Yan Blum

Little Yanochka does not yet know about the death of Yan Blum. Yanochka is three years old. She was told that her father was ill. On the morning of her father's funeral, the girl was taken to kindergarten, as usual. «What did you dream about, Yanochka?» — asked her grandmother. «Daddy» — replied the girl.

Yanochka's mother, Irina, sits in black by her husband's portrait. At twenty-two years old — a widow. Love and death are abstract concepts until they enter your home. And then they take the form of close people suddenly gathered together, and other people who come to the house, and the white-blue cloth covering the body, and candles, and the need to go somewhere, to say something, to answer questions — both important and not so much — and thousands of small chores that help to forget that a loved one, who became dear in life, unique, will no longer walk through the door, will not lift his daughter into his arms, will not sit at the table, hungry. But this cannot be forgotten.

If Yan Blum had met a terrorist face to face, the terrorist would never threaten anyone again. Yan was skilled in karate and taekwondo, practiced boxing, and participated in competitions. He was only twenty-five.

Six months ago, Yan, Irina, and Yanochka arrived in Israel. Yan was a kind, strong, and cheerful guy. In Kyiv, he graduated from culinary school. In Israel, he started working in «shmir».

— He wanted to establish himself in this life, — says Yan's father, Heinrich Edgarovich Blum. — What was he like? A strong person. Incredibly determined. Kind. There are thirty-one days in a month, but Yan managed to work thirty-two.

— How so? — I ask. — In one day he managed to be at two jobs. — Life was going well for us, — says Irina. — We were supposed to fly to Kyiv on June 15 to visit. But it turned out that the mothers flew to us. All of Irina's relatives live in Kyiv. Her mother, Nina Grigorevna, arrived in Israel on the night of the funeral. Her daughter — the soul of the Israeli home, the hostess, the mother — really needed help. Everyone who knew Yan loved him. In the days when he lay unconscious in the «Shiba» clinic, not only guys who spoke Russian came to his house, but also native Israelis, sabras. They tried to help the family in any way they could, not hiding their grief. Men in this family do not cry. Yan's father, Heinrich Blum, does not lose his charm even in grief. He is impeccably polite. He was proud of his son. They were very similar: both in appearance, in manner of speaking, and in expressing emotions. Sergey, Yan's cousin, worked at the same disco «Dolfi», in the bar. One can only imagine them together, cheerful, smiling. — Yan loved working at the disco, — says Sergey. — He was always joking. You couldn't be angry with him. A few minutes before the explosion, we were standing together at the entrance, chatting. Then Yan was sent to check the cars parked at «Dolfi» — to see if there was a bomb. He checked, everything was fine. He returned, and a few seconds later — the explosion.

Yan was good at drawing. He made excellent caricatures and comics.

Irina pulls out a drawing from a small stack of papers on the table. Lord, how wonderful it would be to examine this complex, multi-figured, cheerful drawing, sitting on the couch with its author!..

Yan fought against death for almost two days. The doctors did everything possible. The impossible was beyond their power.

Andrei Rabinovich. Special issue of «Vesti»