Chapter 2. EMMA

My sister Emma was born on March 5, 1935. She was a pretty, good-looking girl with many talents except fot the school. Although I was 5 years younger than her , I tried to help her out. She used to like read a lot, do crafts, was also very compassionate person by nature. As far as I remember, she liked to visit her co-workers while they were in the hospital bringing them food and other stuffs they needed. First aid was her favourite subject and she was good at it, in reality. She dreamt to be a nurse, but could not pass the entering exams to the medical college and ended up to work at the construction site. So, all her life she suffered from the heart disease resulting in the post-war injury wound to be treated in the open field surgery under Nazi bombardment when shrapnel of a bullet was gotten in her leg flesh. The military surgeon did the operation, rescued her life but the little girl became sick of heart disease since that moment. So we grew up in one family all together: my younger brother, Emma and me. Trio of friendly youngsters with open eyes to discover the world. She died at the age of 70 years old in October 20, 2005 in Bryansk appartment on the hands of her own daughter Marina and husband Viktor. She was dearly loved and cared for.

Now every time when her birthday is approaching March the Fifth, I feel an urge to talk to her, at least spiritually.

I know a little about spiritualists who can join their hands in circle calling for the spirits of the dead people as if they were alive and try to communicate with them. Silvia Brown from Mantel show perhaps could do it. I cannot. My way is different: to compose my own eerie stories which can be half true, half fiction. As the life itself. Half real, half surreal.

“Hi, Emma! How are you doing? What show are you watching now?” I asked.

“Alla Pugacheva’s”, she answered.

“Ah, I recollect her in extravagant clothes, appealing to everybody’s taste”, I continued.

“Yes”, Emma said. “I do not like her performance. Too bravado.” added Emma/

Two sisters and two different opinions. As always.

My brother and me were in a priviledged position compared to Emma. Mom’s late husband was our Dad. Emma did not know her real father, and wrote letters to him with the address to “BS”. Who BS was, I was wondering. And only later I discovered that it was two initial letters of her Dad “Boris Sitnikov”. My sister Emma was fascinating about her own father whom she never met in life. But remembered by genes. It was a genetical memory.

Back to her letters to me dating the last one May, 2005 a few months before she left us, upon seeing her handwriting, my face was slowly covering with tears, big drops were running along the cheeks uncontrollably, nothing could stop them, those ones have been the tears of bitter memories, sad souvenirs of real life.

Two sisters are as if two parallels which never came across.

(to be continued) 

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