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Vladislav Ivanovich Matasov, "Uncle Vladik"
July 1, 1937 — December 4, 2000
My uncle Vladik was born in Orenburg region in Russia. His father was Ivan Matasov, his mother was my grandmother Polina. When uncle Vladik was little, my grandma got married for the second time to my grandfather Grigori.

Most of all in the world, uncle Vladik loved reading. He was interested in almost all existing sciences. He knew history, geography, biology, and astronomy by heart. Enjoyed physics. Was keenly interested in politics. Studied languages.

It was he who installed the love for nature in me. I enjoyed reading animal books, which he had plenty. Eventually, uncle Vladik started trying to get me interested in other sciences. He'd be telling me what he knew from history, would give me basics of astronomy, and later encouraged my involvement with computers. However, history did not interest me at that time, and I regret that I didn't appreciate our discussions.

Uncle Vladik never married. He had romantic interests in his youth, but it didn't develop any further. Most likely, because of his biggest passion — books. My excessively caring and loving grandma shielded her son from all the problems and duties. She cooked for him, did his laundry, cared for him in any possible way, and he, in the morning and in the night, in winter and in summer, was sitting at his desk and reading, reading, and reading.

Had he applied at least a decimal part of what he knew, uncle Vladik could have become a great scientist. But he could not use his knowledge in practice. Just as he couldn't do any house chores. The overprotective motherly love and absence of family to take care of did not foster the development of fighter's qualities.

I loved uncle Vladik, although I did admit certain weirdness in his character. His books, geographic atlases, special scientific literature, dictionaries, illustrated encyclopedias, and popular scientific brochures laid everywhere — on his desk, in the drawers, mounted on the cabinets, on the shelves, and on the bedside table. Uncle Vladik copied important thoughts from the books onto index cards that he stored in a card catalog. There, too, he collected his thoughts that would come to his head while reading. Besides books, in the big cabinet of uncle Vladik, a lot of scientific things were stored — a microscope, a telescope, a photo camera, rolls of unexposed film from 1967, test tubes, Petri dishes, and a lot of other scientific equipment. As he had no family and lived with his parents, he spent his salary on books. He would come home after work, bringing in brochures on the theories of catastrophes, a self-learner of Tartar language, a guide on archaeology, and a birds' nests atlas.

In his youth, uncle Vladik majored in biology. After his studies he had to go to the military, to the city of Rovno that he was assigned to. But my grandma said no, and uncle Vladik stayed home.

Uncle Vladik worked as a bryologist, he researched mosses. The Institute of Ecology of Carpathians, where he worked, was a block away. His job allowed him to read scientific literature about mosses. The mosses weren't hot. Uncle Vladik never defended his dissertation. He started writing it and never finished. His colleagues disliked him for his weirdness and for the fact that he spoke Russian.

Uncle Vladik was lonely. As he had no wife or kids, his two closest people were my grandma — his mother, and my aunt Rita — his sister. And me. Uncle Vladik was always happy to have me over. We would never go outside with him. Only talked — he sitting at his desk, I on the sofa. With my father, his half-brother, uncle Vladik was never really close. Sometimes uncle Vladik would give me pocket money — for ice-cream.

Uncle Vladik had a vegetable garden. He started it with enthusiasm, but eventually his enthusiasm faded away, and he was found to have no knowledge in this area. The garden overgrew with grass and thorns. The neighbors would complain. To get to the garden, one were to take a crammed bus, and the bus was not something that uncle Vladik enjoyed.

In his mid-years, uncle Vladik developed an illness. This illness — schizophrenia — was not visible on the outside, but very pernicious. In particular, it can express itself in the delusion of grandeur or delusion of persecution. Uncle Vladik had the later. At first, it was unnoticeable, and only my grandma, who would add special pills to uncle Vladik's food, knew about it. As time went on, the illness progressed. Uncle Vladik thought that he was being persecuted by the Ukrainian Security Service. He could suddenly call me and request me to come to his place to ask me if he had been on TV. He would tell me how cars slowly followed him on the streets and how people watched him from doorways. My proofs of the opposite didn't have any success. The delusion of persecution eventually developed into depression. Later, paradontosis added. Uncle Vladik suffered from it severely, and it was one of the reasons for his depression. We couldn't afford the tooth implants. Then, beginnings of Parkinson's disease were discovered. My grandma and grandpa died. His sister would come to town infrequently, and the only close person remained was myself. Uncle Vladik, in his worn black sweater, would lay on his collapsed ottoman for days on end. I was a busy student, so I couldn't spend a lot of time with him. Uncle Vladik didn't have anyone to talk to, so he would call me and ask me to come by. "Talk with me!" — he asked me once in a half-demanding, half-begging voice when I dropped by for only a second.

Uncle Vladik was interested in politics. He would watch the parliament sessions on TV, and when the TV set broke down — the tube went out — he would sit in front of the empty screen and listen to the speakers. He subscribed to "Day" newspaper and supported Russian opposition. Zhirinovsky was his favorite politician. Uncle Vladik didn't like Ukraine. He wanted to move to Russia. Sometimes he would dream about a small house in Taiga. When his depression reached its peak, he started seeing Russia as his only salvation. Uncle Vladik wanted to go live in Moscow. He would talk me into moving his books eventually. No immediate relatives of his lived in Moscow. But living in Lviv was becoming more and more unbearable for him. And finally, he resolved.

On the night of the 1997 New Year's eve, uncle Vladik put on his autumn overcoat, took his fabric bag, and left for Russia. I was out of town for the New Year party, and upon return, learned about it from my mom. I don't know how he got to Moscow. There were no close relatives there, and the distant ones didn't want to take such a burden upon themselves. So uncle Vladik became a bum. Where he slept and what he ate is unknown. When he let us know his whereabouts, my aunt sent a rescue expedition to fetch him, but uncle Vladik flatly refused to return to Ukraine. He wasn't an uncle anymore. My cousin, who accidentally ran into him in Moscow, later described him as "a grandfather." From the viewpoint of psychology it could be viewed as a survival experiment: the man, who had been taken care of for his whole life, ended up on the street, fighting for his existence. And he fought for four years. Rumors were, he was occasionally fed by some compassionate woman. After two years of his bumming around, uncle Vladik sent me the only letter he ever would. In it, he was still reasoning over the fates of Russia. Nothing did he write about his life in Moscow.

Uncle Vladik's death was bizarre and terrible. All of a sudden, news came that his body had been found. We were contacted owing to the documents that were found on him. My aunt's husband went to Moscow for body identification. There, he learned the truth — uncle Vladik was crashed by the train. How and why — no one knew the answers. Except for the date — December 4. We were informed two weeks later. On seeing the body, uncle Octavy called his wife and categorically prohibited her to come.

On hearing about uncle Vladik's death, I found myself in some state of torpor. There were no tears. Four years of worrying and unawareness dulled my feelings. I recalled us two standing at the railway station once, seeing aunt Rita off to Kyiv, and he told me a story. Long time ago, a student from the university where uncle Vladik studied, bet with someone that he would lay down between the railroad tracks and stay there until the train have passed. And he indeed lay down and stayed until the last car. And in that last car, low above the ground, a hook was. And that hook removed his skull.

I often recollect uncle Vladik. I think that had he not sat his whole life on his chair, in front of the book, the whole thing could come out differently. Maybe, he would have married someone, had children, learned to hustle in this life and to swim against the current. He could have become a professor or an academician. Everything could have been different. But I appreciate the time that I spent with him, and he will always be with me.

Rest in peace, uncle Vladik.

January 2001.
Uncle Vladik.