KREMENETS, 1942; ODESSA, 1973 1. Everything in his life was shaping up perfectly: his desires were divined, his requests, granted; his achievements were everyone's delight and further greater achievements were anticipated. His rare talents were the talk of the town; people asked him to repeat his cleverest remarks. A truly marvelous life! Pity, it lasted no more than five years. We keep at home a photo of a small, serious boy in shorts and a sailor's jacket. On the photo's back, in block letters, is written: Boba! Katz! 2. His older brother, who also astonished his neighbors with his rare talents, was sent to school in the U.S., where the beginning of World War II found him. Of his large family, he knew neither how they tried to survive under the Soviets nor how they died under the Nazis. He just had a feeling, one moment, that the distance between him and his family had increased a thousandfold. No big deal for him, a mathmetician, simply a quantitative leap, a statistical discontinuity. They became anonymous dust mixed into the soil of Galicia and Trans-Dnieper; he became a reknowned scientist, a fellow of numerous institutes, the organizer of an annual seminar which bore his name. 3. We met him once, when he came to a conference in Kiev and later (without official permission) by train to Odessa to visit his aged aunt, the sole survivor. I don't know which bewildered him more-- our country or our family. He didn't get it, why poor relations wouldn't take his money, why the streetsweepers didn't sweep the streets, why there were posters all over that began with the word "glory." He tried to joke, asking "What kind of glory? Glory in what? In any civilized country they would be thrashed!"-- and was astonished that no one laughed. He probably didn't get it-- what a strange brew of curiosity, hope and fear possessed us in his presence. Getting into a taxi returning to the station he patted the driver on the back, saying "Brother--to America--and step on it!" The driver slouched down. Nobody smiled. The rest is silence. He let the correspondence lapse and so did we, thinking the first word should come from him. After a year, Father couldn't take it and mailed to Uncle a polite but stiff letter. A reply came from one of the scientist's many protegés, on behalf of his widow, asking that we excuse her not notifying us of her husband's death shortly following his return, in a hospital, the name of which I can't recall. © 1996 Boris Khersonsky. All rights reserved. Translation by Ruth Kreuzer and Dale Hobson.