Anatoly Kopeikin last evening. Anatoly Kopeikin Approximate word search

This weekend I called all my friends (and my friends kept calling so as not to forget anyone), in particular, I called Thierry Wolton. And I tell him - so and so, we don’t know where we will bury the minister, so that they haven’t found it in Montparnasse yet, what will happen next is unknown. And he answered me: YES, I HAVE A PLACE FOR HER!

Now,” said Thierry, “just let me check the papers for half an hour to see if everything is correct and if I’m not confusing anything.” Twenty minutes later he called and said - yes, there is a place left in Natasha Dyuzheva’s grave, and this place belongs to him, and he is giving this place to his mother.

Once upon a time, my mother worked at Russian Thought, and then a very young Natasha Dyuzheva appeared there. And her mother took her under her wing, began to teach her journalism, handling text, and in general they became friends. And Natasha Dyuzheva, in order to distinguish her from my mother, began to be called “little Natasha.” And so they became friends, little Natasha married the French journalist and publicist Thierry Volton, her mother became the godmother of their son Stefan, but soon Natasha Dyuzheva developed leukemia, and it even opened belatedly, and Natasha Dyuzheva died. She was buried in the Père Lachaise cemetery, and Tolya Kopeikin and I placed a wooden Orthodox cross of our own making from Burgundy oak on the grave.

By the way, at the beginning of our telephone conversation, Thierry, whom his friend Kopeikin always considered a kind of flat atheist, suddenly said: now both Natashas are together again, they have resumed old habits... and only then, during the conversation, he learned that there is no place in the cemetery, offered his mother a seat next to his Natasha.

The mother lay curled up until Monday evening, when a young, kind, beautiful woman came to do what was necessary so that the body could lie there until the funeral. Then she lay there a little more solemnly, but still just as small.

Brother Oska arrived from the south-west of France with his wife and daughters, whose photographs were lined with his mother’s bookcase. My eldest son Arthur arrived from Poland. Oskin’s eldest daughter Nyusya was able to arrive from Moscow, and by some miracle received a Schengen visa in two days. She received a Polish visa. All the grandchildren gathered to see their grandmother off. My youngest sixteen-year-old son Petka, who shortly before had made plans with his grandmother for a joint trip to Moscow, reacted to his grandmother’s death with a sharply painful reaction, kicking walls and hitting some bottles. Then I didn’t want to go say goodbye, I walked around as if I had been lost. He walked past my grandmother’s house, calling me to go and talk to him about my grandmother... Finally, I made up my mind and came to look at my grandmother before she was closed. It’s so good that my mother stayed at home until the funeral.

I am writing this dry text about the days of my mother’s death, counting the days: on Friday evening there is a death message, on Wednesday afternoon there is a funeral service, a funeral. Four and a half days. How many people have shown so much warmth, love, and respect during this time. In France, in Russia, in the Czech Republic, in Poland. It's hard to remember everything now. When your mother dies, you are still in a somewhat shocked state. I remember, however, the feeling that love was coming in waves - in person, on the phone, on the Internet, from various directions.

On November 28, 2013, I met in one Parisian cafe with one aunty, and then was going to meet in another Parisian cafe with another aunty. The second aunt, however, sent a text message saying that she would have dinner for now, and then she would call.

OK. I'll call you, I'll call you. And, in order not to sit stupidly for three hours in some cafe, I decided to stop by Natalya Gorbanevskaya and sit with her. “Sup est?”– I sent her a text message at about eight in the evening. “Yes.”

“Skoro budu”“, I wrote and drove towards her. On the way I stopped at a store "Monoprix" and bought our favorite almond cookies, caramel cookies, two packs, for tea.

When I arrived, Gorbanevskaya put the soup on the gas, and then, when it warmed up, she went into the kitchen and did not appear for a long time.

- Natasha, what are you doing?

- I, Kopeikin, know that you don’t like beans, and I catch them.

I realized that she would be doing this for another half hour, and asked her to give me her seat (it’s true, beans give me heartburn). So, I fished the beans out of my plate and we sat down to eat the soup.

Then they warmed up the tea and began to drink it with the fabulous cookies they brought.

– Kopeikin, can I take the second pack to Moscow and give it to one person there? (She was going to Moscow in five days).

“Of course, Natasha,” I said.

The second lady never called me, so after tea I sat down at Gorbanevskaya’s small travel netbook, and Gorbanevskaya sat down at her computer, and so we sat for some time at a distance of about three meters from each other, until I read my friend’s feed on Facebook "

Natasha was there that last evening, as always; I didn’t find anything suspicious in her behavior and “Raktsy”.

Somewhere around twelve o'clock in the morning I turned off the netbook and went home.

This was my last visit to my infinitely beloved friend and comrade, Natalya Gorbanevskaya. About ten hours later she quietly went to the Lord - in a dream, in a calm pose, resting her cheek on her palm...

...This time, by an amazing coincidence, I ended up in Paris, arriving there on the eve of her death. We wrote to each other and agreed that I would come to her, and, despite the fact that she was going to Moscow on December 1, she still asked me to bring her cigarettes and validol.

On the evening of her death, I came to her, Yasik opened the door, confused, and said that Natasha had died. I entered, she was lying in the back of the room on her bed, on her right side. She died in her sleep - she didn’t die, but she fell asleep, that was the feeling. French municipal authorities allowed the body to remain in the apartment until the funeral. The next day they turned her over on her back, changed her clothes, and she lay there for several days.

On the eve of the funeral she was transferred to a coffin. Almost every day there were funeral services, her grandchildren came, naturally, there were sons Yasik and Osya, Arthur, Nyusya, little girls from Perigueux came with their mothers, her daughters-in-law. Everyone was together, friends came to Natasha almost every day, sat at the same table, she was with us. It was a lasting feeling. Yasik asked me to stay with her the night before the funeral, I read the Psalter until the depths of the night, and I had a feeling of some kind of triumph, of course, and sadness, the bitterness of parting, but at the same time the light that was inherent in her. Just as she lived brightly, impetuously, talentedly, that’s how she died. And therefore, the bitterness of parting, especially among relatives and friends, was always mixed with joy and light.

I, too, ended up in Natasha’s apartment the morning after her death and, of course, began to look - what was on the desk? And on the table next to the computer, Dubrovsky’s Polish-Russian dictionary from 1911 lay completely separate, and next to it in a pile was her book “My Milos” and for some reason Galich in Polish...

Tolya Kopeikin and I were sitting at a table in Natasha Gorbanevskaya’s old apartment on Robert Lende Street.

“Repent, Aronych,” said Kopeikin and flashed his glasses. - Aronych, you must repent.

As always, by the middle of the second bottle of Chateau Blagnac, Tolya became aggressive.

- Why repent? - Didn't understand. - And in front of whom?

“Yes,” Tolya nodded at Gorbanevskaya, who was sitting at the other end of the table and correcting the translation. “She suffered for you in prisons and mental hospitals, destroyed Soviet power, and at that time you were a member of the Komsomol, strengthening the regime. Repent, repent, Aronych!

“Tolya, you were also a member...” I tried to fight back.

- Well, I only entered my second year, and you are in school. And you signed up out of conviction, and I signed up out of necessity. Lenka Kurskaya, the Komsomol organizer of our group, persuaded me. I thought she would give it to me.

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FATIMA SALKAZANOVA. A LITTLE MEMOIR

It was probably October 19, 1983, after the funeral service for Alexander Galich in St. Alexander Nevsky Cathedral in Paris. It’s hard to say how many people there were, but probably at least 20-30 people. Natalya Gorbanevskaya and I, with whom I had become friends two months earlier, were also there.
And on the way out Gorbanevskaya says: “Kopeikin, meet me, this is Fatima Salkazanova!”
- Fathers! -- I said. - Yes, I listened to you all the time in Russia. You make wonderful programs! - but I must say, I arrived in Paris two months before.

Fatima, in my opinion, was amazed: there was too little news about how much people listen to Radio Liberty in Russia.
- Let me kiss you! - said Fatima and kissed me. (I remember this phrase verbatim).
I understood that I was kissed like an ordinary diligent listener of Radio Liberty, and nothing else.

Gorbanevskaya herself worked part-time at Radio Liberty, and then one day she decided to interview me. I remember I denied it for a long time - and I would not have agreed, but my friend needed help. I came to the Paris bureau of Radio Liberty, which was located on Avenue Rapp. In the reception area there was a secretary with no shoes, wearing long woolen socks and almost knitting another pair of socks.
Fatima was there too.
- Fatim, let's go play flipper! - Gorbanevskaya said after the interview was recorded. Well, off we go. I noted that Fatima did a pretty good job with this toy.

She also coped well with another toy - a car, although she admitted that she was endowed with “topographical idiocy” and could not even remember Paris, even in general terms.
At Svoboda she worked together with one of the best Russian writers of the 20th century, Gaito Gazdanov. He told her: “Fatima, on this radio only two people write Russian without mistakes, and those two are Ossetians. That’s me and you.”

The next more or less memorable meeting with Fatima was during perestroika. A bunch of people had gathered at someone’s apartment, everyone was drinking and actively talking. Well, as always, I began to provoke my interlocutors a little and explained something in the sense that, they say, the existing Judeo-Masonic conspiracy harmed, first of all, the Jews themselves, who, moreover, are not Jews, but Khazars by blood. Well, such nonsense. Gorbanevskaya, accustomed to such speeches, did not react in any way, but Fatima simply flew up, and various curses and reproaches rained down on me. When Gorbanevskaya heard these philippics of Fatima, she said:
- Fatim, don’t pay attention! Kopeikin is a provocateur!
In general, Fatima calmed down, but for a long time she still looked at me suspiciously.

On May 26, 1996, at Gorbanevskaya’s apartment, on her 60th birthday, a dispute broke out again, this time over Yeltsin’s prospects for being elected to a new term (elections were to take place on July 3, 1996).
Fatima, having read in the newspapers about Yeltsin’s “ratings,” argued that he would lose with a crushing score. I said that Yeltsin will win - and by a large margin.
In general, we drew up an agreement on this topic, and that the loser would pay 1000 francs (and according to today’s standards, this was probably 250 euros. That is the amount).

As I expected, Fatima lost. Some time after Yeltsin’s victory, she called me and said that she remembered the debt, but at the moment she had no money. I said I could wait.
And finally, the deadline came, Fatima brought 1000 francs, and she, Gorbanevskaya and Yaroslav Gorbanevsky and I went to one not very cheap restaurant next to the Pantheon, where the owner was an old Jewish woman, Madame Knysh.

There were other meetings with Fatima, including at her home in “Zhidgorod” (as she and Gorbanevskaya called the Parisian suburb of Villejuif).
My last communication with Fatima was a year and a half ago on Facebook: I used Photoshop to dress myself in a Wehrmacht uniform and posted it as an avatar. “Tolya, when will you change your uniform?” - asked Fatima. I replied that I decide for myself what to wear, and the Wehrmacht is not recognized as a criminal organization.
In general, communication died down at this point. Or rather, it became quiet.
And on February 4, 2015, my sidekick Alexey Sobchenko, Fatima’s former colleague on Radio Liberty, told me that Fatima Alexandrovna had died.

ABOUT VOLOD PRIBYLOVSKY
13 years ago my article about Pribylovsky in Russian Thought.

In this issue of RM there is an article by V. Pribylovsky in memory of A. Ginzburg, in which its author tries to remember everything that he once heard about the legendary dissident. Since some events took place quite a long time ago, Pribylovsky himself already doubts whether this was exactly the case and whether it was accurate then. I don’t know how accurate his youthful memories are, but as for his beginning of collaboration with Russian Thought, the author of these lines remembers it much better. There is simply no comparison as to how much better it is.

“In 1986, I sent Kopeikin to Paris my first article for Russian Thought, signed with initials. In “RM” my article was edited, as I was later told, by Alik Ginzburg,” writes Pribylovsky.

Alik Ginzburg, of course, read and edited Pribylovsky's subsequent articles, but not this one. This first article was edited, as I remember now, by Natalya Gorbanevskaya. She came up with a title for it (I don’t remember exactly now, but something like this: “Moscow, 1986 AD”), and as for the subtitles, since the article was a review and reviewed informal movements in Moscow, then the subheadings were not original (“Socialists”, “National Bolsheviks”, “Memory”, etc. - I can’t vouch for the accuracy, but for the essence - yes).

Everyone in Russian Thought immediately liked Pribylovsky’s writings: Irina Alekseevna Ilovaiskaya, Alik Ginzburg, and Natalya Gorbanevskaya. They were eagerly awaited and immediately printed as they arrived.

And Pribylovsky’s first article was written like this.

In 1986, I had already lived in Paris for three years and worked at RM. Pribylovsky's then-wife, Mexican Laura, went to Mexico for good in 1985 and invited him to stay. The Soviet authorities, however, refused permission for a long time, but finally, in the early autumn of 1986, permission came. The author of these lines, having learned about this matter, quickly packed a suitcase, stuffed it with anti-Soviet literature and flew to Mexico City to meet a friend (although at the beginning of 1986 I had already traveled to Mexico with my then Mexican wife). The ticket cost almost my monthly salary, but what could I do?

Pribylovsky really liked it in Mexico, we spent either a week or two together, traveling around the country and all that. Volodya really appreciated Mexican beer, the variety of its brands (Mexico is the first brewing country in Latin America), and consumed it in sufficient quantities and in a varied assortment. In October, Mexico City is still quite hot, and Pribylovsky liked to lie on the roof of a house in the suburbs of Mexico City (the city is called Texcoco) - sunbathe and drink beer. He looked very picturesque at the same time. He read those anti-Soviet books that I brought, sunbathed and uncorked one can of beer after another.

In “Russian Thought” at that time, to put it mildly, there was not an abundance of authors from Moscow, and I thought that it would be necessary for my Muscovite friend to write something for us.

I began to persuade him, but Pribylovsky refused, saying that he couldn’t write, didn’t like it, and all that.

In those days, “Russian Thought” paid very good fees, and according to Moscow standards, simply mind-blowing. This was the last straw - the anti-Soviet Pribylovsky limply agreed when I waved 80 dollars in front of his nose (he had to somehow justify the expenses of the trip).

Well, did you write it? - I asked him every day, approaching Pribylovsky’s increasingly tanned, frail body.

“I’m writing, I’m writing,” he answered, squinting at the sun and looking into the distance, towards the Popocatepetl volcano.

Returning from pleasure trips, Volodya would lie down on the roof, open a beer and stubbornly write page after page with a ballpoint pen.

At the end of the text, he initialed “V.P.”, handed it to me, and I gave him 80 of the remaining 80 dollars.

The article did not go unnoticed among the emigrant community. No one asked me what the author’s name was, and only some time later the editor-in-chief asked me: “What’s your friend’s last name?” I took a piece of paper and wrote: “Vladimir Pribylovsky.” I don’t know why she needed it - maybe for the report. In any case, it remained a secret to all outsiders.

Some readers suggested (already in 1987) that “V.P.” - this is Vladimir Pimonov, who began writing for Russian Thought. Such assumptions were beneficial, because they confused the matter.

Pribylovsky continued to send his articles, and we sent him royalties. (By the way, I. Ilovaiskaya immediately reimbursed me for the dollars I gave to V.P., although, to be honest, I did not hope for this when I gave them to him).

His articles came through secret channels, as I remember now, through Cornelia Gerstenmaier, a member of the editorial board of the magazine Continent. Soon Volodya was published in this magazine.

As for Pribylovsky’s attempt to smuggle anti-Soviet literature, it ended unsuccessfully. Apart from Tsvetaeva’s volume, everything was taken away from Pribylovsky at customs. Perestroika was barely dawning then, and customs liberalism was still a long way off.

He almost lost his dollars then. They harassed him diligently, went through all the things in his suitcases, checked all his pockets and forced him to strip almost naked.

Should I take my jacket off?

Take off.

Should I take my pants off?

Take off.

This followed.

Pribylovsky took off one sock and dangled it in the air.

Should I shoot the second one? - he asked listlessly?

“No need,” the customs officer said disgustedly.

And in this second sock the mentioned dollars were hidden!

And don’t let Pribylovsky tell me now that everything was wrong. Everything was exactly as it is written here.

At the end of the article there was a signature: “V.P.” Below to the left: “Moscow”.

In fact, the place where the article was written was not Moscow, but Mexico City, or rather its small suburb of Texcoco.

This feuilleton was written, of course, not to refute Pribylovsky’s theses or to boast about how I persuaded him to write for our newspaper.

Let's take it as a sketch of times that are, hopefully, gone forever.

After all, in October 1986, Anatoly Marchenko was still alive and had not yet died as a result of a hunger strike a couple of months later. Andrei Sakharov was still in exile in Gorky...

Perestroika was just dawning.

ANATOLY KOPEYKIN, Paris (late 2002)

Anatoly Kopeikin

Last night

On November 28, 2013, I met in one Parisian cafe with one aunty, and then was going to meet in another Parisian cafe with another aunty. The second aunt, however, sent a text message saying that she would have dinner for now, and then she would call.

OK. I'll call you, I'll call you. And, in order not to sit stupidly for three hours in some cafe, I decided to stop by Natalya Gorbanevskaya and sit with her. “Sup est?”– I sent her a text message at about eight in the evening. “Yes.”

“Skoro budu”“, I wrote and drove towards her. On the way I stopped at a store "Monoprix" and bought our favorite almond cookies, caramel cookies, two packs, for tea.

When I arrived, Gorbanevskaya put the soup on the gas, and then, when it warmed up, she went into the kitchen and did not appear for a long time.

- Natasha, what are you doing?

- I, Kopeikin, know that you don’t like beans, and I catch them.

I realized that she would be doing this for another half hour, and asked her to give me her seat (it’s true, beans give me heartburn). So, I fished the beans out of my plate and we sat down to eat the soup.

Then they warmed up the tea and began to drink it with the fabulous cookies they brought.

– Kopeikin, can I take the second pack to Moscow and give it to one person there? (She was going to Moscow in five days).

“Of course, Natasha,” I said.

The second lady never called me, so after tea I sat down at Gorbanevskaya’s small travel netbook, and Gorbanevskaya sat down at her computer, and so we sat for some time at a distance of about three meters from each other, until I read my friend’s feed on Facebook "

Natasha was there that last evening, as always; I didn’t find anything suspicious in her behavior and “Raktsy”.

Somewhere around twelve o'clock in the morning I turned off the netbook and went home.

This was my last visit to my infinitely beloved friend and comrade, Natalya Gorbanevskaya. About ten hours later she quietly went to the Lord - in a dream, in a calm pose, resting her cheek on her palm...