ABSTRACT

His coffin in the hall of the building of the Presidium of the Academy of Sciences, which was so full it couldn’t hold any more; uncovered heads in spite of the −20°C temperature at the funeral gathering at Novodevichy Cemetery-all this happened, but it seems impossible to connect these facts with the death of Yakov Borisovich. All the same, you still expect his morning telephone calls. Passing the gate of the Institute of Physical Problems, you involuntarily glance at the window of his office to see if he’s there. Unconsciously you try to find him at scientific seminars and conferences. The bright, lively impression of his presence remains. For everyone who knew him, the words ‘death’ and ‘Zeldovich’ are incompatible.