A visitor is coming: B., our language assistant at the German Academic Exchange Service (DAAD), is coming. She was born in Romania and currently lives in Bucharest, continues her online teaching of German as a foreign language and is also involved in other ways in Romania for our causes. Actually, she shouldn’t travel to Ukraine, but she would like to see us, the office, the university, the city again. Her brother, a police officer, drives her directly to Chernivtsi.
It is a euphoric meeting – a friend and colleague from abroad who is there in person, whom we are not only allowed to push in the border area.
It doesn’t take long before she is deployed as a volunteer: some things have to be sorted, S. takes her and another female colleague with him. On Saturday, my colleague O. and I want to meet B. for coffee and a short walk, but unfortunately we can only partially implement the plan. On the one hand we receive a long list of medicines from Chernihiv and have to go to the pharmacy, then to the camp, where we pack things up for Mykolaiv, there is a car that drives there. That’s just the common activities, dear B., we joke. Sort and pack instead of picnicking or bowling.
We take care of ourselves so that we can take care of others
But then we sit down in our little literature café on the corner, and we connect the DAAD lecturer via video chat. And yes, we can laugh, joke, and do factual things on the phone. B. tells how she felt. They are the same feelings and states as we know them: powerlessness, feelings of guilt, insomnia, despair.
Thankfully, she went through a similar journey as we did and came to the same realization: it’s normal not to feel guilty anymore because we’re in a safe place. It’s normal that we try to stick to meals, that we laugh and that we’re sitting in the café now. If there weren’t a place or place for it in the country, it would probably mean the end for all of us. If we who are in the relatively safe places should run out of strength or give way to despair, then who is doing what we are doing? We take care of ourselves so that we can take care of others.
The carefree sitting together will soon come to an end. There is still a lot to be done, and I have also postponed three seminars to the weekend. In the city I meet a former colleague from the International Office: V. is now with the local defense, where reservists and volunteers are trained. He always seemed like a sunny boy, always smiling, neatly dressed. He smiles now, too, when he says his troops are going to the front in a few days as reinforcements. He can’t say when. It is now clear that the Russians would launch another major attack soon. Are you well equipped? Weapon-wise yes.
I have to remember that V. is someone who shouldn’t have to do it. He could definitely help out with money to get a relevant medical certificate. Many do. But of course I’m not saying that. We hug each other, Take care of yourself.
B. also brought some packs of the thyroid hormone L-thyroxine. I post in a Facebook group that this remedy exists. As expected, there are more inquiries than existing packs. A young woman from Kharkiv asks on the phone if her husband could pick up the pills. She herself is at home with two small children. I ask her about her situation, she obviously wants to talk too.
The apartment is dirty. The son cried and refused to go in
The man now has a job as a taxi driver, they have to pay for the small one-room apartment that they luckily found. Can we help with something – groceries, toiletries, children’s clothes? No, they don’t want to take anything away from anyone, they don’t want government help, she says literally. She would like to do something meaningful. Do we need free hands? As soon as the children go to kindergarten, which she hopes, she will be available. And her husband, as a taxi driver, always has free rides, we’re supposed to say when we need his services. I suggest we keep in touch. Half an hour later I give the medicine to the young man, for the little ones there is a small pack of chocolate eggs; good that B. also provided us with it.
“Welcome to Chernivtsi, even if the occasion is so sad,” I say.
A few hours later, through the same virtual channel, I meet a woman from Vasylivka in the Zaporizhia region. She too asks about the hormone, but not for herself, but for the people in her community, which is now probably occupied by Russians. You can mail the medicines to the nearest town, she says, and volunteers will deliver them from there. This still works. You’ve done that several times. At least that way I can do something for my community remotely, she says. Unfortunately I can’t help her anymore, but I promise I’ll let her know when we have a larger delivery again.
The woman has been in Chernivtsi for a month with her ten-year-old son and her husband. They were in a large accommodation facility, now they have been given an apartment and they can move in on Sunday. She calls again on Saturday. She apologizes. Do I know where to get some crockery and cutlery? They couldn’t take anything with them except papers, some clothes and a stuffed animal. The Lego is particularly missed. There isn’t much in the apartment apart from a bed and two armchairs, it’s terrible, dirty and shabby. Two cats live in it, who don’t have a litter box. The son cried and refused to go in.
She sends a few photos, I can understand it, I feel particularly sorry for the little one. My sister and I can still donate some crockery and cutlery, we’re looking for a few utensils, I plan to buy a few more things – at least I’ve received a few donations from friends for such cases. Monday afternoon we want to meet in the city. By then, the woman wants to have bought a litter box. One of the conditions of the apartment owner is that the animals stay inside.
Read more episodes of this column here.