In 1942, Meir Rudman became a student in the very first intake of the newly opened Kuibyshev Aviation Institute and remained devoted to his alma mater for half a century. Today, his life's work—serving science, teaching, and nurturing new generations—is carried on by his daughter, Rimma Rudman, a Senior Lecturer at the Department of Algebra and Geometry, and his granddaughter, Anna Demina, an Associate Professor at the Department of Philosophy at Samara University. This interview for sobaka.ru is a genuine story about how succession transforms from a beautiful concept into daily, inspiring work.
"My Father Stayed at the University Forever and Worked in the Same Department for Over 50 Years – Until the Very End"
Your family dynasty spans three generations of scientists. How did this academic lineage begin? Who was your grandfather, and why did your father, Meir Davidovich, choose the Aviation Institute specifically?
Rimma: I don’t really like the word "dynasty." Nothing comes out of nowhere: family values were instilled across all branches of our family. My grandfather worked as a timber grader and lived in the middle of nowhere, but he had absolute pitch. My father inherited this gift: he could pick out a melody on any musical instrument. My cousin and I graduated from music school specifically because of my dad—he really wanted us to know how to read sheet music.
In his childhood, my dad was a straight-A student with innate literacy—largely due to the influence of his older brother, a polyglot who knew eight languages. We lived modestly, and my father's first earnings came from what is now called tutoring. Back then, the ultimate dream for boys was a career as an engineer at a sugar factory, so my dad enrolled in the Kyiv Technological Institute.
But then the war started. In 1942, my father's middle brother, who had already been evacuated to Kuibyshev, invited him to join him. My dad transferred to the newly established Kuibyshev Aviation Institute and became a student of its historic first intake.
So your father was there at the very inception of the Kuibyshev Aviation Institute?
Rimma: Yes. During the evacuation, all Moscow, Kyiv, and Voronezh enterprises, upon relocating to Kuibyshev, became Kuibyshev-based. That’s how he ended up in the first intake. My father stayed at the University forever and worked in the same department for over 50 years—until his passing.
Does that mean your academic succession started right from childhood?
Rimma: Probably, we are talking here not so much about a scientific dynasty as a pedagogical one. At the same time, my father was an amazingly versatile person and gave us complete freedom of choice.
What are the earliest childhood memories you have carried with you throughout your life?
Rimma: In 1957, when I was born, my parents lived in a room on the ground floor of the second building of KuAI (now the site of the "Babylon" shopping mall). And when I was two and a half, we were given two adjoining rooms in a communal apartment on Volzhsky Prospekt, and we used to take long walks with my dad along the embankment.
Dad sang to me a lot. As a child, I could only remember a melody if I knew the words, but now, having raised children and grandchildren, it’s the other way around—I remember the melody but forget the words. Dad knew the answers to any question; he had a profound sense for music and languages.
Mom was also a creative and passionate person who knew several languages. She graduated from a construction institute, and during the war, in 1943, while still studying, she worked as a foreman at the construction site of Krasnaya Glinka.
Did you ever visit your father at work at KuAI yourself?
Rimma: I didn't visit my dad at work as a child: KuAI was a closed institution, and such visits were practically impossible.
When did you have your first teaching experience?
Rimma: In my youth, I was a real activist: class monitor, chairperson of the pioneer detachment council, secretary of the school Komsomol committee. Naturally, all the students who were falling behind in one subject or another were traditionally my responsibility. My first real teaching experience happened in the ninth grade. Dad came and said, "I need your help. There are twin violinists who are really struggling with math. Tutor them."
So pedagogy began for you while you were still in school?
Rimma: Exactly. My older brother also started teaching quite early. He developed an early interest in math, so he passed his exams externally and transferred to a specialized math class at School No. 63. Later, he entered our Pedagogical Institute, where he taught at the evening math school, and after the army, he went to the University's Faculty of Mechanics and Mathematics. My brother worked with schoolchildren at a very high level, preparing them for olympiads. One of his students, whom he took to the All-Russian Mathematics Olympiad, was my future husband. That’s how closely our family and academic paths intertwined.
"The Most Important Thing Inherited from My Parents Through Generations is a Pure Intellectual Curiosity"
How did you yourself end up at the Faculty of Mechanics and Mathematics? Was it a conscious choice?
Rimma: Initially, I dreamed of bionics—it was a completely new and rare field back then. But it required a lot of drafting. My parents drew amazingly well, but it was difficult for me: I could design something, sure, but polishing a technical drawing to perfection was just not my thing. Since my brother was already studying at the mechanics and mathematics faculty, and I was outperforming the rest of the class in math lessons, the choice became obvious. And I have never regretted it once.
My parents fully supported this decision. Dad always gave me absolute freedom of choice. I remember when I was writing my thesis and explaining the gist of it to him, he would say, "Explain it to me simply: if I understand it, then it's all correct." By the way, this is the main criterion of a true teacher—the ability to convey the most complex scientific thought so that even someone not particularly versed in the topic can understand it.
How did your career unfold after graduating from the University?
Rimma: After University, I was assigned to a research institute: the work wasn't related to math, so it didn't bring me any joy. Two and a half years later, young specialists were unofficially told, "If you want to leave, leave now." It was January 1981, and finding a job in a teaching staff in the middle of winter in Soviet times was practically impossible, so I started working as a math teacher at a vocational school.
Soon I got married, became pregnant with Anya, and got a job at a regular school. And when my daughter was a year old, I was invited to work at the University in the Department of Higher Mathematics. Before that, they had offered me at most a senior lab assistant position (which is why I chose the research institute), but now an assistant position opened up. That’s how I returned to our university, which I haven't left since.
Life was boiling at the mechanics and mathematics faculty back then: special courses, clubs, world-class science... Later, some of our teachers moved to work at the Steklov Institute or abroad. My brother also taught—first at the State University, then he moved to the Department of Higher Mathematics at the Aviation Institute, and from there to applied mathematics. All these years, the Evening Mathematical School remained the connecting thread for us. Everyone worked there: my brother, me, my husband, and later—my students. We worked with schoolchildren on olympiad programs: many of those kids later came to study at our faculty and stayed to work. By the way, we are still friends with some of them—exactly from that third generation. This is the main, the most correct task of education—to create an intellectual community around yourself.
Your husband also devoted his life to teaching, didn't he?
Rimma: Yes. He was three years older than me, also graduated from the mechanics and mathematics faculty, then went to a targeted postgraduate program in Moscow, and in 1981 returned to Samara and started teaching at the University.
Anna, you grew up in this amazing atmosphere, you were that very "university child." Didn't you ever feel tempted to choose a completely different path?
Anna: As far back as I can remember, I always lived in a state of resistance: I desperately wanted to distance myself from my parents and find my own niche. My childhood really was spent in the department. Mom and Dad often took me to work with them. My drawing paper was students' test papers, and there was always an abundance of chalk in the house.
University life accompanied me in school, too. I studied at the Nayanova University school. It was a unique experimental institution with a concept of continuous education: school smoothly flowed into the university. We chose our specialization in the seventh grade, and we started mastering part of the university curriculum right in school. We were issued credit books and student ID cards almost from the fourth grade, and we took real university exams.
I searched for myself for a long time. All around me were mathematicians and engineers: mom, dad, uncles, grandma and grandpa. At the same time, I clearly understood that my relationship with math was, to put it mildly, complicated. My grandfather had a great influence on me. In my childhood, he sang songs with me, we composed poems together, and picked out melodies on the piano.
And gradually, I found my path, which ultimately led me to the Department of Philosophy.
And who did you dream of becoming in childhood, since math was excluded from the list?
Anna: I tried for a long time to figure out who to be if not a mathematician. As a child, I loved biology and wanted to open an animal shelter, then I got into psychology. The most important thing passed down to me from my parents through generations is a pure intellectual curiosity. I wanted to study the fundamentals: how the world and I myself are structured. At school, I was fascinated by literature as a way to explore the human soul; I wanted to study philosophy. There was no philosophy faculty in Samara at the time, and the philology faculty became my conscious opposition to my parents. I was the only humanities person in the family.
Rimma Meirovna, how did you perceive your daughter's "humanities rebellion"?
Rimma: With absolute approval. There was always complete democracy in our family. My parents raised me that way, and I raised my children exactly the same: the choice is always yours, but so is the responsibility for it. If needed, I will help with everything I can, but decisions are made personally.
Were there any prerequisites in Anna's childhood that she would become a teacher?
Rimma: Probably not, life just turned out that way. Anya grew up surrounded by adults; music constantly played at home and books were read. She started talking very early, clearly and correctly (even before she started walking!). We recorded her first words on the huge reels of an old tape recorder.
Anna: And I ended up learning to read upside down, just by looking into my dad's book.
Rimma: Yes, that's exactly how it was! Besides, my father, Meir Davidovich, spent a lot of time with Anya. So her childhood was literally enveloped in care, books, and constant live communication.
Did your younger son also choose the exact sciences?
Rimma: His diploma says "mathematician, computer security specialist." My son graduated from the mechanics and mathematics faculty, but his range of interests is much broader: at the intersection of programming, economics, and artificial intelligence. At the same time, just like Anya, he grew up to be a very creative person: he graduated from the choir school at the opera house and was seriously into music. And his current organizational work is largely akin to pedagogy.
"The Best Motivational Resource for Me is When Former Students Come to You for Life Advice, Already With Their Own Children"
SSAU and SamSU are the two pillars of Samara's education, but in your family, they merged long before the official merger of the universities and the creation of Samara University. How did you react to the news of their merger?
Anna: For me, it became an important personal story. I graduated from the State University, and came to teach philosophy at the Aerospace University. When the universities merged, I felt that everything was in its right place.
Three generations of teachers in one family—is that a heavy burden of responsibility?
Anna: Yes! Even while studying at the University, I really wanted to be judged by my abilities, and not as the "daughter of teachers." For a while, I thought about going into a museum or library environment, but I understood that only the University provides that specific energy and the opportunity to engage in pure science.
Today I teach philosophy, including to master's students at the Institute of Informatics and Cybernetics—the same students to whom my mother taught during their bachelor's degree. My task is to teach adult programmers and engineers to ask the right questions and not lose their intellectual curiosity.
Rimma: Anya has a much more difficult task than mine: students come to me for highly specialized knowledge, and to her—future engineers who are sure they already know everything. Teaching philosophy to specialists with technical interests is a colossal task. But it is precisely philosophy that allows them to see the world as a whole, as a single system with common roots, rather than fragmented pieces of information.
What do you most often talk about over a cup of tea—mathematics or philosophy?
Anna: Neither. Although lately, I've been looking more and more toward mathematics. It is a completely specific, unique language. My scientific interest is related to semiotics—the theory of signs and sign systems. I am trying to synthesize my philological, philosophical, and psychological experiences. As Plato showed us, a philosopher is a mathematician. Therefore, I periodically try to "interrogate" my mom to understand the internal structure of her science, but it doesn't come easily to me.
Rimma: Over tea, we discuss everything we find interesting: family, music, theater, new books...
You mentioned that you go to the theater together. How polarized can your opinions be after the performances?
Rimma: I'm usually the first to go to opera premieres, and then I drag everyone else along. For drama performances, the children more often go without me. In music, our tastes really do diverge. I love pure classics. For example, I like listening to Shostakovich or Gubaidulina, but my children, on the contrary, don't like them.
Anna: Yes, I can't stand listening to Shostakovich. This is where our views diverge.
Teaching involves colossal emotional expenditure. What is your main secret to recovering after lectures, seminars, and exam sessions?
Rimma: The main thing is to sincerely love what you do. Without that, no amount of money will save you at work. Of course, students can be difficult, and days can be hard, but the best motivational resource for me is when my former students come to me for life advice, already with their own children.
Anna: As for physical rebooting, for me, it's the Volga and nature. Our region is unique: without leaving Samara, you can get to Lysaya Gora and instantly find yourself in another reality. And trips to the Mstryukov Lakes or Shiryaev are the best way to instantly reset any stress.
"The Most Valuable Heirloom Passed Down to Me by My Parents, and Which I Hope I Have Been Able to Pass to My Children, is Unconditional Love"
The fourth generation of your family is already growing up. Where does your son plan to apply?
Anna: This year he graduated from school and is applying to the faculty of architecture.
What delights or surprises you the most about modern students?
Rimma: Every generation has outstanding kids. Yes, there is a noticeable wave of infantilism now, many mature later and don't always understand why they came to the University. The cultural experience has changed: literary quotes that the audience used to respond to instantly in the past have to be explained to today's students. But at the same time, there are fantastic kids who work at night, and the next day write perfect lecture notes!
Anna: Amazing spontaneity and lack of fear. This helps students maintain a lively curiosity. And I also feel that the psychological distance between the teacher and the student has become much smaller today. We find common ground and reasons for communication more easily.
Does your family have an item that you would call your main heirloom?
Rimma: It's not so much an item. Everything material is temporary: today it's fashionable, tomorrow it's not. The most valuable heirloom passed down to me by my parents, and which I hope I have been able to pass on to my children, is unconditional love. Of course, we keep family artifacts: the orders and combat medals of my aunt, who went through the whole war as a military medic, letters, old postcards, a huge library. But the main thing is still love.
Source: sobaka.ru
Text: Ksenia Vozgorkova
Photo: Daria Mishchenko
