An Exit or An Interruption
What happened was Putin decided he had had enough and invaded Ukraine, an independent country and no longer, “the Ukraine,” as it was referred to during Soviet times when it was part of Russia. I was only recently made aware of the importance of dropping this antiquated article during this terrible time which continues to bisect each day as I read the New York Times while tears threaten to jeopardize the early morning I so carefully set aside for my caffeine, and this small bit of levity which hypnotizes me into thinking the world is better off than it was when Trump and his antics dominated the news.
Is this war an interruption to the carefully orchestrated life I work daily to balance with the reality of my worry about Covid, whether the dog has a bad tooth, what I should make for dinner, will an agent ever respond, will my body keep allowing me to hurl it through space week after week in the dance classes which rather than interrupting the flow are in fact what sustain me?
My grandmother was from Kiev, before they changed the spelling, to the Ukrainian form which certainly dignifies rather than erases as Putin would choose. Many years later, I imagined going to Russia to find what remains of my history. I knew it would more likely be a trip of wonder and newness rather than the discovery of family bits waiting to be unearthed. But the war has interrupted these plans, these dreams perhaps forever. Now there is Dasha and her parents and her brother. She lives joyfully with my son. Her parents, having immigrated before she was born, lavish attention on my son and erase some of the missing which I feel as he makes his life in Los Angeles. He is studying Russian so he can talk with Dasha's grandmother, who was also spirited away long ago. As was a sister and an aunt. All thriving in Los Angeles. Now frightened for friends and family still in Russia and Ukraine.
Will cousins fight and kill each other, as some young men I will never meet live in each of the two countries as it is no longer possible to balance the existence of the two? Is this war an interruption or an exit? Will Ukraine leave and never come back? Will Russia go back to wherever it came from?
What happened was we scheduled a visit to an Airbnb in Kyiv that we have no intention of visiting, at least not now. I wanted to install myself somehow in the hearts and minds of a place at war where bodies are lying in bags on the sidewalk, pregnant women and young mothers with newborns in their arms are dying in makeshift, basement hospitals and people are banding together as I am sure we in this country could not do….to remain in their homes, in their hearts and in their country.
Valentin, a handsome thumbnail, accepted our request to visit within a week of my request to interrupt this life and exit to the place where my people, my Jewish people began. After this ghostly visit, I reviewed his home, answering the standard Airbnb litany as if I had indeed gone for coffee each morning, visiting churches and museums as previous visitors described the central location, and the clubs with the best techno pop in Europe. Valentin then replied with his review. Thanking me for the support and inviting us to visit after the war. Like a dinner invitation. Or tea. Maybe caviar.
Nico says I should talk with Yakov, Dasha's father, about caviar. He has a friend who imports it and Yakov buys it from him. Years ago my mother and her elegant, New York friend took me to the Russian Tea Room. We sat at a round table with a white cloth cascading to the floor. I have no idea if we were served Beluga or Sevruga or Ossetra, but each very small serving of caviar arrived in a glass bowl floating atop a larger bowl of crushed ice.
Yakov, with his wide smile and impish ways, certainly fluent in English, often prefers to speak in Russian. After all, this is the language and the land and the people where their lives and love began.
Yakov and Tatiana, Dasha's mother, met when each was on vacation in Estonia. Tatiana was from St. Petersburg and Yakov from Moscow. Estonia was part of the Soviet Union then, now it is an independent country. Ukraine is now independent and Russia is trying to steal it back.
I can only imagine how Dasha’s parents must feel as Putin and his cohorts commit such atrocities which constantly interrupt any semblance of the morning which hypnotizes me into thinking this day will be different. These headlines.
I used to fantasize about traveling on the Trans-Siberian Railroad which we had hoped to take on the fictional trip which may never happen. The one in which Dasha's parents, the ones who adore my son and lessen my missing, and me and Robert and Nico travel together to discover and rediscover. But for now, this fantasy is another interruption to the reality of war and death and suffering.
I cannot exit this reality just as I cannot hypnotize myself into being younger and agile in the way of the dancers I watched last night. The company of youth and vibrancy moving to the music of Leonard Cohen, the bard and poet of my past but also my present. Still revealing to me the hope and beauty and melodies which I pray will help me regain my balance as the world spins out of control and caffeine is only a temporary exit from the headlines and havoc and hell.