Crisis does something funny to time. I tended to find it difficult to open up to people. Before I could tell someone what dream I had had at night, I needed to have shared a dozen cups of coffee and, preferably, experienced a misfortune together like, for example, spilling one of those coffees on a pair of white jeans just before entering a lecture hall, or forgetting the car navigating tool in a foreign town and, instead, being led by a girl on a bike down winding narrow alleys to finally land in the hotel room and, together, laugh about it. Only then could I relax into unguarded reveries, intimate revelations or rowdy revelries. There are, of course, exceptions, these rare moments of recognition where you begin to give credit to reincarnation, who hasn’t? but they tend to dissolve rapidly.
And yet, when thrown into a misfortune of a different caliber, the cloak of inhibition you thought you were wearing (which passes show), loosens up and expands. Now you can hide in it together, holding tightly to one another for warmth and comfort. When the first shock passes, you clamber outside, still holding hands, light candles, and turn the music on. Now, this is the only language you need.
My grandpa died three days before Ukraine was invaded and was buried one day before the first bombs were dropped. A few days earlier, his hand, weakened and pale, held enough life to caress my arm, to show final signs of care, the hand which had fed me raspberries when I was tiny. Then the hand grew silent. It gave way to sirens and the neverending buzz of military aircraft hovering above my city. The boring and peaceful streets were enlivened with soldiers speaking many languages and, finally, my facebook wall was revamped. Far from being decorated with images of fancy meals, it now showed notices of people in need of shelter.
The first group of refugees didn’t make it to my house, they were intercepted on the way by another family, living closer to the border. Then, there was a small group, two women and two boys, who needed a place to spend the night before heading on. We waited for them all through the night and they made it to our house the following afternoon, having been stuck at the border for nearly three days. When they arrived, we hugged the way you hug a friend you thought was lost for good. They didn’t just spend the night, or day, they stayed on and blended into our lives. Coming back from work, I would find them singing in the kitchen, humming, displaying with pride a plateful of pierogies they had been busy making since morning. My son couldn’t wait to return from school to play with his new ‘brothers-in-arms’. In the evenings, we would open a bottle of wine, dance and tell each other most deeply guarded dreams and desires. After 10 days, they left for Ireland, and the house stood empty as never before. The military aircraft’s noise became louder again, and we all retreated into our lonely fears.
We’ve kept in touch, and other people came, and a dog, and a cat. The first family returned from Ireland, and headed home, having spent another night with us. The boys’ dad, forever busy at work, now had the time to be with his family, at least until he is drafted into the army. Seeing them go, I wanted to hug them for eternity, to shelter them from my grandpa’s silence. On the first day after their arrival home, a bomb alarm went off and they had to stay in the cellar the entire day. But, a month on, the boys are attending school from home, I imagine their mom making pierogies and I grow hungry.
A hundred days later, we are still afraid of silence. My grandpa’s hand is in an advanced stage of decay. But it can now feed new life. My inhibitions have likewise decayed. The threat of nuclear war is hovering above our heads like a big coat that makes me feel cozy meeting people I already know or will grow attached to in no time.
