Coffins full are coming towards me,

Each with a young corpse inside.

My heart feels light, joyful,

Like a birch tree in springtime’s tide! 

Alexander Tinjakov. «Joy of Life ».

I had an uncle. His name was Yakov Ostrovsky. He was a writer. My aunt, Natalya Mednik, said that he was a great poet who was not published, either because he was a dissident, or because he was a Jew. I could never understand from her words why he was not published and why he kept writing in his drawer, but when... etc. It was impossible to look at his poems - taboo! Before I found Yakov Ostrovsky's website, I had never read his poems. Looking ahead, I will say that Yakov Ostrovsky wrote not in his drawer, but in his chair... What he really knew how to do was teach how to understand literature and poetry. And he knew how to do it well... And he taught me this...

Here... Having found Yakov Ostrovsky's website, and this was around 2009, at first I was dumbfoundedly rummaging around there, trying to find at least something from poetry, and then, realizing what had happened, I paid attention to the title page of the site, or rather - to the poem that was there.

"The Acrobat"

He said he was an acrobat.
All the other acrobats
Walk the tightrope in the circus,
But where’s his rope at?

Didn’t reach it? Pray, do tell,
Was the rope too short, by chance?
Well, he could have served ...

                                     But still –
It just didn’t fit the stance.

Something in life didn’t align,
He’d love to go to heaven’s gate,
But it turned out, my friend, like this–
He never got the rope too late.

At one point, he stood, but could not reach,
Then – came the war, then – came his wife...
And when old age began to creep,
God remembered: "Here, take this life."

He couldn’t refuse, they say,
So the rope was made of string,
And he was happy with the thread...
And that’s how the acrobat’s story ends–

On the rope,
                            By God’s own will...

...A hook juts from the ceiling.
He hangs there, funny, dumb...
And above him—an arched dome:
Blue silk,
                  and clouds.

This "verse" was dedicated to me by my former relative, Yakov Ostrovsky. This is the story of my life, through his eyes... The most interesting thing in this "work of art" is that my relative, although a former one, advised me... to hang myself... That's it and nothing else... To hang myself! No more, no less...

"Soviets"... These are "Soviets"! A gang of bastards who escaped from the cage of the comprachicos... After all, this bastard, sitting there in Hanover and turning the money of German taxpayers into their own sh$t, openly declared that she sentenced me to death in Ukraine!

There is nothing in this "work" about the Jewish pogrom organized by the cops, about a conviction without a trial, about an arrest without a warrant, about prison, about torture, about the detectives who follow me like shadows, about wiretapping and video cameras in my apartment... The only purpose of this scum is to humiliate me and suppress me. But the state of Ukraine does the same...

Yakov Ostrovsky could only learn that I was dying in Ukraine from Larisa Barkan.

Yakov Ostrovsky was the husband of my aunt, Natalia Mednik. He was a very erudite and sociable person. Noisy companies always gathered in their house. He also had a huge library, and when I came to visit there, I read all the time.

For many years I treated Yakov Ostrovsky as an intelligent, highly moral person, but, around the mid-80s, when old people began to die in our family, I changed my attitude towards him, because it turned out that this “intelligent” person was the first to think that all these things around the recently deceased relative no longer belonged to anyone.

I remember how just an hour after the death of one of my aunts, my grandmother’s sister Clara, he came to her apartment and began, in a loud, bossy, bold voice, to list what he would “take” for himself. Aunt's corpse was lying in the next room, not yet having time to cool down, and a little marauder was already walking around her living room and saying that he would take the phone, the ashtray and something else... I didn't remember everything, because it took me a lot of effort to overcome my disgust and the desire to hit him immediately... I also want to draw attention to the fact that the phone was not an iPhone or a Samsung - they simply did not exist then, the phone was an old, shabby, greasy "Rotary" - a Soviet pensioner's phone...

Then, in the spring of 1989, Yakov Ostrovsky and his wife - my aunt Natalya Mednik, as well as my sister Natalya Milyavskaya, "did a little deal" - they evicted my grandmother, an old school teacher, Dvoyra Leybovna Boguslavskaya, from her apartment in the center of Dnepropetrovsk, and sold the apartment itself. This was done in several stages: first, my grandmother was moved from her apartment to her deceased sister's apartment. Then, my grandmother's apartment was sold. Then, my sister's apartment was re-registered to Yakov Ostrovsky, and only after that did they leave for Israel, using Israel as a refuge from responsibility for the crime committed in Ukraine. And only then, Yakov Ostrovsky, having shown my father the property documents, demanded that my father take his mother and get out of his apartment and began throwing the old woman and her things out onto the stairwell, in response to which my peace-loving father simply began to fight. Yakov Ostrovsky did not flee from my father alone, but with his friend, the Dnepropetrovsk deputy Rostovtsev, whose son, as follows from whoisology, paid for the registration of the ostrovyak.com domain, the creation of the website and the hosting. And this happened about 2 months after my conversation with Larisa Barkan about the genital poet Yakov Ostrovsky. That's how it is...

That is, Natalya Mednik, her daughter and her husband threw Natalya Mednik's mother out on the street, sold her home and went to live in Israel...

I ask you to pay special attention to the fact that all this was done by highly moral, intelligent people with higher philological education. "Soviets"...

And it is quite logical that they are now waiting for my death and suggesting that I hang myself, so that, with a guarantee, I will not be held accountable for the crimes I committed...

In general, I published this only so that it would be seen that my relatives are waiting for my death and openly suggest that I commit suicide. Well, also so that Yakov Ostrovsky does not position himself as an intellectual, etc., etc. He is an ordinary Chechelevsky tramp. A petty thief and a cowardly marauder - a plunderer of the corpses of his relatives. And his poems are "a chicken of tobacco". He himself taught me to understand this.

I recently discovered that Yakov Ostrovsky shamefully removed his piercing poem about me from the site, but waybackmachine remembers everything...

What a family I got, f-ck...

https://bit.ly/3JaHYF9

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