Memory remains with us

Memory remains with us
It's difficult to write about two creative figures known and respected in New York's Russian-speaking community and in many countries around the world. It's especially hard to believe that, almost overnight, two people whose voices echoed on radio and television for generations—Mikhail Gulko and Alexander Grant—passed away.
Mikhail Gulko was born in Kharkiv, on Klochkovskaya Street, and this city has always remained a part of his life and memories. But for me, he was always just Misha from Kharkiv.
He lived on Klochkovskaya, and I lived on Dmitrievskaya. As he always said, these streets seemed to flow into each other, running parallel. So we always had something to reminisce about.
Mikhail told me he remembered my grandfather, Isaac Markovich Altman, who lived and worked as a dentist on Dmitrievskaya Street. He knew my other relatives, who were also doctors. Mikhail had a remarkable ability to connect with people—simply, warmly, and sincerely. It was always touching.
Music was a part of his life from childhood. His father worked as an accountant in a bookselling store, and his mother was an actress, pianist, and singer. Therefore, a special musical atmosphere reigned in their home.
His grandfather, a second-guild merchant named Gulko, a rarity for the time, owned two apartment buildings—a four-story building with an attic and a two-story building. He supplied uniforms to the tsar's army.
Mikhail studied music from childhood, singing to his mother's accompaniment and playing the accordion. After school, he moved to Moscow, where he graduated from the Mining Department of the Moscow Polytechnic Institute. Throughout his studies, he remained passionate about music, combining his studies with performing in restaurants.
After graduating from college, he ended up in Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky, where he continued performing—in restaurants and on stage. He also graduated from a music school in this city. Thus, music gradually became his true destiny.
Mikhail Gulko lived in the United States since 1980, but his connection with Russian-speaking audiences never wavered. He treated people with respect, and they sensed it. He performed with soul and warmth not only at concert venues but also where human compassion and support were most needed—in prison colonies and prisons.
The renowned composer Boris Tenin introduced me to Mikhail when we were preparing a concert dedicated to the 65th anniversary of Victory in the Great Patriotic War. Oh, how much time has passed since then...
I still remember Mikhail in his leather jacket and cap. I remember his voice. Perhaps it's details like these that stay with us forever. A man might never have been seen, but his voice was known to millions, and his songs, often recorded on cassette tapes, live on in our memories.
Because behind a great star, a famous artist, and a beloved performer among millions, there always remains just a person—someone with whom you once talked, laughed, and reminisced about your hometown. And now it's especially difficult to write: on August 11, 2026, at the age of 94, the man whose songs became part of the history of our emigration passed away. Just two years ago, Mikhail was still singing. And if not for a tragic fall, he might still be performing today.
Many warm memories of him were shared at his funeral. They recalled how considerate he was of people. When someone was leaving him, he would say, "Don't drive too fast" or "Watch your step." His common-law wife, Tatyana, who stood by his side for 30 years, supported him, and extended his life, spoke so warmly of him.
Ah, Mishka, Mishka... Where's your smile? He knew how to rejoice at the successes of others. Around him, people felt lighter and happier.
His songs, listened to for decades, were more than just music. They echoed memories of Russia, of the departed White émigrés, of the people who fought for their homeland, of the tragic pages of history. Perhaps that is why these songs resonated so deeply in the hearts of those who themselves experienced separation from their native country.
Mikhail Gulko's songs have become part of our shared memory—the memory of several generations of Russian-speaking emigrants.
But the pain of that day became even greater for me when I learned that on August 11, the famous journalist Alexander Grant, my colleague who worked for many years at the newspaper "R. Reklama", passed away.
He wrote about crime, investigations, people, and events. His appearances on radio and television were memorable. A week ago, our newspaper published an obituary dedicated to Alexander.
Two destinies, two completely different life paths, but one common story of our emigration.
This is the story of people who created a Russian-language cultural and information environment, gathered people around them, worked, performed, wrote, and left behind much more than can be measured by the number of publications, concerts, or recorded songs.
During Mikhail Gulko's farewell at the Lisovetsky Memorial Home, applause and words of "Bravo" rang out, and the music of his songs, which will be heard for many years to come, could be heard softly—just like the songs of Leonid Utesov, Alexander Vertinsky, and other artists whose voices have long since become part of history.
Blessed memory to Mikhail Gulko and my colleague, the wonderful journalist Alexander Grant, who passed away almost on the same day.
Marina Lagunova