by Ostap Slyvynsky; translated by Taras Malkovych
Here is a selection of short stories — anecdotes more like, or memories — recorded by Ostap Slyvynsky, a Ukrainian poet, essayist, translator and lecturer at the University of Lviv. Taras Malkovych translated them into English so we might get a sense, however remote, of what the experience of war is like for those caught up in it. Ostap and his colleagues collected these stories at Lviv railway station, at temporary shelters and at coffee stands in Lviv’s streets when engaging those fleeing war further East in conversation.
LIFE,Violetta, Mariupol
International Women’s Day, March 8, is my favorite holiday. But this spring in Mariupol, I expected neither presents nor flowers. My sister and I took some plastic bottles, and went looking for water. Something started roaring around the neighborhood but we initially thought it was on the opposite side. And then I heard a whistling sound coming toward us, and I told my sister to squat. I did not want to fall down as the ground was wet. My sister stood there as if frozen. Maybe she couldn’t believe it, maybe she was afraid to seem awkward. An explosion erupted, then soil flew up and started falling down on us. We started running. And when we looked back, we saw someone sitting on a bench near the entrance to the building, right next to where the explosion occurred. Wrapped in a pink blanket, she must have been enjoying the sun outdoors. We saw her lean over the bench and fall down unnaturally.
SILENCE,Ulyana, Lviv
The puppet theater became a shelter for the displaced. We put mattresses on its stages, in its halls, in its foyer. In the beginning, there were a lot of people with children and animals. For two days straight, they were lying silently on those mattresses. I have never seen so many silent people and animals in one place.
TRASH,Kateryna, Vyshhorod
February 24. Russian helicopters were passing our windows, missiles were hitting the ground. I have to leave. I have to take the trash out. I took the bag with organic waste. Should I take the bag with the plastic, with the glass, with the paper? Will it all end up mixed together in the chaos of war? The carefully washed yogurt jars, the bottles, the children’s coloring books …
GRANNIES,Yuri, Kharkiv
The apartments of two grannies from the opposite building were ruined, and they did not want to go to someone else’s apartment, because it was someone else’s. So they were just sitting on a bench near the entrance like that. And there they died from shrapnel. And there we buried them, in the yard, digging holes between the shelling.
BULLET,Mykola, Khmelnytskyi
I don’t know if I took a sin upon my soul. I just aim, and I fire, but I close my eyes while firing. Whether my bullet kills someone or not, one can only guess.
CAVE,Roman, Chernihiv
My whole life, I was into speleology. When I had a free weekend, I would pack my gear and go exploring caves. There is a large bomb shelter in our neighbourhood, under a school. For the first couple of days, there was no light there. I came in wearing a headlamp; it was quiet inside. It seemed that there was no one there. And suddenly, I saw people. I saw children crammed in by the walls. All those people were like stalagmites and stalactites. It seemed as though they had been there for thousands of years. That’s what war does to time.
LETTERS,Nina, Konotop
My husband was a geologist, he travelled all over the Soviet Union. Sometimes he would spend several months beyond the Arctic Circle and write me letters from there. There were postcards of a special kind—he would send me those instead of the typical ones. I received 43 in total. And so, when packing for the bomb shelter, I put them all in the bag. Some people took books, and I took those letters. I’ll be reading those in there, I thought. But I couldn’t really, the light was very poor, so I would just pick each one up and remember what was written. I haven’t read them for ages, but they lived somewhere in my memory. Then, when I went through all the letters, I started coming up with answers in my mind. Because, I am ashamed to say, I did not write him back often. And when I did, I was quite brief. Now I started coming up with long and eloquent replies. But I did not mention the war to him, nor the shelter. Why would he need to know? I only told him that the winter turned out quite long this time around.
Republished with permission. For more, see “A War Vocabulary” at: https://www.documentjournal.com/2022/06/a-war-vocabulary-aaron-hicklin-ukraine-lviv-kyiv-ostap-slyvynsky/