Kyiv. March 26, 2022

Cafés, bakeries, and small farmer markets are open in Kyiv. I have a list of things the territorial defense forces need, and I can easily get all of them at a supermarket. Still, we stop by every coffee booth and every street vendor. I am patient. The coffee can be suspended; sausage or sauerkraut can qualify as off-the-list treats. If we stop in good time, we’ll end up with only half a barrel of sauerkraut. And even less sausage. Slightly short of ten kilos.

But when we stop by the bakery with its aroma of fresh-baked bread and pastry, I finally lose my patience. “No!” I shout. “No pastry!”

You can’t stop the wind blowing in the right direction.

He goes out of the bakery with a crate of cinnamon buns. In pre-war life, they were called “Cinnabon.” You need special accessories to eat them in the street. Napkins or wet wipes and plates or at least a piece of paper to hold these treats in your hands. You can’t fit a cinnamon roll in your mouth with a single bite.

But when we stop by the bakery with its aroma of fresh-baked bread and pastry, I finally lose my patience. “No!” I shout. “No pastry!”

“I can’t eat as much!”

“It’s not for you! This is off the list.”

“Someone has already brought Napoleon cake off the list…”

“And what happened? Did the soldiers conquer Moscow?”

“Nope. The commander said it was not the right time for Napoleon cake or other pastry. It made people gassy. Got it?”

“Well… Let’s get them over to the military hospital then.”

I give him a hospital-food look.

“Alright. Let’s just give them away to passers-by. We’ll just stand here and treat people to cinnamon rolls. Like Father Frost.”

“Santa!” I yell. People in the street throw sympathetic glances my way. Anyone can go mad in whatever way they like. But I am not mad, no. “Santa Claus, not Father Muscovite! I wish to hell he’d die!”

The passers-by are smiling. They take my side.

“Alright, alright,” he says, frowning at his defeat. “Then let’s make dry biscuits out of them. A sack or two.”

“Why did you buy them in the first place?”

“It’s all about the economy, Lionia. Someone has to keep it going. And I will be this ‘someone’ as long as I have money in my pocket.”

“Okay, let it be biscuits.”

Today it was sunny, windy, rainy, and cold. It’s February all over. The same February as thirty-two days ago.

Author — Olena Stiazhkina, historian, writer

Translator — Hanna Leliv

Illustrator — Victoria Boyko

Editor — Maryna Korchaka

Program Directors — Julia Ovcharenko, Demyan Om

MORE TO EXPLORER

Confession of a poet after a year of war
Wars.Ukrainians.Humanity

Confession of a poet after a year of war

If you think of yourself as a poet or a poetess and you are considering taking this path seriously, most likely sooner or later you will ask yourself this question: what can I do for poetry?

Each Moment Somewhere For Someone The World Is Ending
Wars.Ukrainians.Humanity

Each Moment Somewhere For Someone The World Is Ending

Few weeks ago (mid January it was)* I took part in a writer’s conference with other international writers in Kolkata, India. It was a panel discussion addressing the topic of “Writing for the post-pandemic world”.

Wars.Ukrainians.Humanity

At a High Cost

The morning begins with a final farewell to a soldier in our yard. He died in the war. A message about this appeared in the neighbor chat yesterday, indicating the building number and the entrance. High-rise buildings, just like low-rise ones, can’t avoid loss in wartime. There are more than 800 apartments in our building. Is there at least one unaffected by the war?