The text is an excerpt from the Ukraine diary ‘I’ve wanted to go to Kyiv since September’ by Yelena Yeremeyeva, published by parasitenpresse in 2022.
24.2.
Classic: My phone rings at 6.30 am. ‘It’s begun!’ It’s my brother, who has realised that it’s not just the opera house in front of our apartment building, but also the SBU, the Ukrainian security and secret service building complex, 100 metres away and that everyone has already been evacuated. ‘Pack your things and be downstairs in 10 minutes.’ I can feel everything that came before this call beginning to crumble … it crumbles and crumbles and crumbles and crumbles and falls apart into disjointed pieces that I can’t put back together.
Completely empty city centre, muffled noises, all life has gone – empty building, frightened concierge, and bewilderment on peoples’ faces. No train tickets available online, and I feel a strong urge to take a walk through my city … to the station, to maybe get a ticket after all. Someone is praying in St. Volodymyr’s Cathedral, and a large white dog is waiting, tethered to a bench. So dignified … and peaceful.
The emptiness is ghostly, people with suitcases, bags, not knowing where to go. These are suitcases that you normally see at airports, rolling across smooth airport floors, but here and now they seem out of place … just like me … Prospekt Pobedy, full.
11:33 Smell of smoke in the city centre – now I think I understand what ‘here and now’, that abstraction, actually means. It’s not something meditation can teach you. My brother is in Kyiv with his vehicle, which is completely unsuitable for Ukrainian roads. My father hasn’t packed, is cooking porridge and watching TV. When asked to pack, he refuses. I put on my porridge, my hands chop fruit and dates, grate two nuts, and look for linseed in the fridge. As I eat, I realise that I can’t taste anything and am having difficulty swallowing the food. Now I know what anxiety feels like – I can feel my heart beating, the otherwise imperceptible pumping is now glaringly obvious. I have difficulty catching my breath, as if something big and heavy is weighing on my chest. I walk from the kitchen to the bedroom, from the bedroom to the bathroom, then back to the kitchen, not knowing what to do or what I’m doing. I collect filtered water in all kinds of containers, I leave the bath full. I make a phone call and try to reassure everyone in Berlin. The sky is overcast, I can’t enjoy the familiar view; I catch myself thinking that I’m constantly scanning it. Psalm no. 90.
My expedition bag is packed. Three days ago, I bought some new books by Serhij Zhadan, and some by Lina Kostenko, and I have resolved to read more Ukrainian poets and writers. Everything stays here in Kyiv, I’lll be back.
The car is full, so I have to repack my bag – I take my clothes, a couple of turtlenecks, and a jumper I bought in Lisbon. Jeans, socks, and underwear are forgotten. We share a REWE shopping bag with my dad and only take the essentials. We want to come back tomorrow and take out the rubbish. It’s only for one night, just to get out of the city.
I hate it when I have to be forceful. My brother gets angry, sirens wail, I throw Dad’s clothes in the suitcase, he looks helpless and swears at us, wants to stay. We think about whether we should take the lift. I’m so sorry to have to do this to him, his neighbourhood, his birthplace, his life. This is basically his second evacuation. He experienced the first one as a two-year-old 79 years ago with his mother, grandmother, and four-year-old brother in 1941, when they travelled for days ahead of the Nazi cattle cars to Slatoust in the Ural Mountains.
In 2022, we see people who are staying in Kyiv, who don’t have a car or can’t drive, standing helplessly with their pets and suitcases by the small underground garage, seemingly waiting for someone, still unable to grasp it all. I don’t dare look them in the eye. We stuff the bag into the already-full boot and set off. At that moment, I didn’t think about whether I would be back, I didn’t cast a sad glance out of the window, I didn’t shed a tear. But the feeling was there, only overlaid by the worry about whether I had made the right decision, the shame of not being able to take anyone with me to a temporary shelter.
It takes us a while to get out of the city, tanks driving towards us, Ukrainian boys sitting on top and waving at us. Here, too, I look up at the sky and scan it for missiles … will this stop at some point, or will my relationship with the sky be ruined forever? All around us, people like us are also driving out of the city: we are among the last people who thought the impossible was impossible long enough for it to happen. In Germany, I often had to explain whether Russian and Ukrainian are similar enough for people to understand each other. Right now, I feel like I haven’t understood something myself, not because of the language, but for some other reason.
We drive to a family friend’s home. Huge house, huge gardens, pool, lakes and golf courses, cherry orchards, beehives, two beautiful German shepherds that have to be locked up so we can get out. When we arrive, we see several helicopters passing by, flying amazingly low. In the house, a very large family, sons, their wives, siblings, children, and parents-in-law are all sitting around on the ground floor with the lights off. The adults are watching television, talking on the phone, eating and drinking. The children are running around, playing war games on their iPad; tanks on the iPad, tanks on the television. Mattresses are carried down from upstairs; sleep is out of the question. There is ammunition and weapons on the coffee table in the living room. I’m worried about the people who are still in Kyiv.
Pickled tomatoes, pelmeni, vareniki, nalistinki, vodka. I feel safer here than on the 8th floor near the Ukrainian secret service.
Everyone is eagerly awaiting Biden’s speech. Not worth mentioning.
