Once, at a very large and prestigious advertising and marketing conference, I struck up a conversation with a well-known figure, the creator of many brands and an employee of a prominent marketing agency. Of course, I can’t disclose any names—it’s too delicate a matter.
He was completely wasted. I jokingly asked him if the wine was good. He caught the hint and, looking at me with unexpectedly clear eyes, said:
— You won’t understand!
— I’m a grateful listener! — I replied with a smile. He looked at me doubtfully and asked:
— If I tell you that last night the End of the World came in my life, will you be able to understand?
— I’ll try, as long as you don’t beat around the bush.
And he, occasionally pausing to take another drink, began his story. It turns out he had never come up with anything on his own, and all those well-known brands and company names he had created didn’t come from thin air; he got them from one person. He had been receiving them until today, when instead of another piece of advice on what to name a new sports shoe company, he got a rejection. Moreover, the rejection was final, and that person declared that he would no longer be involved in coming up with names.
Not only that, my conversation partner confessed, but more than 70% of all successful trademarks and brands were chosen by this man, or his father, or his grandfather. Many people turned to them very often. I was surprised to learn that this person lives not far from me, in Podil, Kyiv, and he has a rather simple name—Semen Repanik. Semen Iosipovich Repanik.
It turns out that the flow of people seeking advice from Syoma, and before him from Yosi, and before that from Abrasha, and even earlier from Moysha, had not ceased since a rather unremarkable pharmacy product began to be sold retail under a name chosen by the little-known pharmacist Abram Mikhailovich Repanik during his trip to the United States to visit relatives. Someone named Frank Roberts, who approached the traveling Abrasha, already knew about the talent of the Repanik family, as rumors about it had been circulating since the time when Abrasha’s father, Moysha Repanik, suggested a title for a philosophical pamphlet to a distant relative in Germany, which later became hugely successful. That relative then let slip to an English capitalist where he got the idea for the title, and the enterprising London businessman quickly grasped the situation, marking the Kyiv Podil with a bold label in “narrow circles.”
The Germans played an astonishing and decisive role in the Repanik family, which went beyond just a brochure. When the mystically inclined Adolf Hitler was searching for names and images for his ideology, he recalled stories he had been told and, taking advantage of good relations with the USSR, sent an emissary to Kyiv. The meeting with Yosif Abramovich was extremely brief but productive. Yosya, being “under the watch” of the NKVD, demanded a reward for his correct choice for the first time in his life. He asked not only for money but also, as his “mentors” had taught him, for military-technical assistance. The Germans, despite the seemingly absurd nature of the demands, agreed. Thus began the era of paradoxical cooperation between fascists and communists.
The NKVD was also aware of the talents of the Repanik family and diligently (and for free) exploited the abilities of the young Abrasha. However, neither the Germans nor the Russians could afford any leaks regarding who chooses names and titles for their political, economic, or social programs. Therefore, in one of the secret protocols of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, there was a protocol on the mutual confidentiality of information about the Repanik family.
The Repaniks did not evacuate from Kyiv in 1941. They were mistakenly not allowed on the train. However, the Germans did not touch them either.
The secret of this family could not be completely hidden, as they were already known in America. After the war, the Americans paid for access to Repanik with Lend-Lease supplies, as well as some other undisclosed concessions cleverly disguised in the protocols of the Yalta Conference. Meanwhile, Repanik took money from the Americans, the French, the Italians, and the Japanese, and it was no small amount. Of course, all this money went into the state treasury, but the Repanik family received privileges on par with members of the Central Committee of the party. They refused to leave the area, and as a result, they were given an entire mansion, disguised on the outside as a “perpetually under renovation” thrift store.
Of course, the “vow of silence” not only remains in place but has become even stricter, and what I’m about to tell you is actually a leak caused by the desperation of a drunken fool.
The operation of Repanik was in full swing. Most of the trademarks were created by them. A whole layer of intermediaries formed around them, but they only spoke the final word directly to the future owner of the trademark and only after a lengthy conversation. They were determined not to repeat the mistakes of the past, which were linked to explicit or implicit support for ideological movements. Perhaps for these reasons, they often turned down their clients, irritating the KGB and frustrating customers. Although they were no longer involved in ideology at all, their refusals were solely related to commercial projects.
The entire story from my acquaintance left me with doubts on one hand, but on the other, when I looked into his eyes, I saw a bottomless pit of despair. Not only had a reliable source of worthy names, which could be sold and resold, disappeared—since that source was Repanik himself—but my acquaintance also turned out to be the one to whom he had said “enough” to in person. Moreover, he didn’t even explain the reasons for his refusal. Some attributed Repanik’s eccentricities and refusals to the personal qualities of those asking, and the final rejection given to my acquaintance meant a death sentence for his career—a black mark. The story of Repanik ended with him, and perhaps Repanik knows something.
In any case, I was extremely intrigued, and the first thing I did was search the address book for all the Repaniks living in Kyiv. I didn’t find a single one. Just a tall tale, I thought, and I lived with that until now. However, the day before yesterday, a friend of mine, who installs home appliances, told me that he recently installed a new and very expensive washing machine for a client with the unusual last name Repanik. He mentioned that the person lives alone, and although he resides in a large mansion, he lives modestly. The washing machine was expensive, and everything that wasn’t a luxury was also notable for its cost and quality, from the home appliances to the front doors.
— Is this Repanik, by any chance, not Semen Yosipovich who lives in Podil?
— On ___ street, house __? That one! And how do you know him?
— Yeah, it happened; I managed to dodge the questions.
The next day, I was already standing at the threshold of the house, trying to find the doorbell. It was a typical Podolsk mansion, clearly belonging to one person rather than several families. There were no apartments, and three security cameras were watching my every move.
Fifteen seconds later, I had to meet some guy in plain clothes with a wiretap earpiece. I had to pretend I had the wrong address and make a quick exit. However, I didn’t give up. After taking the subway, I returned on foot and started watching from a distance. My patience was rewarded just 15 minutes later. An elderly man came out of the mansion and slowly headed towards the Zhytniy Market. I carefully followed him, and it turned out he was indeed going to the market to do some shopping. That’s where I met him.
— Semyon Yosifovich?
“Yes,” the old man looked at me with an unrecognizing gaze, “I no longer work, and I hope your people are already aware of that!”
— I’m not here for “work,” — I replied, feeling someone stronger holding me by the shoulder.
“Can I help you, young man?” the guard asked.
— Yes, I was just trying to justify myself, really.
“He’s not here for work, let him go!” Semen Yosipovich ordered. I was released.
— So what do you want from me then? — the old man stared at me with his weary eyes.
“I just wanted to talk about you and your life,” I replied.
— That sounds appealing. No one has just talked to me like this in a long time. Let’s go! However, if you lied to me, I guarantee you’ll be thrown out of the second floor! — At the word “guarantee,” I noticed that Semyon Yosifovich had a characteristic lisp.
We chatted for a long time at his place, drank a lot of tea, and he happily shared the story of his family with me. He showed me his “museum” of autographs, which included everything from footballs signed by nearly all successful football clubs to postcards featuring astronauts on the Moon. It was a wonderful meeting with a remarkable person; such encounters are a gift from fate.
Semyon Yosifovich turned out to be the last of the Repanik family. He lived a long time with his wife, whom he buried 10 years ago due to stomach cancer, but they were not blessed with children.
“Now you understand that I have nothing to lose and my days are numbered? Those jackals have already become unbearable to me. If only you knew how many I had to turn away and how much I’ve suffered from insults!” the old man rasped.
— Oh, by the way, why did you refuse?
“Everything is simple, young man,” Semen Yosipovich already knew my name, but he continued to address me this way. “I refused those who hadn’t done anything good for people and had no plans to do so. I evaluated whether a product, film, or book would be successful… I didn’t come up with the name. I pointed to one of the options presented, just like my father, grandfather, and great-grandfather did. At the same time, I never named something that was already destined to be terrible, or where the people behind the project were incapable of bringing it to life. That’s why, for some time now, we’ve insisted on meeting in person.”
— So, it turns out…
— Yes. There’s no secret to the Repanik family. Good things don’t care what they’re called.
“Why are you telling me this now?” I asked in confusion. “This is clearly a secret!”
“Oh, what a mystery this is! I would tell you, but I haven’t been allowed to. I have no one left around me. You are the only person in 10 years who is willing to listen to me selflessly. Besides, I have nothing to lose anymore—my days are numbered, and my work is no longer needed by anyone. I choose names for some people, and then they resell them to others, and soon the success of the brand and the name Repanik won’t go together.”
-Can I go tell everyone about this?
— Please tell me, but I ask you to do it in a way that no one can find me. I don’t want to have 100 bodyguards instead of ten.
Of course, in this story, some details of the narrative have been altered beyond recognition.