About what she had to face in Pension Fund, while preparing a survivor's pension for their children. Let me remind you that in April 2017, Anna Starobinets’ husband, writer Alexander Garros, died in Tel Aviv.
“I’m furious. Furious and sad. I spent the whole day in the Khamovnichesky branch of the Pension Fund of Russia (Pension Fund of Russia). Because my children - and me, by the way - are entitled to a pension for the loss of a breadwinner. And our pensions are in charge of the Pension Fund of Russia. And PFR is hell on earth.
I'm prepared. For a month I collected - and collected - a shitty cloud of documents, a list of which they rolled out to me, taking into account all our circumstances. And the circumstances, as you know, are shocking, because... the “breadwinner” had the audacity to be born in Belarus, live in Latvia and have a Latvian passport, have a wife and children in Russian Federation, and then also die in Israel, and all this, accordingly, is recorded in documents at the most different languages. Therefore, in addition to the usual pile of documents required in such cases, I also made notarized translations of everything under the sun, received a certificate from Latvia stating that we are not entitled to a pension there, etc. and so on.
I received an extract from the house register. I made a duplicate of my daughter’s birth certificate because the old one had turned pale, and officials were unable to read pale documents. I gave both children damn SNILS, because without SNILS it is impossible to issue them a pension for loss. The entire lobby of the department is covered with advertising brochures like “Why does my child need SNILS” or “Five reasons why your child should get SNILS”. There are some incomprehensible reasons in the brochures - they can’t honestly write that “my child” needs SNILS solely so that five retired sovereign aunts in elegant scarves with a tricolor and the letters “P”, “F” and “R” each day they moved twenty additional meaningless pieces of paper back and forth and pointed one finger at the keyboard, entering the same data into ten different forms(copy-paste for weaklings).
And here I am, in the window of PFR employee Elena Mikhailovna Zeninkova. With a mountain of documents. I fill out endless forms, with absolutely identical data, in multiple copies, I sign, I give countless obligations to return to the Pension Fund within five days this penny that they will pay me in connection with the death of my husband, if I, God forbid , I will find a permanent job. I am writing an explanation why I am providing a duplicate of my daughter’s birth certificate, and not the original document. I am writing a statement that I want to receive the pensions of minor children into my bank account. Elena Mikhailovna and I spend a whole forest of paper, but this is for the cause - so that the children have pensions.
Did he work for you in Russia? - asks Elena Mikhailovna. “He” is what my husband Alexander Garros is called at the Pension Fund.
- He worked in various media under contracts.
- So he had SNILS?
- He didn’t have SNILS. He was a foreigner and worked for fees.
- If he didn’t have SNILS, it means he didn’t do pension contributions to the pension fund, which means he did not work on the territory of the Russian Federation. This means that your children are not entitled to a survivor’s insurance pension, but only to a social one. And we will transfer the social pension to you only from the moment the documents are accepted. That is, the fact that he died a few months ago is not important to us. For the period from his death until we accept the documents, you will not receive money from us.
- What does the fact that their father did not have the right to receive a pension in Russia have to do with my children, Russian citizens who lost their father?
- Because he didn’t have SNILS.
Elena Mikhailovna is immersed in studying the death certificate. It's in Hebrew. It is accompanied by a notarized translation into English, Latvian and Russian. In Elena Mikhailovna, probably due to so many languages, a short circuit occurs.
- Where does it say that he died? - I show. -Where does it say when he died? - I’m showing it again.
But the lights keep blinking. Elena Mikhailovna leafs through the death certificate of my husband in all languages. She tries to master Hebrew, then Latvian, some kind of joy of recognition from English flashes, then, probably for the fifth time, she again turns to the Russian version, but for some reason it is this that causes her the strongest rejection:
- I cannot accept this document. Here you have the original, and a notarized translation is attached to it.
- And what?
- The fact is that we make a photocopy of the originals, if they are in Russian, and we take the notarized translations for ourselves. And your translation is filed with the original. We can't take him away.
- Well, make a photocopy!
- According to our rules, photocopies are made only from originals. And we take notarized translations. You need to make another translation and bring it to us.
...Elena Mikhailovna is immersed in the study of my marriage certificate. Again it goes through all the death certificates in all languages. Frowns his eyebrows, which indicates intense work of thought. Examines his daughter's birth certificate. Then my son. Son's birth certificate in Latvian, also with notarized translation. Elena Mikhailovna freezes for a minute. Then he points his finger at his daughter’s testimony.
- Here you have Garros with one “se”. It says here that the child's father is Alexander Garros.
- And what?
- And here, on the marriage certificate - with two “se”: Garross. And not Alexander, but Alexanders.
- In Latvian language to everyone male names and “es” is added to last names,” I explain. - Alexanders, Ivans, Levs. These are their rules of grammar. When notarized into Russian, the “es” is usually removed, because in Russian there are no such rules. But sometimes they leave it, that is, they simply copy the writing from the passport.
She looks at me with a dull look:
- According to the documents, it turns out that the girl’s father and your husband are like two different people.
- You're kidding me, right? My husband died, my children’s father died, and you are telling me about a different person.
- I understand everything, but here there is one se, and here there are two, it’s like different surnames. And now Alexanders is a different name, not Alexander.
- According to the rules of the Latvian language for names in masculine"es" is added, I say as slowly as possible.
- I don't know. I'll go to the boss now to find out.
Elena Mikhailovna leaves for about thirty minutes. Returns inspired.
- The boss said that you must provide us with a certificate from the Latvian Embassy about the identity of the name.
- About identity to what?
- About the identity of the name with “se”, which is in his passport, and the name on your marriage certificate, which is without “se”.
- The marriage certificate was issued by the Russian Civil Registry Office. As far as I understand, the Latvian consulate does not have the right to confirm any documents issued by other countries.
- My boss said that they should issue such a certificate.
- I'm afraid that the Latvian consulate does not report to your boss.
- I don’t know anything, she said to bring a certificate.
We go to the boss, head of customer service, Elena Pavlovna Zolotareva. I again tell her about the peculiarities of the Latvian language: “es” in the masculine gender. I explain that the Latvian Consulate will not conduct comparative analysis documents issued by Latvia and the Russian Civil Registry Office. Elena Pavlovna irritably calls “the most important boss.” The most important one says that without a certificate from the Latvian consulate about the identity of the names Alexander and Alexanders, it is impossible to assign a pension to my children.
- Got it, right? The boss told you to get a certificate.
- What if the Latvian consulate does not issue such a certificate?
- Then we won’t give you a pension! - Elena Pavlovna answers cheerfully.
- Are you kidding me?
- No.
- Can you give me a paper with the wording, what kind of document, what kind of certificate, what kind of, I don’t know, form you want to receive from the Latvian consulate?
- Certificate of identity.
-Can you give me a paper with a request?
At these words, Elena Pavlovna’s face suddenly brightens.
“A request,” she says dreamily. - Exactly. We will make a request. Sami.
“Great,” I say. - The Latvian Consulate has an electronic reception. They respond to emails quite quickly.
“We don’t use e-mail,” says boss Elena Pavlovna.
- What?
- We. In the Russian pension fund. We don't use it. By email,” she says proudly. - We don’t have internet here at all. We don't use it.
- Exactly in your department?
- No, generally in the Pension Fund. We use only Russian Post.
- In the 21st century, do you not use the Internet and email?
- Exactly.
- So you are going to request this certificate from the Latvian consulate using the Russian Post?
- Yes. And according to our rules, they must send us the document also by Russian Post. And no later than 90 days, otherwise we will not accept the document.
- And while you send them a request by Russian Post, which they are not sure they will read, and then wait for a response by mail, which they are not sure they will send, my children will not receive this survivor’s pension, do I understand correctly?
- Exactly.
We return to the booth to Elena Mikhailovna. I write a statement of disagreement with their demands and photograph it amid shouts:
- Photographing our documents is prohibited!
- Your document is an A4 sheet on which I wrote the text with my own hand own composition and signed?
- Yes!
I sign another heap of papers, among which is informing me that among the documents there is a missing “certificate from the embassy on the identity of the full name” (the spelling is preserved), which the Pension Fund or I have the right to request.
“Give me this request already, I’ll take it to the consulate myself,” I say. - Otherwise you will have fun with Russian post for years.
- The boss told you not to give the request.
- Why is this?
- I don't know, that's what she said.
- Then give me a written refusal to extradite.
- The boss told you not to give anything.
Pension Fund of the Russian Federation
(a repost probably won’t hurt, but it’s also unlikely to help)"
A citizen of a country that does not yet exist has passed away
Four words from Anna Starobinets on Facebook - “Sasha died. There is no god". Four words, and behind them eternity - a feat of love and fidelity, a fight against a serious illness, flight-flight-flight... outside of time, citizenship and slippery absurd words. Back in 2015, writer, journalist, cultural critic Alexander Garros was diagnosed with cancer. And now his heroic marathon has come to an end: at the age of 41, he died in Israel.
Alexander Garros. Still from the TV segment Polaris Lv.
I don’t want falsehood in the words, I don’t want any analysis of his creations - be it “[Heavenly] breaking” (co-authored with Alexey Evdokimov), for which the “National bestseller” was taken in 2003, be it “Juche” and other novels. Not about that now. Now about the main thing. And the main thing will be said by the person who has the right to do so. Dmitry Bykov.
- Garros was bright and relevant, so scary that you have to put an end to it...
First of all, Garros was a man with absolute taste and absolute instinct. And in last years he was better known not as a co-author of Evdokimov (Evdokimov now works alone), but as a culturologist: his articles on the cultural situation, which are now included in the book “Untranslatable Play on Words,” are an absolute aesthetic tuning fork. But besides that, Garros was probably one of the best people that I knew...
- Purely from a human point of view...
Yes, it is pure, exemplary harmonious. He was the last child Soviet era, and it is very painful for me to know that he was a stateless person. Because he was born in Belarus, had a Georgian father, lived most of his life in the Baltic states (and worked there a lot), then moved to Moscow, then lived in Barcelona for two years. He was a man of the world - and, on the one hand, this is good, because this cosmopolitanism gave him the opportunity to see a lot and experience a lot. On the other hand, he was a homeless man - in the metaphysical sense. Because exactly Soviet Union was his homeland; moreover, a country of completely new people who appeared at the end of its existence... And he died in Israel only because he was treated there. And these wanderings of his around the map - I don’t know if they were easy for him - but I know that purely bureaucratic problems with citizenship bothered him.
- For all his subtlety and intelligence...
In general, he was a citizen of a country that does not yet exist. I know many such people - people too good and too smart to belong to any one tribe, or to any one generation, or to any one belief. He was much broader and smarter than all this. And, of course, an absolute miracle is that with Anya Starobinets they lived through this two-year tragedy in public, they managed to live it so publicly, telling everything about it... Anya kept a detailed chronicle of his illness on Facebook. And she led not because she counted on sympathy, but because she has a sincere conviction: the tragedy must be made accessible to people, so that it becomes easier for them (the people), so that they too stop hiding their internal dramas. They lived the hardest two years in public, and I don’t know who else could have done that; this is something incredible - behavior on the verge of heroism, on the verge of self-sacrifice. And some analogies can be found... I don’t know... only in the era of European modernity.
- This is life wide open...
Absolute. They did not hide either Sasha’s illness or the deterioration of his condition; His dying was described in detail by both of them. And this is not exhibitionism at all. This is a feat of love. They managed to turn it into a feat of love. Because now many of those who hide their suffering, who experience them alone, will now also be able to understand that they are not alone in the world. This, in my opinion, is the most significant contribution of Garros and Starobinets to our lives. That they were not afraid to live their tragedy before our eyes. And this is terrible, of course. Because I knew all this as their old friend. And the mass strangers I followed this, read Anya’s diary, Sasha’s diary, watched how their children lived through this (they have two children), and it was all very painful. And the way Anya extended Sasha’s life, the way she completely subordinated herself to his interests, is a feat. May God give her strength.
FOREWORD BY ANNA STAROBINETS
Sasha Garros moved from Riga to Moscow - to live with me and our little daughter - at the end of 2005. Before that, he worked in collaboration with his friend Lekha Evdokimov (for their debut novel “Puzzle” they received the “National Best” award, at the presentation of which Sasha and I actually met). After moving, Sasha probably wrote hundreds of articles, reports and essays for various magazines. He and I wrote several film scripts together. He composed two stories and five or six amazing poems. But he never wrote a single full-length book. He didn't write his novel. Although there was an idea for the novel - and not just one.
He wrote brilliantly. He thought mathematically clearly. He could easily come up with a story that was harmonious, logical and proportionate, like a crystal. He could easily write this story in his signature script, fabulously beautiful and lacy, like an icy pattern on a winter window. But he never did this during the 12 years he lived in Moscow. Something really prevented him from writing a novel.
Maybe I was in the way. Well, like me - me and my daughter, me and the cat, me and the poodle, me and my son, me and the books that I was just writing, me and the dirty dishes, me and the life that he took upon himself.
Maybe my main job got in the way. I had to write something all the time - articles, columns, scripts - and Sasha was not (unlike me) so multitasking that he could work on one story for money in the morning, and on another for fun in the evening, walking the dog in between. and roasting the turkey.
Perhaps the long-term habit of writing with a co-author got in the way. A solo literary hike was as frightening as a solo climb to a height of eight thousand meters. Who will pull you back up on a rope if you accidentally fall into vulgarity and mess up? Who will you sit down with, have a smoke and drink, and discuss the route you have taken today and the route planned for tomorrow?
Maybe it was the inability to write without a deadline that got in the way. This is what happens with journalists and screenwriters - you write only when you feel compelled to, you don’t sleep for days, you hand in your text at the last moment.
Sasha did not have time to submit his text.
He began writing the novel “Will” - conceived long ago, back in 2012 - only in the fall of 2015, when he received a diagnosis, and with it a deadline. Literally. When the line of death loomed ahead.
Somehow I immediately found this free time. Between radiation and chemistry, his favorite diagrams appeared in multi-colored pens on large sheets A3 format: intertwining storylines, character systems, circles, dashes, chicken handwriting.
He initially conceived “Will” as a film story. Like a scenario that never happened, according to which - Sasha’s words - “a film cannot and will not be made in modern Russia" Sasha got the shape right. Script recording - without internal monologues and emotions, without reasoning, everything only through poses, remarks, actions - turned out to be the ideal choice for talking about “here” and “now”, to make a slice of life, to touch its living, real fabric, to catch by the tail that very Zeitgeist, which, as fellow writers complain, is elusive today.
The plot centers on a charismatic history teacher who was kicked out of a good Moscow school with a wolf ticket ( dark story with the seduction of a high school girl, who either was there or not, but, be that as it may, the schoolgirl eventually died; Note that this was all invented long before the scandal at school 57). And who, as a result, left for a provincial Russian town, got a job as a teacher at a local school, organized there something like an optional historical re-enactors’ circle called “Volya” (not that he even organized it - the children themselves came to him, charismatic, strong and interesting teacher). Then the children began to play revolution and Socialist Revolutionaries - and began to play. We got to the point of a serious case, to the point of being accused of preparing a terrorist attack, thanks to the provocateur from the FSB.
Doesn't remind you of anything? The “New Greatness” case had not yet happened when he came up with it. Sasha died a year and a half before this case.
Just logic. Mathematical verification of the idea. Crystalline harmony of historical, literary and life parallels. Well, of course, a journalistic approach and good intuition. While deciphering Sasha’s clumsy notes on A3 sheets, I found a “synchronization” sign. Sasha paralleled the events in the text with those that were happening at the same time in reality. “October - the death of Motorola, December - the death of TU-154 with the ensemble and Doctor Lisa, January - Trump, early February - Zhdun.”
The synchronization of Sasha’s idea with reality - take the work of “New Greatness” for example - continued without him: harmoniously arranged history tells itself, the snow pattern crystallizes on the window, even if the owner has left the house. He wrote his first “solo” novel, “Will,” until the end of February 2017. He managed about a third of the time - and gave me what he had written to read. At the beginning of March, swelling appeared, and he said:
I turned into Zhdun. Not only externally. I sit and wait for death.
He could no longer write.
I asked him many times to tell me how the novel ends. I tried as best I could to put these questions into a correct form (you stopped writing, and I’m wondering what’s next), but we both understood: I’m asking because I want to finish what he started. Only later. Without him.
He did not want. His solo unfinished text paralleled, synchronized for him with his unlived life:
If I feel better, I'll finish it myself. If I die, let my text die too. May no one ever read it.
I argued with him. Yes, I knew that he was terminally ill, that he was loved, strong, clever man is dying. But I couldn’t accept the death of his text - also strong, beloved, smart. I said that since the story has already been invented, it must be written. I said that he couldn't do that to the characters - just abandon them on the road. I told him he couldn't do this to me. He answered: I do as I want.
In mid-March, he called me and said that he had decided to tell me how it would all end. I opened the laptop and wrote everything down, and I even managed not to cry. He spoke to the hum of an oxygen concentrator, in a quiet voice, but with some kind of boyish enthusiasm. He used the word “will”, which shocked me: Anh, this character will do this and that, but this line will be such and such, but here I haven’t decided yet whether it will be this way or that way.
I asked if he would allow me - later - to finish the novel for him. He grinned:
You can't write my book for me. No one can do this.
I really couldn't. I could not and will never be able to write like him. I write (in a good way) simply. He wrote (in a good way) complexly, stringing snowflakes of metaphors onto a thin logical needle:
“A wide knife rips open the whitish belly of a fish. A hand in a rubber glove reaches into the purple crevice, rips out a tangled skein of tripe, covered in streaks, and throws it into a cardboard box. The knife flies up, falls, and again - the popped fish head with plastic eye buttons also flies into the box. A hippopotamus woman in a filthy cellophane apron over her robe passes the gutted fish to her companions, takes a new one from the box, and plops it onto the cutting table - covered in stains of blood and mucus.
Having spoiled, across the aisle, a saggy, heavily drinking butcher chops stubborn frostbitten lamb.
Yellowish broilers in gynecological poses. Eggs in a billiard triangular clutch. Groceries, smoking, sanction. And in the vegetable and fruit rows there are grenades in shades of gore, pyramids of beet kernels, eggplant shells, squash mines, pumpkin torpedoes. Pickles in a bucket are like Oerlikon cartridges, spices in trays are like gunpowder and saltpeter in bulk. The Greek fire of honey and butter, the napalm of adjika, tkemali, satsebeli, smolders in jars and jars. The floor tiles are chipped, auxiliary workers are rolling carts, traders are yelling, beckoning and adhering (there are a lot of southerners and Asians of both sexes), hundreds of limbs are shuffling in a class-based and visually diverse manner - from provincial hipsters to shabby pensioners, from model-class chicks to large rednecks of petty criminals rocks, - a crowd...”
...No, I can't write like that. I asked him to explain how he does it. Laughed:
You do not need. You write so well too.
No, well anyway.
That's just how I see it. That's just how I think.
Sash, what if Lekha finishes your book? According to your story? He also seems to see and think, right? You wrote together.
No. First of all, this is my solo book. Secondly...why did Lekha give up? He has enough to do.
A few days later he said that I might be right. That history should not be abandoned on the road.
I would like what I managed to write to come out someday. Just what I wrote. And nothing else.
San, but where can the unfinished text appear?
Well I do not know. In the journal. In a thick magazine.
I said I don't believe it. Thick magazines don’t need an unfinished script with a lot of swearing. Sasha nodded.
Three days before his death - when I had already left him behind with the novel - he said that he had changed his will.
I give you permission to do whatever you want with my novel. If you consider it necessary to complete it, complete it. If you can publish it, publish it. I don't mind anymore. I won't be able to finish it.
I said “thank you” and realized that he was dying. All the nightmares that happened to his body were apparently not enough for me to understand. But its resolution meant a lost battle - for the text and for life.
An hour before my death, I said that I promise: everything he wrote will be read. He shook his head negatively: you’re saying the wrong thing.
Isn’t that what I’m saying? And what to say? I love you.
He nodded: now it’s correct.
Sasha was an orderly, thorough person. Found in the computer detailed descriptions all lines, synopses of most of the remaining chapters, outlines of future dialogues. In the backpack there were sheets of A3 format folded into four with character arches. I deciphered all the recordings, collected all the scattered information into a single episode-by-episode plan and sent it to Lekha Evdokimov. He agreed to finish the novel without hesitation (now he is already at the finish line). And he agreed to put only Sasha’s name on the cover. I am very grateful to him for this.
I am also grateful to the publisher Elena Shubina and her editor Alexei Portnov for their willingness to publish the novel when it is finished.
I am grateful to Alexander Snegirev and the Friendship of Peoples magazine for this publication. Everything that Sasha managed to write is published here. Exactly the way he himself wanted: “in some thick magazine.”
I love this book. And she will.
WILL (fragment)
Alexander Zhitinsky, Vladislav Krapivin,
the Strugatsky brothers - and other teachers;
Nikita Sokolov, Dmitry Bykov,
Alexey Ivanov - and other high school students.
He just turned 40 years old. He has a wonderful wife, an 11-year-old daughter and an infant son. It is in our power to make sure that he stays with them.
(accepts euros and dollars)
BIC/S.W.I.F.T. HABALV22
LV70HABA0551010514527
Alexander Garross
Below is a post by his wife Anna Starobinets
Alexander Garros grew up in Riga, worked as the head of the culture department at the newspaper “Chas”, then, with co-author Alexei Evdokimov, wrote the bestseller “Puzzle”. For several years now, Alexander has been mainly in Moscow. On September 12, in “Snob,” Garros’s wife Anna Starobinets wrote that Alexander had a serious illness. Help is needed.
“Coming across Facebook statuses in which people were collecting money for the treatment of their relatives, and from time to time transferring something to these people who were strangers to me, every time I thought: Lord, I wish I would never, never, never be in their place.
And here I am in this very place.
My husband, Sasha Garros, was diagnosed with a malignant tumor of the esophagus. We suspected it a few days ago and confirmed it today. It is not yet known whether any other organs are affected or what the extent of the damage is. Details will hopefully appear next week.
My Sasha, in addition to the fact that he is an intelligent and talented journalist, screenwriter, writer, my Sasha is the most a kind person on the ground. Well, for me. Caring and reliable. Cheerful and gentle. Everything good that I did in this life, I did with him - from children to scripts. We work together, travel together, give birth together and solve problems together. This is how it was before - and this is how it should continue to be. Please, the way it will continue.
We have two children - an 11-year-old daughter, who is called Badger, and a 5-month-old son, who is called either Lion or Penguin. Between them we were supposed to have another son, but we lost him in the sixth month - and Sasha went through all the circles of hell with me then. Garlic, truly, inside and out. He took me to Germany for those medical procedures that needed to be completed, he was with me every day 24 hours a day, he was in that torture called “artificial birth”, together we looked at a tiny, lifeless child. He was with me further - when it was difficult for me to sleep, breathe, talk, eat, live. He was with me at the next birth - when he was born alive and cheerful lion. Every time he said simple, correct, the only true words: I am with you, I am here, I love you, I will help you.
Now it's my turn. I have to do the same for him. Save, take away, be there, love. I already screwed up, I missed several months during which Sasha complained about what I wanted to take for symptoms of osteochondrosis or gastritis, and what now turned out to be cancer. We spent the summer in a beautiful Baltic idyll, we lost four months. We need to hurry. My Sasha must stay with me. My Sasha must live.
Please help us with this. We are very scared.
Various types of help are needed:
1. C infant So far we seem to have sorted it out - there is someone to stay with him when Sasha and I go for all sorts of medical examinations.
2. Dog. We have a beautiful and quivering poodle Coconut. If we have to go abroad for treatment, and even if we don’t have to, we will still need someone good and kind to take Kokos with us for a while - a few weeks or months. With two children and a dog - and without the help of Sasha, on whom absolutely everything in our house rests - I cannot cope. Who can adopt a dog?
3. MONEY. The scale of the disaster, as I wrote above, is not yet clear - most likely, it will be clear by the end of next week. But it is already quite obvious that a lot of money will be needed.
Firstly, Sasha has no rights in Russia; he is a permanent resident – a “non-citizen” – of Latvia. Absolutely all medicine here is paid for him - but at the same time it is just as slow, humiliating and gloomy as for us it is free.
Secondly, we were just writing an excellent script, together. Now we are unlikely to be able to write it further quickly and technically. At least for a while. We don’t have any other clear income yet.
Thirdly, if it becomes clear that to save Sasha I need to go abroad, I must find a way to do this. This method is money. Well, and also good and correct contacts and recommendations from the right doctors and clinics, but this is easier than money.
The specific amount is not yet known, but we are talking about tens of thousands of euros. As medical documents, bills, test results, etc. become available. I will post them here. When a preliminary general account appears, I will, naturally, also post it and again ask you for help, this time in more detail. But if you want to help, you can start transferring money now.
4. Friends who are related to any charity, friends who have many subscribers, friends who have enough authority to help me with reposts and fundraising - help.
Here are the bank details. I haven’t figured out Yandex wallets and other things yet.
Option 1:
Sasha Garros' account in a Latvian bank:
(accepts euros and dollars)
Balasta dambis 1a, Riga, LV-1048, Latvija
BIC/S.W.I.F.T. HABALV22
LV70HABA0551010514527
Alexander Garross
Sasha’s personal code: 150675-10518
Option 2:
Anna Starobinets' account at Unicredit
(euro only) CJSC "UniCredit Bank", Russia, Moscow, 119034, Prechistenskaya nab., 9
1.Correspondent bank
Unicredit Bank AG (Hypovereinsbank), Munich
Unicredit Bank Austria AG, Vienna
Unicredit S.P.A., MILANO
JPMORGAN CHASE BANK, N.A., NEW YORK
THE ROYAL BANK OF SCOTLAND PLC, LONDON
2. Recipient's bank:
UNICREDIT BANK ZAO, MOSCOW
3.Recipient's account number:
40817978350010019449
4.FULL NAME OF THE RECIPIENT
STAROBINETS ANNA ALFREDOVNA
5. Purpose of payment: (I don’t know, can the bank tell you?)
Option 3:
Starobinets account in Unicredit (rubles only):
Payee's bank:
CJSC UniCredit Bank, Moscow
Correspondent account: 30101810300000000545
BIC: 044525545
INN: 7710030411
OKPO: 09807247
Also if needed:
OGRN: 1027739082106
Gearbox: 775001001
Recipient's name: STAROBINETS ANNA ALFREDOVNA
Recipient's account number according to the classification of the Central Bank of the Russian Federation:
invoice in rubles: No. 40817810400012816865
Option 4:
Sberbank card Starobinets (rubles only)
ANNA STAROBINETS
Alexander Petrovich Garros is a writer, screenwriter, cultural critic, editor and famous journalist. Some of his works were published only after his death.
Biography
Alexander Garros was born on June fifteenth, 1975 in Belarusian city Novopolotsk. All his life, the writer could not decide on his nationality, since his father was Georgian, and he himself was born in Belarus. Soon after his birth the whole family moved to Riga. Having Russian citizenship, Alexander Garros, whose photo is in this article, was only able to obtain the status of a non-citizen of Latvia.
After graduating from school, the future writer immediately enters the University of Latvia, choosing the Faculty of Philology. And already in 2006, after his successful completion, he moved to the capital and entered the Faculty of Journalism at Moscow State University.
Career
Alexander Garros, whose biography is short but full of bright events, worked in several magazines, first as an ordinary journalist, and then as an editor. His articles in the magazines “Around the World” and “Expert” have always been liked by readers.
Creation
Alexander Garros is a writer who co-authored with Alexey Gennadievich Evdokimov. Together they wrote four wonderful novels, including Juche, (Head) Breaking, The Truck Factor, and Gray Goo. His books have been reprinted more than eleven times and have been translated into two languages. For his contribution to literature and beautiful creative work in 2003, Alexander Petrovich became a laureate of the National Bestseller award.
In his work “(Head) Breaking,” Alexander Garros decided to create a kind of literary provocation, which gradually develops into a tough thriller in its plot. The text contains various words and phrases: professional, criminal, national and youth. This vocabulary and style of the novel helps the authors show reality. This story is about how a small bank employee who fails to rise above a manager gradually turns into a superman. But this superman turns out to be very cruel.
The novel by writer Alexander Petrovich Garros “Grey Slime” touches on acute social topics. The plot is somewhat reminiscent of a detective story, but readers usually feel very sorry for the main character, since something is constantly happening to him. Then suddenly the police suddenly catches him, then his childhood friend tries to find him, wanting him to take part in extreme sports with him, and then a certain sect appears, interested in capturing the main character. But also main character It’s not just that he ends up involved in all these combinations, because he manages to commit his monstrous and terrible crimes.
The next novel by writer Alexandre Garros becomes clear only after the previous two have been read, since story line continues, although other heroes and other circumstances are at work. But the novel “The Truck Factor” is a wonderful thriller, in which there is a detective line, as well as many different and mysterious deaths. The plot develops quickly and dynamically, exciting and shocking the reader with its events and characters.
The work “Juche” differs from the three previous novels, since it is a collection of stories that shows Russian reality. Russian reality is shown truthfully, maybe a little harshly, but always with an analysis of the authors themselves, who express not only their opinions, but also evaluate everything that has been happening in Russia in recent years.
In 2016, already a sick man, he was able to publish the collection “Untranslatable Play on Words,” which was highly appreciated by both readers and writers. The collection includes his articles on the cultural situation in the world.
Personal life
About family famous writer little is known. So, he was married to Anna Alfredovna Starobinets, who was three years younger than her husband. Alexander Petrovich's wife belongs to a rare group of Russian-speaking writers who worked in the horror genre. It is known that during her life she was engaged in various activities: from translator and tutor in English to journalist and writer.
In addition, it is known that in this marriage Alexander Garros had two children: a son and a daughter.
Death of a Writer
Barely to a young writer turned 39, unexpectedly for both him and his family it became known that he had cancer. Then, in September, treatment began, which lasted until 2017. In order to have money for treatment, they even turned to people through social media. A long battle with cancer did not yield positive results. Even treatment in an Israeli clinic, where he stayed for several months with his family, did not help.
Alexander Garros died on April 6 in Israel, but before his death he asked his wife to transport his body and bury it in Latvia. On April twenty-second, Alexander Petrovich was buried in Riga at the Ivanovo Catholic Cemetery.