A Window in the Middle of the Night

The shelling ended twenty minutes ago, and my hands still aren't mine. Three hours in the dugout. The kasha has stiffened in the bowl, the tea is cold. I've just written to you: all is fine. It isn't true, Mariia. So I'm turning on the voice recorder and talking. I don't know if I'll send this. I wanted to stay, for you, the man who forgets to buy bread and steals the blanket at night. I'm afraid that by telling the truth I'll bring the war into our kitchen.

But tonight I can't keep silent anymore. I'll start with the usual. Every morning you send me a photo of our kitchen window. Why not of yourself? The window. Rain, snow, a pigeon, the neighbours' cat on the windowsill. Caption: "Good morning." At first I laughed. Then I stopped. One bad night I looked at the photo of a wet pigeon and cried, because somewhere a wet pigeon on a windowsill still existed. When everything around me got too big, I would open your window.

It's small - that's why it saved me. I have three hundred and forty-seven of them now. And why I count them - I'll keep to myself. Still, I'll say what I never said. There was a day I was afraid to leave the shelter. Not worried - afraid. The guys went first, I stayed behind a few seconds. Then I went too. I remember those seconds to this day. You probably think I'm brave. But I know how many times I've been scared. I haven't grown stronger here.

I've just learned to do what's needed while I'm scared. That day my hands shook so badly I couldn't open a pack of biscuits for three minutes. And that's only one of my confessions. We had a Sashko. He sang funny, kept losing lighters, said he'd fly to his sweetheart like on a sledge. Before going out he'd ask: if anything happens, tell Olia I wasn't afraid. He was gone in March. He was afraid, he begged to live, and I held his hand. I called Olia to lie to her.

But she asked it herself: was he afraid? I said: yes. She cried. Then: was he alone? No, I was holding his hand. She said: then it's all right. That evening I promised myself: I'll tell you everything. There is a thing I fear more than death. Coming back. I want to go home so badly it sets my teeth on edge. But I'm afraid of who exactly will come back. What if I sit down across from you in the kitchen and can't speak? What if you touch me and I flinch?

What if you recognize me, and I no longer recognize myself? Then remember me for the both of us. At least until I learn again, my love. And remind me that I love buckwheat. You know, here I tell everyone I hate it. If I'm gone, don't turn me into only a soldier. I wasn't born in a bulletproof vest. I spent three days putting a wardrobe together, and there were four bolts left over.

I said I didn't like your cat, and then didn't move for two hours because he'd fallen asleep on my chest. In my sleep I pulled the whole blanket over to myself, the one that smells of sheep's wool before rain. I even miss your cold feet - that's what war does to a man. Don't let my death steal my life from you. Remember not the last day. All the others.

Now honestly, why today of all days. In an hour we move out. Things are packed. There's no bad feeling - I just stopped believing long ago that death gives warning. If anything happens: don't call my mother at night, wait for morning. Give the jacket to my brother. Throw out my old socks at last. There's meat in the bottom drawer of the freezer - cook it already. And don't wait for me your whole life. Love for as long as you need to.

And even more, I want you one day to fall in love with life itself again. If you ever laugh with someone - it's not a betrayal. You've just sent the window. In the middle of the night, for the first time in all this while. So you can't sleep either. I don't know what I'll come back as, or whether I'll come back at all. But you know the boy who spilled coffee on himself on our first date.

The man who's been promising for ten years to fix that damned cupboard door in the kitchen. You know me without the uniform. If today I run short of faith in myself - lend me a little of yours. I'll give it back when we see each other. "Taras, it's time." Coming. I love you. And close the window, it's cold there. Seven weeks later Mariia was given Taras's phone. Cracked, covered in dust, the screen flickering.

She was looking for photos, and in the voice recorder she found an unfinished recording. He had spoken it that night, heard "Taras, it's time" - and never managed to send it. She listened in the kitchen. At first she sat. Then she slid down onto the floor. At the words about the kitchen cupboard door she laughed. At the next sentence she could no longer draw a breath. She listened to the end: "I love you. And close the window, it's cold there." The window was open.

She got up and closed the window. Pressed her forehead to the cold glass. Outside it was turning grey: a street sweeper was sweeping the wet asphalt, a cat sat by the entrance, a towel hung on the neighbours' balcony. She photographed the window - the same one their day had begun with every morning.

She opened the chat with Taras. The last thing from him - "all is fine." She sent the photo. The message wasn't delivered. Under the photo she wrote: "I'm lending it. As much as you need."