BAG

On the escalator, the phones buzzed with air raid sirens. “It’s good that I only have to go on the right bank,” thought Olena, turning off the sound on her phone. Passengers gathered on the platform waiting for the train. Short in stature, in a gray hoodie that hung like a hoodie on her shoulders, she, with her head bowed, shifted from foot to foot, in tattered sneakers. The heavy bag was digging into her thin hand. A white spot of light in a black tunnel – and now she was already pressed against the window of the car. “It’s better than just staring into the dark walls of the Metro tunnels,” thought Olena.

At the next station, the carriage had emptied considerably, but she remained pressed against the window, standing with her back to the passengers. There were three more stations ahead. She swept her bangs out of her eyes, which should have been cut long ago. The passengers were reflected in the glass, immersed in their phones and thoughts. She wanted to reach for hers, too, but her gaze fell on a strong, broad-shouldered man in military uniform. Gray hair was clearly visible in his black hair. He was sitting, holding a long crutch under his arm, and examining some papers with a bunch of stamps, an X-ray plate was visible from underneath. The woman was looking at the man's legs: one was bent at the knee, the other slightly extended forward. "He's not leaning on the left one," Olena suggested. In the meantime, the man pulled up the package attached to the crutch and began to carefully fold the papers. He took off his glasses and stuffed them into his breast pocket, above which was the inscription: "Armed Forces of Ukraine," and on the side was a patch, probably with the branch of the army or battalion, which was difficult to see because of the reflection in the glass.

Two stations were already behind her and she grabbed the bag again, which she supported with her foot while her arms rested. The man leaned on a crutch and slowly climbed up, holding on to the handrail with his wide fingers. The guys rushed to help, but he refused.

The train stopped, she got out, her husband jumped onto the platform after her. Elena turned around, and for a moment their eyes met – simple, genuine, tired. The phone rang. She was distracted. A message about the alarm being reset. When she returned, the soldier was already limping slowly towards the escalator. Elena looked after him sadly.

The phone rang again. This time, it was a message from volunteer Nastya: “Your husband has been approved for prosthetics in Canada, call me.” Her heart pounded and she caught her breath, tears streamed down her cheeks for the first time in this long time of struggle. Of course, she was happy about the news, but there was also something unbearably bitter, something she saw in that man’s eyes. It was as if she had only just realized that her husband had lost his leg in the war, that their lives had changed, and they would have to learn to live a new life. And she was on this platform, just an exhausted, confused, and scared woman who didn’t know how to live a new life. She wanted to howl from the fatigue, pain, and losses of the war, but she remembered that soldier’s look: “It’s hard, but you’ll make it.” She regained control of herself: “I have to hurry to the hospital, because my husband’s lunch will get cold and the volunteer is waiting for the call,” and, leaning to one side under the weight of the bag, the woman raised her head and hobbled to the escalator.

WHAT GOES INTO A THREE-LITRE JAR?

At a time when the Azov coast was 150 kilometers from my home, I spent every summer with my little son and my husband's then very young sisters in one of the small settlements near Mariupol. It wasn't a luxurious vacation, but we were happy, caressed by the warm sea, and savored Azov bulls, Greek chebureks, and Mariupol peaches.

 One summer, one of us suggested the game "What will fit in a three-liter jar?", probably the idea came when the cities on the map were already over. According to the same principle as with the cities, the last letter of the previous word became the first of the next, but it had to fit in the jar. We played it constantly, remembering the last word when we needed to take a break. Each had a stock of words for the letters that were found more often and for rare letters as well.

Years passed. My husband and I were forced to move, and it became much further to the Azov coast than to the airport. The girls built their lives in Mariupol, from time to time we saw each other at weddings, births of children or other important family events. But we no longer played in the "Bank".

Yes, 8 years have passed unnoticed. On February 24, we all found ourselves under a merciless blow from the ground and the sky. The phone rang every second, we wrote to each other one question: "What's wrong with you? How are you?" In the evening, Mariupol also responded: "It doesn't calm down for a minute here."

The next day we left the city for a village in Vinnytsia. Mariupol wrote that we were in a basement with friends, in a private house, it was impossible to stay in an apartment and a photo in which people, banks and black cats were mixed between them. “Maybe you will try to leave?” “It’s late, we seem to be in a ring, it’s dangerous to get out, they are cooking all the time.” “Write, let us know about you,” I replied, throwing firewood into the stove to somehow warm the cold hut.

So we corresponded every day, the messages from Mariupol became more and more sad and helpless every time. I, although a psychologist, could not find words to encourage the people of Mariupol. And then I remembered how we played "Bank" and suggested playing: the team from the basement against the team from the village, because we were also packed like a glove in that hut. We made up words, joked, they wrote back that there were a lot of three-liter cans in the basement and what we offered would not fit, we suggested cutting them up and folding them into pieces. It went on like this for several days.

One morning, “You are on P,” I wrote. But in response, there was silence, and the message was not delivered. Neither phone calls to all numbers, nor messages in messengers — nothing received a response. Three long weeks of uncertainty, searches in chats and lists of evacuees. To no avail. “You are on P,” I repeated to myself. And then, suddenly, a call from an unknown number, a hard-to-hear, but familiar voice: “We are alive, we left Mariupol. We will continue to break through.” And silence again. “You are on P,” I will wait for an answer. Three days later, a message in Viber: “P is the flag of Ukraine. We are in Zaporizhia.”