Russian-speaking immigrants missing in the U.S.: a story of a New York City disappearance

Vladimir Kondratenko. Photo from family archive

May through November 2017 I was filming a documentary in five countries — the U.S., Ukraine, Belarus, Uzbekistan, and Russia — about Russian-speaking immigrants who went missing in the United States. I am not a former cop or detective; I am a mother, a wife, a reporter, and a documentary maker. However, I was able to find out what happened to 121 missing persons, 89 of who turned out to be dead. To be honest, I have no idea how I did it, but I realized that very few people in the U.S. care about this problem. It’s really easy to go missing and extremely difficult to find a missing person. Even if he or she was a legal resident and had his/her fingerprints included in databases. I could only take a guess how many of them came to the United States in search for happiness and eventually vanished inside its vast territory. I could only take a guess why only a few are interested in their fate. I attempted answering this question in my documentary, but the answer is far from being complete… The situation is best illustrated with one story. For instance, that of Vladimir Kondratenko from Gomel, Belarus, whose relatives searched for him for 15 years. I found him four years after I had first heard of him.

I never met Kondratenko in person. I couldn’t have — he died in New York City eight years before I moved there. Before New York, he resided in Gomel, and I lived in Moscow. When he was on military service in Afghanistan, I went to school in remote Siberia… Our paths couldn’t cross. But I was the one who found him 15 years after he went missing. The first thing I said when I saw his name on the list of casualties was: “Well, hello. I ‘ve been looking for you for four years.” I don’t know why I said this. Maybe because he became a friend of mine over the years I searched for him. Maybe because his disappearance changed my life as well.

“Where are you, son?”

An unemotional report reads as follows: “An unidentified white male was found dead at a supermarket parking lot. … No ID was found on him. Aged 40-45.” These words hide not death, but life, a tragedy of a family, and tons of questions that will never be answered.

His name was Vladimir Pavlovich Kondratenko. Born on Aug. 23, 1967 in Gomel, Belarus. Second and long-awaited son, a pride and joy to his family. His early life was usual: a fresh school graduate was drafted to the army. However, he served in an unusual place, in Afghanistan, where he got shell-shocked. His health suffered. He came back from army service, married his beloved girlfriend Elena, and soon she gave birth to daughter Vika. Pictures against carpets and unassuming walls, picnics at courtyards, a bike —Vladimir’s life returned to ‘usual’ again. And again a bit different — during their marriage, the Kondratenkos were waiting for an invitation from Elena’s parents, who immigrated to the United States long ago and had been doing their best to reunite with their only daughter. The invitation arrived in early 2000, after almost 10 years of waiting. By that time, Vladimir and Elena were divorced… But the documents arrived for two of them, and they both flew in the U.S. by different airlines on different dates to avoid seeing each other. They both chose Brooklyn in New York — it’s where Elena’s parents lived, and Vladimir wanted to be close to his daughter, aged nine at that time.

Vladimir Kondratenko and his family. Courtesy of Kondratenko’s family archive.

July 2000. Brooklyn, New York. Vladimir got his ‘green card,’ a SSN, rented a room and started a job in a furniture factory. So many events for one hot summer month. When the fuss of the early days calmed down, his life returned to being usual: working all day long, going home in the evening, calling his mom on the weekend, doing his laundry, buying food… Melancholy flooded him head to toes. His relationship with ex-wife were far from perfect, his daughter estranged, friends left behind in Belarus… But he eventually got used to it and even loved his new life. Time passed, and Vladimir started sending photographs to his mom showing him happy, posing next to New York City landmarks. She spends long and lonely evenings looking at them — her husband had passed away, and her eldest son died suddenly from a cardiac failure; her granddaughter lives in the United States, and the second one grew up and left as well. What remained from Kondratenkos family in Gomel were two tombs and herself.

“I kept telling him — sonny, I’m all alone, your father’s gone, your brother’s gone, please come back… And he said: mom, I like it here. And I stopped asking,” says Lidiya Arsentyevna in my documentary. As she speaks, she’s looking into nowhere, and her eyes seem to not see anything at all.

We were filming her in July, 2017. By that time I had been well into my fifth year of searching for Volodya. Lidiya Arsentyevna was crying in front of the camera in Gomel, and I was weeping as I watched the footage across the ocean. “Where are you, sonny? Where are you? I’m so scared to never see you again!”

Neither of us knew I would find Volodya two days after this teary interview. I would find his name in a list of deaths, and will have no sleep during subsequent three days. I didn’t know how to say it to relatives with whom I had become so close.

Lost his memory or lost himself?

I made my first documentary in the United States thanks to Volodya and the likes, i.e. people I never met and never will. I made it thanks to their relatives. It’s a long and sad story about immigrants from former USSR who went missing in the U.S. at different points of time since 1990s. The documentary wouldn’t have appeared if not for numerous coincidences and needless tragedies, which make you believe in fatality. Each and every of my characters came into my life out of nowhere and by accident, and all of them changed it for good.

I had never looked for missing people before or spent days and nights in an archive. I am a hot-tempered person, and it’s hard for me to sit still for a while. It all changed on one April night in 2013. As I was lazily scrolling my Odnoklassniki feed, I came across a status posted by Volodya’s cousin, Oksana O. That post is still on her page; it now has almost 250,000 likes and more than 13,000 shares. Still, I don’t think I should disclose Oksana’s last name. Volodya’s fate has been known for more than six months now, but website visitors continue sharing their ideas about whereabouts of the former Afghanistan soldier. Still, I don’t want Oksana to be disturbed because of me. Whether she left that post published in memory of her cousin, or she doesn’t have time and strength to delete it — it’s none of my business.

“Friends, your attention please!!!! This is my brother Vladimir Kondratenko. He went missing in 2002 in the city of Brooklyn, the United States. Please like this post, there might be people out there who will recognize him. A Zhdi Menya Show (a TV show helping people search for their missing relatives — ed.) didn’t help. Vladimir had problems with memory after his service in Afghanistan…,” her message reads.

Vladimir Kondratenko. Courtesy of Kondratenko’s family archive.

Four years ago my inner editor overpowered a human being, and I commented on her status that Brooklyn is a borough, not a city, but also said I would ask if I’m there. Oksana responded, and we started talking to each other.

I had no plans of searching for Volodya. I’ll put it this way — I was sure I shouldn’t even start because I would never find him. First, too much time had passed since then, and second, who am I? A detective? Nope. A former cop with skills still available? No. I am a mother of many children, a wife, a journalist. Finally, I am an immigrant who forgets English words when in a worry.

“I will write an article about Volodya to a local newspaper; someone might as well respond to it,” I promised his relatives. And I kept my word. After the article about Volodya had been published in Russian Bazaar newspaper, I kept checking responses to it on the website. Bazaar is very popular in Russian community. “Someone should have seen him, someone knew him!” I kept thinking. “The person could not just disappear!” It turned out he could, you bet.

Readers who did respond to the article sent information about some other Vladimir Kondratenkos — they were just namesakes, not our Volodya. I double-double-checked everything: nope, he didn’t leave for Florida, nope, he didn’t change his Brooklyn address, nope, it was not him. Has he died? If so, why didn’t they notify the family? I can understand it when an illegal immigrant crosses the U.S. border through a desert — no fingerprints in databases, no other information. But Volodya was a legal resident. Why didn’t they notify them? Does it mean he’s alive? My intuition told me this could not be possible, but I still started searching for him among the quick. I didn’t want to but I still started — the conversation with his mom stroke a raw nerve.

“Lidiya Arsentyevna, could he just up and disappear? Was it like him? Did he do anything like it earlier?” I remember asking her during our first conversation.

“No, it was not like him… He was an easy going guy, very kind. And he knew I was all alone… Volodya couldn’t do it. I feel something happened but I have no idea what exactly. What if he lost his memory?”

My scavenger experience is poor. There might be people out there who did lose their memory and do not return home. I did find 32 people alive: some of them just take a bow on the streets, some stay in shelters, others just live and do not want to see anyone from their previous lives. But none of them lost their memory. However, I heard this question more often in the previous six months than ‘How are you?’ Relatives of missing people kept telling me about full or partial amnesia.

I gave it a thought and divided a page on Volodya into three parts:

• He’s dead.
• He’s become a homeless and asocial person, a drinker who doesn’t care about his mother or daughter.
• He just doesn’t want to get in touch, like he took offense or started with a clean sheet.

And then, reluctantly, I wrote “Possible memory loss.” Among others I was searching for, Volodya could have lost his memory following his war blast injury.

The truth is out there

Volodya disappeared less than two years after moving to the United States. He made his last phone call to his mom in late February 2002. He said he would transfer her some money for father’s gravestone, and got disconnected. It turned out later, disconnected for good. I started looking for him in summer 2013. I realized it was in vain, but I still started from checking his home address. Not only tenants, even owners of the building had changed since his disappearance. No one remembered or knew anything. No one could identify him from a photograph. However, one senior woman remembered that someone ditched a lot of stuff outside long time ago, and there were many photographs among them. The wind opened the albums up and was flying the photos along the street for some time… It was the owner of the apartment where Volodya rented a room. He didn’t call the police to report Volodya’s disappearance, but just threw away his simple belongings and brought new tenants in.

This is a very important detail that concerns all of the missing people in my documentary and around us as well. When people speak of those missing, they tend to say “mystically.” “He disappeared mystically, leaving no signs…” Well, there is nothing mystical about it. Nothing supernatural. None of those missing was kidnapped by UFOs, none of them fell through a hole in the ground or disappeared in a different dimension. All of them are here. They went missing and cannot be found because of this careless attitude to each other, like with that stuff thrown to the streets from an apartment. And a lack of professionalism; and a job poorly done, speaking of police or forensic expertise bureau, which played an important role in Volodya’s story and the stories of many other people I covered. There is this lack of attention, and carelessness. This is why people disappear for good. Although some cases do sound so weird that you can’t help but thinking of some witching involved.

The truth is that people go missing because they die, or are kidnapped, or they want to disappear… The bodies are not found because they might be underwater, or a person can be buried as another person or without a name at all, mistaken for an unidentified person… As I was working on my documentary, I unwound a ball of yarn made of human mistakes, unprofessionalism, and unfinished work, not some mystical coincidences, mysterious situations or miraculous resurrections. Alas and alack, even though some would like to believe in supernatural stories.

Neither dead nor alive

After I checked Volodya’s residence, I returned home and registered as a volunteer at www.namUs.gov. The U.S. sees a huge problem with databases of missing people and found bodies. Each state has its own websites, data, and databases, as well as websites made by volunteers. This results in such massive scope of information that it’s easy to lose your mind. www.namUs.gov is the only attempt so far to accumulate all information about missing and found in all the states in a single database. It’s still far from perfect, it features a lot of outdated information, but still it’s the best option of all we have in the U.S. so far. Many databases on the website are closed for volunteers; only police officers, FBI, or forensic have access to them. But voluntary help could be useful for it as well. I sent Volodya’s information to the website, and he was listed there as a missing person. Then I looked through the database of unidentified bodies for each state — who knows… But Volodya was not there.

Vladimir Kondratenko. Courtesy of Kondratenko’s family archive.

I didn’t hope someone would help me and I didn’t know where to start. But when Volodya’s information was published on the website, I felt I would find him. I remember calling his daughter Vika four years ago to ask what she learned from the police, and I said the same thing to her, so confident — I will find him. Victoria was not able to start searching for a long time. She was a little girl when he disappeared, but when she grew up and reported to the police, they told her it had been too much time and there was no sense in searching. Volodya’s former wife got married for the second time and was not interested in searching for him; why would she.

Lidiya Arsentyevna did all she could. She could do so little… She sent three requests to the Zhdi Menya show. Having received no response, she and Oksana called the show. They waited for 20 minutes on the line, and then were disconnected. They could not afford yet another international call, so they stopped trying. Neither could they fly to the United States, and there was no sense in it. What would they do? Borrow money to do what? Report to the police? Without English and money they were destined only for waiting, crying, and praying.

My next step was to conduct a poll. I showed photos of Volodya to members of a small church in Brighton. When the parish was headed by father Vadim, it even gave shelter to homeless people who had nowhere to go. Father Vadim has quit long time ago, but continues offering hot food twice a week to those who lost themselves to immigration, who failed to adapt and broke after they moved here. It’s a separate story worth of another documentary. But the father and his parish members know a lot of homeless people.

The most horrible thing was that many recognized Volodya from his photos. He was recognized later as well — in 2014, and even in early 2017, 14 years after his death… Now I know this: when you’re asking people to identify someone on a photograph, you shouldn’t be asking ‘Have you seen this person?’ The question should be worded differently. I don’t know why, I don’t know this peculiarity of human thinking, but 90% of those you ask (or even more) will necessarily recognize a photographed person. Their memory will helpfully suggest that they saw this person at a church mass or on the street. When you tell them he went missing, their imagination will be happy to draw various stories about him. Isn’t that him who begs daily near the subway? Wasn’t that him in the news story about a homeless who won $100,000 in a lottery?

And so on and so forth. This was horrible because their answers gave hope to me and Volodya’s family. People were recognizing him with such a certainty that I got angry at Volodya — how could you??? His mom exhausted herself while he attends church masses and doesn’t call her, how could he?

Those who recognized Volodya referred me to an Afghan fighters club. Then I reached out to freestyle wrestlers because some said they “saw” him there. Then some woman posted a comment under Oksana’s post stating that she was a security guard in Coney Island Hospital and was able to allegedly check the hospital database and saw he visited them almost 30 times. I checked all hints patiently, but Volodya was not there.

“I’ve been looking for you for four years…”

The decision to make a documentary about my searches came unexpectedly. Apart from Kondratenko’s story, there was another one I was working on. Back in 2001 I met the family of Teterins from Moscow. Their elder brother and son Anatoly Teterin went missing in New York in early 1990s. I had no clue where to start searching as it had been too much time… In May 2017 I decided to make a documentary, not just about Vladimir and Anatoly but about their families. About parents whose children left for New York in search of happiness and disappeared amid that happiness. Too much emotion had piled up in me over that time.

I started filming the next day after my college semester ended. I hired a cameraman in Gomel and one in Moscow. They were to film interviews with the families of Vladimir and Anatoly. In the meanwhile, I decided to go through archives one more time — deeper and more elaborately. I went through the database of unidentified bodies once more, and read carefully all descriptions that matched age and race parameters. I once again walked through Brighton looking into faces of homeless people and trying to find my characters among them. I once again contacted the Department on Homeless Service. I once again looked through the database of unclaimed bodies that had been buried in a collective grave on a Bronx cemetery.

I don’t know what came down on me on that day, but I decided to search for my characters in that database using their first names only. There was only one Anatoly there but he didn’t match by age or date — he was dead when my Anatoly Teterin was still alive and kicking.

There were more Vladimirs in the database — 12 people. I ran eyes over the familiar list. And then suddenly my heart thrummed and plumped down. On April 14, 2003, some Vladimir Kindretenko, 45, was found dead in Brighton. I dialed a special department in the mayor’s office dealing with such issues, named myself, said I believe he might be my relative and asked to clarify his last name. Because their spelling was just plain wrong, there are no such last names in our community.

I am not sure about other states, but in New York where I live death is not confidential information. It’s difficult to obtain a death certificate here if you’re not related to the deceased, but information about death is public, so they agreed.

“Please wait, I will open the original document,” a woman on the phone said. She returned in a minute and asked: “Is Kandatenko a correct last name?”

“No,” I said in a tired voice. “It’s like Rodriguez — if you see Fodriguez, you will know it’s a misprint. He’s last name is Kondratenko…”

“I will send you the original document, what’s your address?”

Vladimir Kondratenko. Courtesy of Kondratenko’s family archive.

This is how I obtained the original document of the body registration, with the name Kondratenko Vladimir written in with nice handwriting. I spent probably an hour sitting and staring at the name. It’s over, he’s dead. Well, hello, Volodya. I’ve been looking for you for four years… And I couldn’t find you because 1) this database was launched later, when I was well into my searches, and 2) when I reached it, I searched by last name which was written incorrect.

The document of the body registration.

Volodya was 35 when he died, so they got his age wrong as well. His family took it as hope — it’s not our Volodya! I saw it as just another mistake — it’s over. Lidiya Arsentyevna lost her second son as well.

I remember messaging to Oksana. We contacted via Skype and she kept demanding evidence it was the same Volodya. I had nothing except for the feeling that it was him. “But why didn’t they inform anybody?” Oksana kept asking, and I didn’t know what to say. I called Vika and told her I found him.

“OK, thanks,” said Vika and hang up. She called me back after two hours and started asking tons of questions. She calmed down from the shock and was able to talk.

A long way home

After I found Volodya, some kind of floodgate opened up on me as if an informational dam had a hole torn in. I dived into a wave of stories about former USSR immigrants missing in the United States.

My documentary turned from a modest one about two families into a 75-minute story of pain and tears. It focuses on one single problem: families of deceased foreign residents, even if they had a legal status in the U.S., are not notified when their bodies are found. By law, this should be done by employees of the Office of Chief Medical Examiner. They should not just include in their documents that the families were notified, but also specify who they called, when they called, at which numbers, and so on. They should have called . But they didn’t.

Take Volodya. He was identified before long by a dentist through a dental X-ray. Police had everything, from fingerprints and personal data to his birthplace and SSN. As a result, he was buried as an unclaimed body two weeks after he died on a beautiful day in April near a supermarket in Russian-speaking neighborhood in Brooklyn. Do you know how many Volodyas are out there? Hundreds of them… Not all of them had a legal status in the U.S., but all had first names and last names. But they just disappeared for their relatives for one simple reason — no one called their families, no one called embassies. Why? I do not know. But my documentary looks into it.

I have never found Anatoly Teterin. His fate, like the fate of tree more people, remains an unsolved mystery. Will I keep searching for them? I haven’t decided yet. It’s an emotional toll that is way too heavy.

Vika and Lena identified their father and former husband on his posthumous photos. It was easy — he looked the same on them as he did when he was alive. Just no smile.

Vladimir Kondratenko with his family. Courtesy of Kondratenko’s family archive.

I have no idea what Volodya did during that year from late February 2002, when he called his mom for the last time, through April 2003, when he was found dead. I don’t know why he didn’t call her over that period, or where the money for the gravestone were spent, or where he lived during that time… I have more questions than answers. But I know that Volodya’s ashes in a metal funeral urn will soon cross the ocean in a plane flying from huge New York City to tiny Gomel. I know that Volodya’s mom no longer cries into nowhere. She’s now mourning her son’s death. And she says it’s easier than living 15 years without knowing where your son has gone.

Following Volodya, the ashes of other missing people will fly back to the former USSR republics. Some people we found called their parents after it. Others forbid us telling their relatives they were alive or give them any contact details. Each story has its own end. I lived through all of them. Volodya was the only one I said “Well, hello” to. And the only one I say “Bye, Volodya. I will always remember you.”

Читайте также на ForumDaily:

Как живет в Америке внучка Сталина

Четыре вещи, которые нужно сделать, чтобы получать хорошую пенсию в США

Пенсионеры уезжают из Америки, опасаясь тяжелой жизни

Как живут казахстанские нелегалы в Нью-Йорке

Хотите больше важных и интересных новостей о жизни в США и иммиграции в Америку? — Поддержите нас донатом! А еще подписывайтесь на нашу страницу в Facebook. Выбирайте опцию «Приоритет в показе» —  и читайте нас первыми. Кроме того, не забудьте оформить подписку на наш канал в Telegram  и в Instagram— там много интересного. И присоединяйтесь к тысячам читателей ForumDaily New York — там вас ждет масса интересной и позитивной информации о жизни в мегаполисе.