Anatoly Rusanov

Anatoly Ivanovich Rusanov was the kind of man who made a kitchen feel like a sanctuary, not just a room. I can still see him at the stove in his small Leningrad apartment, humming old songs while stirring cabbage soup, pausing to wink at us as if sharing a secret with time itself. He had a patient, playful mind and a way of turning ordinary afternoons into stories—teaching us to find shapes in clouds, teasing us gently when we overthought, and always, always listening as if our worries were rare equations worth solving. Even at 90, he greeted the day with a spark, ready with a joke or a quiet nod that said, I’m glad you’re here. As a chemist and a member of the Russian Academy of Sciences, Anatoly spent his life studying surfaces where worlds meet, yet his truest work was holding our family together. He adored his wife, his steady north star, and spoke of her as if she were both compass and home. With his children and grandchildren, he was gentle insistence—pushing us to ask better questions, forgiving our clumsy answers, and slipping handwritten notes into books we thought he’d never seen us reading. He taught us that love, like a good colloid, is steady even when everything shivers. His passions bloomed quietly: long walks along the Neva, chess with neighbors, and the stubborn joy of growing tomatoes on a tiny balcony. He loved debate, starlight, and the hush of libraries, but most of all he loved bringing people close. Anatoly left fingerprints of kindness on everyone he met—students who became family, friends who became lifelines. We will miss his laugh, his stubborn hope, and the way he made science feel like tenderness. Anatoly, until we meet again at some gentler shore, thank you for loving us into being.