Katya was born on December 12^th, 1990. It was not just her parents who were ready for her birth, but we, her grandfathers and grandmothers, were ready as well. There was no limit to our happiness when she was born.

It was an excellent event for our family. We all loved her, and she gave all us in turn an even greater love. Katya was a peaceful, friendly girl. Her first smile, her first word, her first action — everything caused us great happiness and pride.

Beginning with her first year of life, each summer she came to stay with us. While Katya was living with us we learned a lot of interesting things from her. She possessed a very wide field of interests, especially for her age. Through her stories Katya carried along us into a world of the excellent and the unknown, into a world of stars. She loved painting and nature. Since childhood she managed to assemble an unusual bouquet of compositions, and she gave them away with pleasure. She loved animals very much, starting out with mice, little hamsters, and chickens. She was industrious, and always occupied with something. She loved embroidery and studied bead-work. She had been able to read and sketch since very young. Everything came to her easily, but was very serious in each endeavor. She sketched the portrait of her mother that hangs on the wall.

She got much pleasure out of being on the dacha. Even work such as weeding made her happy. She carefully gathered strawberries, cherries, and other gifts of the earth. On how she related to the dacha:

      At the dacha it is good,

      Here so there is so much.

      There are peas, there are carrots

      And plenty of apricots.

      I will pluck a cucumber,

      I will gather strawberries

      But because of the cherries

      My sleeves are red.

      Here is the onion frame

      And therapeutic garlic,

      But the dill

      And celery I eat myself

      I will drive away the 'Baby Bear' moth,

      Let it not spoil the roots,

      There will be good harvest,

      Everyone will be content!

Certainly, what is summer without games and friends! Katya brought roller skates with her, but, when she went outside with them, she sat on the bench longer than anyone, since she was letting her girlfriends use them first. She explained her actions in that they did not have any roller skates, but Katya could go for a ride after she got back to Moscow. In the city roller-skating competitions she took first place for her age class and had valuable gifts presented to her.

She has many friends, indeed she was an open and sociable girl. Once she saved a girlfriend's little sister from drowning, even though she herself was not yet very skilled at swimming.

We liked to visit the city amusement park and ride on the attractions and eat tasty ice cream. We went to concerts of various artists. Frequently in the evenings we went to friends for tea and dancing. It was a happy, joyfully time for us together; we loved each other. I liked sewing and knitting with her, and together we knit things for her dolls. Katya liked to cook; she always helped to bake pies, pastry, and make dumplings and pelmeni.

She loved her parents very much, and never tired of devising pleasant surprises for them. They were constantly getting gifts from her on workdays and holidays.

She took great pleasure in receiving guests. In 2002, when I came to Moscow to take her to the dacha for the summer, she made dinner and set the table all by herself. She told me that I should not help, that I should just relax and take care of my health.

Katya wrote stories, and I read them over and over again when I am sad. She wrote us letters. She and I copied them into German. In kindergarten she learned French, but in elementary school she picked English and German. She was very smart, but her main talent was her skill, her desire to love and to get pleasure out of taking care of loved ones and friends. Once she went on a class trip and brought gifts for everyone. I asked if she had bought one for herself, but she replied that she did not have enough money to get one for one for herself. Tears of gratitude flowed from my eyes.

Katya had ever larger plans in her studies and the selection of profession. She allotted a lot of room for her parents, grandmothers and the granddads. Nord-Ost is a modern-day Babiy Yar. It did its dark work. It took away Katya, quickly and without questions, leaving afterward the pain of loss and the MEMORY of this unusually-bright, eleven-year-old girl.

The lane of roses next to our house, where almost every summer evening we went for a walk, always reminds me of Katya.

          Oh, as it is sad Katya,

          It is sad without you,

          Days are not simply workdays,

          But cold evenings.

                Roses at the bank

                Vividly bloom

                As if they bring me

                Your greetings.

                      So I pass quietly,

                      To not say a word,

                      Strongly clinching my teeth,

                      In order not to sob.

                            I know you will not return,

                            But I cannot understand.

                            I want to stand

                            Next to Katyushka.

                                  Each time I stand,

                                  With my head bowed,

                                  I tell the roses

                                  Not to forget Katya.

                                        The roses answer

                                        With bright beauty

                                        Just as before,

                                        When I came here with you.

                                              Dear Katyushka,

                                              My granddaughter.

                                              Oh, how painful it is, how painful,

                                              And sad without you.

Oh God, give to us strength…

Written by her grandmother, Alexandra Roshchupkina.

 

***
You could have become a sister,
You could have become a wife,
You could have become a widow,
Or somebody’s loved one…
But you only became grass,
Just cemetery glass… 

How dear you were,
How good you were!
How beautiful you were!
How capricious you were!
Were, were, were…
And will not be.  You died

Yu.G.

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