaninov remain behind, and now I understand the reason for his hours of practice. He wanted to play just once. Not for everyone, not for a crowd, or friends, but for one special person.

Yaroslav was an avid reader, and a good storyteller. He impersonated the characters, like an actor would.

I often asked him to read out loud.

Shakespeare's 'Hamlet' was our last book together. Whenever he was engrossed in reading, he would not stop for 3 hours straight. Now the book lies on his desk. I am afraid to pick it up and open it. I am afraid, because now it will be silent. Like his CDs and cassettes that he placed on the shelves are silent.

Classical music was Yaroslav's only interest, and all his friends knew that he could not tell them the title of the latest hit, or the name of some band, the year it was written, or where the singer was born. He did not talk about his likes and dislikes, and did not blindly follow what was in fashion. I will not disclose his secrets, but quite unexpectedly we discovered albums of the Russian bards of music: Kukin, Gorodnitsky, Mitayev. It seems that Yaroslav loved Mitayev's song 'Fall in the park', a song about war, about a young fellow. I listened to it, and now I think that it was not an accidental choice.

Tennis lessons brought us a lot of joy, in spite of the rigors of lessons. Yaroslav took his hobbies seriously, and was a true fan of our tennis players. One night he dreamed of them winning the Davis Cup, and they did. I told him about it...at the cemetery. Yaroslav did not get to live, and even though everyone rejoiced at the victory, my son could not. I wanted to write to Kafelnikov and Safin to tell them about a 15-year-old boy named Yaroslav Fadeyev, who pasted their posters all over his room.

I have decided to whom I am writing this letter. I am writing it to you, the people, to tell about just one of the many innocent children whose fates were decided on October 26th, 2002.

It was such a great happiness to have a son who was so grown up, to have someone to talk to. It is devastating to only have his pictures to talk to, the many pictures that he left behind in his short but wondrous life.

Irina Fadeyeva
Mother