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  For my mother and my daughter

  But wars of independence have a second step and that is a war for borders.

  —SENIOR SECURITY OFFICIAL IN KIEV AS TOLD TO TIM JUDAH, FROM IN WARTIME: STORIES FROM UKRAINE

  Prologue

  WAR

  Ukraine, April 2014

  We wake up at four in the morning to explosions. Once the bombing begins, we may as well get up and start the day. The windows, fortified by tape, are rattling with enough force to shatter into a million pieces. Everyone in the apartment building is awake, you could hear us breathing through the walls. We want to go back to sleep, hard-earned sleep we’ve forced upon ourselves with tranquilizers and alcohol, but what can we do? We still have to get ready for work. We rise, we pick out our clothes, we brush our teeth, we put on makeup. We move to the one room with no glass walls. The entire family gathers in the bathroom, babushka, cat, and all.

  If we start seeing that flare crossing the sky, if the shelling sounds like it’s moving closer, that’s the signal bombing is coming, and we are more frightened when bombing happens during the day than under the shroud of darkness. Such flagrant daytime bombing makes us think all of humanity has been extinguished. Even the cat is traumatized, and nothing we can do, not even the promise of wet food we no longer have, will tease him from out of the space behind the toilet.

  Inside the bathroom, we dress in our best bras and panties. They are not the cotton, granny kind but our finest, without the holes, with a little scalloped silk to the elastic. The girls from work joke that if we don’t survive the walk to school or back and our bodies are splayed out on the sidewalk for all to see, it’s far preferable to be discovered in respectable underthings. Of course if the building goes down, if a single shell hits the nearby chemical factory and sets off a calamity worse than Chernobyl, neither the bathroom nor nice underwear will save us. But controlling our appearance is all we have.

  We never make the twenty-minute walk to work alone; at each block we gather more and more colleagues until an entire row of women are walking with linked arms, flashlights illuminating the road. We exchange the kind of nervous banter that would appear to the eavesdropper as the normal gossip of young women. We recount the highlights of our weekend in entertaining detail, we even laugh at one another’s jokes. But even as we are concentrating on taking one step and then another, we are aware of being watched. Snipers are hiding on the roofs of buildings, at block posts, behind blockades. Tanks with the Ukrainian flag are rolling beside us.

  Soldiers can stop us anytime to search through our bags, so we bring only the essentials, no rucksacks or duffel bags. A small feminine purse. We don’t want to be like Yana, who was trying to head west for a short trip. At the blockade, she was forced to turn her bag inside out. Of course nothing incriminating was found in there, but the soldiers told her, “Who leaves their own region when everyone’s dying? What kind of a patriot are you?” She was so nervous, she pressed her foot on the gas instead of the brake. Well, what do you think happened? She was shot to death. This happens all the time. Sometimes the soldiers get so loaded up with booze, they just shoot at one another, and who wants to be caught in the middle of that nonsense? No one wants their death to be the result of a drunken brawl.

  Today, the principal ushers us all inside the school with a chuckle. “Hello, good morning, ladies, come in, come in. Don’t worry, all will be well. They won’t kill us today.”

  “Well, that’s a relief, Pavel Mikhailovich,” we say, tagging our own laugh onto the end of his. We tuck away our lunches and peel off our cardigans. We try to concentrate on that day’s lesson plan.

  There is no choice but to settle in to work. We are earning eighty a month and rent is fifty a month, and everything we squirrel away goes toward emergency doctors’ visits. We know if something happens to us or our parents or grandparents, the emergency personnel will first ask, “And how old is your babushka?” and “Do you have the cash to cover this?” Even if poor babushka is having a heart attack right in front of them! To draw blood, we know to go to the hospital with our own cotton, our own syringe, our own alcohol. All that requires cash. No, not a day of work must be missed.

  Our students are so young and frightened. Some have been well informed by their parents about what’s going on but others are sweetly, innocently protected. We go over the protocol, the emergency drill, the evacuation plan in case our school is shelled. Japan or some other country has managed to slip in some relief supplies, blue rucksacks with notebooks and pencils, some medicine. The kids caress the pencils like the most precious of toys.

  At least some part of the day is devoted to talking about the war. We hand out photographs of mines, so they know what they look like on the ground. We’ve heard stories of kids who’ve stepped on a mine while running around outside. We will not let it happen to any of ours if we can help it. A classic game like Old Woman Kutsia—where a blindfolded child must find his friends by following the sound of their clapping—is strictly forbidden. We feel so sorry for these kids. What kind of life is this? As children, we used to spend hours playing in the woods but our students must come directly home after school. So must we.

  On the way home, we see the soldiers from the west, the ones sent here to “protect” us from separatists, we see the ones from Russia, slipped in to rescue us from western Ukrainian occupation, and we see the separatists, who insist we need to wrestle control of our region, that we have never belonged to Ukraine. To be honest, we’re tired of all of them. We want nothing except an end to this war.

  These poor men, how can we not pity them? They have been sent to a region they do not know. The ones from the west are in flip-flops, poorly outfitted. Their guns are foreign objects for them, bigger than their scrawny forms. They are so incredibly young for their jobs, sixteen or seventeen, or so incredibly old, in their fifties and sixties. They are hungry and cold. We give them food from our garden plot, eggs and potatoes. They make makeshift homes for themselves in the woods, rickety planks held together by twine that collapse at the first threat of wind. They keep saying, “the junta is coming,” “the bandera.” The words tumble out of their mouths, do they even believe them? Most are just knocking on our door, asking for showers, for a spare bandage for their bleeding feet.

  When we return to our cold apartment, there is no warmth even among family. We are all divided east or west. Cousins and uncles stop returning phone calls. They remove your friendship and block you on Odnoklassniki. Other than Mongolian common cold recipes and cats running on treadmills, the only posts we like on the site are:

  If you have Russo-Ukrainian families, husband, wife, mother, father, grandfather, grandmother, like this post. If you have relatives in Ukraine or in Russia, like this post! Let’s show the whole world that we are not just two countries that share a common border. We have mutual families and relatives!

  121K comments   4K shares   536K likes

&nbs
p; And:

  Let’s make a common wish for New Year’s: so our parents live a long life, our children don’t fall ill, our loved ones don’t leave us, friends don’t betray us, salary should grow, prices should not. And the most important thing: no war.

  Posts like these make us feel less alone and less crazy.

  We know this: we are poor. No one wants us in Europe. Everyone tells us it will get better, but our life is worse, way worse. We are trapped here. We are living as though in medieval times with no light or water, or medical care. We walk around with candles. Everyone is abandoning the city. You think you hear the sound of footsteps, but it is the dragging paws of an abandoned dog. Anyone who can, leaves.

  And we know all too well, a Ukrainian winter is coming. The days will be shorter at least, which means more bombing in the dark where it belongs. But there will be no heat, and we will be starving and jittery and half crazed with fear all day. War is so loud; you have no idea how loud war is. You’re just not prepared for the noise. And the agonizing passage of time. We spend those hours trembling with the cat in the bathroom, washing our underthings in the sink, drying them on the side of the tub. Drinking neat spirits. Preparing for the next day’s walk among the rubble.

  TRANSCRIPT OF AN INTERVIEW CONDUCTED WITH A TWENTY-SEVEN-YEAR-OLD SCHOOLTEACHER LIVING IN THE DONBASS REGION OF UKRAINE

  —THE ATLANTIC

  1

  First-World Problems

  Brooklyn, April 2014

  In this Brooklyn neighborhood, Nadia was sure she was the only nanny from Ukraine. She preferred to think of herself as an observer, a temporary traveler, someone waiting for a new life to begin, rather than who she really was: a worker executing an invisible task within the neighborhood’s complex ecosystem.

  She generally liked the cheerful chaos of the park playground. Children were tooling about on sea legs, clutching green pouches of pureed nonsense. Older kids swished about on those dangerous scooters, babies giggled their way down slides. The sudden eruption of tears, the squeaky hum of the swings, the sound of women droning into their cell phones. By this point, Nadia was capable of pulling out a few phrases in English—Come here, No, Don’t touch—but the rest congealed into a soupy blur behind her eyelids.

  One eye trained on Sasha, Nadia was listening to a song her daughter emailed her by some blondinka pop singer with preternaturally tanned skin. On first glance, this Vera Brezhneva was yet another Ukrainian starlet who had magically transformed herself into one of “Russia’s sexiest women.” On the other hand, the song had a melancholy strain Nadia couldn’t resist and the music video, three generations of blond girls, mothers, and grandmothers in white shifts embracing one another on breezy seashores, made her cry. The song was a mother addressing a beloved daughter, advising her to uphold inner strength during the most difficult times and promising that, no matter what, she would always be by her side—two ways she was currently failing her own daughter. “Don’t fall apart, my dearest girl,” Brezhneva breathed into Nadia’s earbuds.

  She was tugged into the song’s plaintive chorus, the tide of hopelessness for her own family’s situation, when she noticed Sasha scissor across the wooden slats of the jungle gym to yank a stuffed rabbit out of the hands of some crouching toddler.

  “Sasha,” she called out, shutting the music off.

  Sasha had an identical rabbit at home. The same pewter-white, exorbitantly overpriced bunny with cloth of pink flowers sewn into the insides of his flapping ears. The other child had a look of shock on her face. Her encounter with Sasha was clearly a first in a series of life’s arbitrary cruelties.

  “Mine, mine!” Sasha cried, clawing at the little girl’s enclosed fist.

  Vera Brezhneva was rendered mute. “Enjoy, Mama,” wrote Larisska when she sent her the link to the song. Nadia hoped this was the beginning of a thaw in their relationship, a sign that Larissa was softening to her. But this message was the last Nadia received from her, the final one from home before the fighting moved there. According to the news and friends who’d escaped to Kiev or Odessa, Rubizhne was devastated—no electricity, no water—just the sound of shrapnel and random shooting. Every time she heard fire truck sirens on Court Street or the metallic thrash of a shutting grate, she felt her heart burst free from her chest. That her daughter might be dead—shot by a sniper on her walk to work, say—is a thought she refused to form, but its outline, the inconceivable blackness of it, gripped her several times a day, sometimes several times an hour.

  She caught up to Sasha—“Shto ty delaesh?” What are you doing?—and pried the rabbit out of Sasha’s hands. The little girl and her nanny looked satisfied with the rabbit’s homecoming—“Say thank you, Gwendolyn”—but Sasha burst open a livid wail that turned all eyes toward them. The girl scrunched up her face, zigzagged her mouth, and exploded.

  This kind of thing happened often now. Nadia struggled to employ American methods that Sasha’s mother clearly preferred while ignoring her own certainties on how to curb this behavior.

  “Maybe, Nadia, if you just try to explain to her why you need her to act a certain way, if you … how to say … ‘empower’ … her with choices. I think positive parenting works better than our old Soviet methods, don’t you?” Regina had shyly pointed to a row of parenting books on her shelf. There were way too many of them, on every basic facet of raising a child—pooping, sleeping, walking, discipline. Of course, Nadia knew “positive parenting” was laughably worthless, basically handing children keys to the house and begging them to discipline you.

  She decided to try the American method first. She plucked Sasha gently by the elbow, crouched at face level like Regina demonstrated for her, and tried to make eye contact with the girl. Most of those books recommended offering children two acceptable choices.

  “Would you like to go home right now or in five minutes?” she tried. Everyone in the neighborhood was using this technique, and even if she didn’t understand the words, she felt the tormented seesaw of those choices in the voices of adults all around her: Would you like an apple or a carrot? Juice or milk? Your pink jacket or green sweatshirt? Your kale pouch or your cheese bunnies? Often what she really wanted to cry was, Look at the choices facing the greater world! Would you prefer life or death?

  Sasha was avoiding her, the hollering growing operatic and accusatory now, the nannies and mothers pretending they weren’t stealing glances in their direction. If this were Larisska, she would have swatted her a few times on her behind, told her in no uncertain terms that this was unacceptable behavior. She would have marched her home and shoved her directly in the corner. Not that a public tantrum of this sort would have even occurred to Larisska, whose sense of rules and boundaries were inscribed into her from birth.

  A terrible thought now assailed her: had Larisska sent her the song out of an outpouring of love or bitter irony? As in, “Look how you abandoned me here. Some mother you turned out to be.” Or, “I’ve realized they gave you no choice but to leave me behind” and “I know you are doing what’s best for me”? It wasn’t clear, but Nadia chose to interpret the sharing of this song in the most positive light. Enjoy, Mama. It was the first unsolicited email she had received from Larisska in six years and she could not afford to doubt its sincerity. Not when they were so close to finally getting her here. Or at least she prayed they were close. For the past six years, since arriving in America, Nadia labored for a single goal: to bring her daughter here. Her sick daughter, her diabetic daughter, a daughter that, despite being in her twenties, still desperately needed her mother. For God’s sake! She had been on a waiting list for seventeen years!

  The letter to the state senator was in her purse right now, scrawled in careful Russian for Regina to translate. “Dear Mrs. Senator. I am writing you urgently with the hope that you will help speed up the immigration process of my daughter who lives in war-torn Ukraine. Her application to join me in America has been stalled for five and a half years now and the current situation has become very dangero
us for her. I worry that with the escalation of the war, my diabetic daughter will no longer have access to insulin.… Is there any way to please speed up her application, to grant her asylum…”

  Sasha had pulled free and was running away from her, ducking under the swinging tire.

  “Sashenka, Sashenka, idem ot syuda.”

  “No, no no!”

  There was a reason no sane Ukrainian mother presented children with silly choices. Sasha had was digging in her heels, turning her body floppy and heavy, immovable. It was as if the very sound of Russian was irritating to her.

  “You must stop speaking Russian,” Sasha had commanded her the other day. Her chin was thrust out, a three-year-old landowner overseeing a stable of serfs. “I want you to speak only English.”

  “Your mama wants I speak Russian,” Nadia tried to explain then, as if the girl could understand why her Russian-born mother wanted her to speak Russian while speaking it so badly herself. But who listened? As she headed toward her fourth year, Sasha’s personality changed. As a two-year-old, she was charmed by the Russian language, by the simple messages behind classic Soviet cartoons, the books they read together about birds who withheld porridge from lazy animals, and songs about raffish bandits saving princesses from dull, bourgeois lives. Sasha was only too happy to immerse herself in Nadia’s lap and count in Russian, her dimples deepening with each pronunciation—odin, dva, tri. But once she started part-time preschool, she wanted nothing more to do with the language. Insisting in her own way that everyone that mattered now spoke English.

  Sasha moved away from the tire, wiped her nose with her sleeve. It seemed like she’d concluded with her protests, had made peace with the bunny’s surrender. She returned to the jungle gym, her long eyelashes matted with tears. But then the little girl toddled by again, pushing the bunny in her pink baby stroller.