Anya Kazachkov

Dima Litvinov, Anya's cousin, is sifting through her photographs, saying as if to justify himself: "She called me that evening, saying: 'We need to talk.' And we didn't have the chance…" I should be the one justifying myself — I ask him to tell me about the girl who died, even though I see how hard it is for him…

— We spent all our childhood in Komsomolsk-on-Amur together. In their family, there were two Anyas — a mother and a daughter — and two Sashas — a father and a son. Anya's father passed away a few years ago, and they came to Israel without him. So I became the oldest man in their family.

At the age of five, Anya won the city competition "Wonder Child" in Komsomolsk. All the relatives were very proud and talked about how they prepared Anya for it. They didn't just choose pretty children; you had to tell something or sing, and our Anya was never afraid, always performed with her ideas, and my mother nicknamed her Squeaker.

She received a whole bunch of bears of different sizes for her victory and showed them to everyone.

She was stubborn. I remember a story. My parents had a summer house, and Anya often came to us with her mother and brother; they loved digging in the garden. One day, while they were busy with the plantings, we boys went to the nearby woods to gather mushrooms, and we collected all the mushrooms. The woods were tiny; we searched it thoroughly. Anya saw us with baskets and panicked: "Did you collect all the mushrooms without me? That's unfair! I'll find some anyway!" And she left. She probably walked for an hour, came back — and showed a huge thick mushroom, more beautiful than any we had collected that day.

That's how she always acted — she would definitely get her way if something struck her fancy. I often argued with her, upset that she acted as if she knew everything; I would prove to her that no, she didn't know everything and should listen to me, her older brother…

They arrived in Israel in July 1999, a few months before me, and were met at the airport by the three of them: Anna, Anya, and Sasha. We went to their home in Kiryat Sharet, and they prepared a lot of delicious food for my arrival.

A few days later, I left for Jerusalem to study at an ulpan for teenagers. But I went to see them almost every Shabbat. My parents can't come here yet; their age is not suitable. They are unlikely to find work, and they have a few more years until they receive benefits. So I spend all my time with my aunt's family. Right now, I'm looking for a job to be closer to them.

That night, I woke up to the sound of Anya's mother screaming. Relatives of Mariana called them and said that the girl was not on the list of the injured. I jumped up and rushed to search. I went for identification three times. I waited five hours until they let me in. Then they called me, asking for identifying features. I described them, and they showed me. I kept looking for a feature that wouldn't match. The earrings were hers, and I asked to see the bead she had attached to her navel — you know, piercing? They showed the bead. Then they asked me: "Do you recognize her? Is this her?" I couldn't say "yes" and said: "This girl looks just like her, but I don't believe this is Anya."

We had a fight over some silly thing that last Thursday, but I came, and we made up. Now I think: it's good that I managed to do that at least.

Victoria Martynova. Special Edition of "Vesti"