MY FATHER IS AN APPLE

One day I felt a familiar apple aroma. I hadn't met it a lot of years. 

Until I was 18, every autumn I would get a bag of dried apples from the closed city of Sarov - it was "hello" from my father's side. My father and mother broke up when I was 4 years old, my father left our home in Siberia after the divorce. All I remembered about him and my grandmother was dried apples in a white sack. When I turned 18, something stopped. The apples and our painful five-minute phone calls.

 

After many years, I decided to call myself and visit my father and grandmother in Sarov. I waited six months for a pass to a closed city, during this period my grandmother died. While the authorities and the state were deciding whether or not I could be allowed into a city of nuclear production, I thought I had lost everything about this story. 

 

By the time I arrived, there were three people lying in deep holes in the cemetery. I stood in front of them as the granddaughter of a man who died five years after being exposed to radiation during the first nuclear bomb test, as the granddaughter of a teacher of Russian and literature. Alive and dead, we leaned on the land surrounded by wire, the land of St Seraphim of Sarov and at the same time the land where nuclear weapons were being made to kill. Small deaths led to big ones, the world is dissolving.

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