Age 46, from Moscow, Russia.

I cannot speak of my mother in the past tense.  She is in the pictures that surround me and in the house that she built with her own hands.  She is in the flame of the candle that I often light, as if keeping the family hearth.  As a holy icon, she assisted in the birth of long-awaited grandsons.

Like my mother, my oldest son has wavy hair and blue eyes.  Like his grandma, he is very interested in sketching.  I cannot explain it, but once at the weekend house my son asked me to draw something for him.  I was busy fixing dinner and answered: “Later, no time now, dinner’s burning.”  Afterwards I went over to him and asked what he wanted me to draw, and he answered: “No problem.  Grandma’s already drawn everything for me.”

Perhaps I should not teach my sons such adult things, but they already know that Grandma died and became a little star in the sky.

Written by her daughter, Yekaterina.

A video of Katya talking about her mother can be viewed here.

There was no limit to our happiness.  The girls grew up healthy, surrounded by love and care.  They got good grades, took figure skating, and at age six they entered music school.  Natasha took violoncello, while Olya and Lena learned the violin.  ‘Lenochka’ had perfect pitch, but from the very beginning her favorite pastime was sketching.  It was a struggle to convince her that she had to finish music before she could attend art school.

Something happened, however, that helped her dream of studying art to come true.  1970 was a jubilee year, 100 years since V.I. Lenin’s birth.  A contest was held in Moscow schools for the best picture.  Completely unexpected, Lena took first place.  In the main building of the Young Pioneers in the Lenin Hills she was presented with a first-place certificate.  Because of the advice of her art teacher and the judges, she had to quit music lessons and go to art school.

She enjoyed her studies, and after graduation from art school she entered the costume department of the Theatrical Art Institute.  She graduated and sketching became her profession.  During her short life she left behind a large quantity of pictures.  She designed schools and kindergartens, camps and discotheques.  Oh, how marvelously she designed the chapel at the Dubosekovo monastery!

Lenochka was a gifted person.  She not only was able to draw, but was fascinated by music, literature, the theater, and often went to exhibitions and traveled on excursions.  She traveled a lot.  She introduced her two children to art.  Our family had many friends, and Lena was sociable and hospitable.  She loved guests and had many friends.  She did not know how to argue and was a caring daughter, sister, mother, and loving aunt to her many nieces and nephews.  Lena loved life, people, animals, and nature.

She rushed to live and did quite a lot.  She raised her children and played for them at their weddings.  She built a weekend house, to which she loved to travel winter and summer.  It had unusual architecture and interiors.  Lena did everything with her own hands.  She painted the walls, ceilings, and doors, sewed the blinds, and designed the interior.  Three months before her death she was like a grandmother, as a nanny to her grandniece, giving fully to her, and experiencing enormous pleasure in return.

October 19^th is the birthday of Lena and Olya, and so Lena bought a ticket to the musical ‘Nord-Ost’, which she had dreamed of seeing.

October 23^rd she went to the theater alone, fortunately, since her daughter and son-in-law were celebrating their third wedding anniversary.  She promised to return for tea and cake.  Suddenly the telephone: “Don’t wait up, I’m a hostage…” From October 23^rd to the 26^th family, friends, and loved ones day and night were held captive as well.  Even more terrible torments began after the assault as we searched for her, first in hospitals, then in morgues.

Someone famous was once asked what is happiness, and he answered: “Happiness is when there is no unhappiness.”

A new time began for our family.  Lena is gone, but at the same time she is still with us.  How could we, her parents, survive this grief?  I do not know how we lived through it.  This grief is not healed by time.  After Lena’s death my husband and I became invalids in the full meaning of the word.  The loss of a daughter at the height of her life and health, of her creative plans, this is unbearably heavy.

When they asked me to write about my daughter I came to a dead end, since these are just words and phrases, how can I express the pain, bitterness, and sufferings of the days and sleepless nights?  There are no words.

Written by her mother, Tamara Grigoryevna Tarakanova.

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