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<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n1.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Trams have begun running through town again. There they are, gleaming and ringing as they clatter along the long-silent rails of Dmytrivska Street. And it feels like life is slipping back into its usual groove. Trolleybuses are on the move as well. The war seems to\u2019ve receded. If only for a minute. For a passing instant. As though it were no more. No more\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But now a siren wails again, strained and ragged. Air-raid alert. What is it? A MiG taking off in Belarus? Or missiles bringing more death from the Caspian? <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Soon the air defences\u2019ll be thundering again, and debris\u2019ll come pouring down over the City\u2026 All that shit coming our way \u2013 be nice if they swat it out of the sky. But if they don\u2019t?.. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Electric transport was suspended on December twenty-third of last year \u2013 that blasted year of t***** t*****-t**. After massive missile strikes on the country\u2019s energy infrastructure. Back then \u2013 d\u2019you remember? \u2013 some bouncy-permed bedlamite bor\u0435 bl\u0435th\u0435r\u0435d biliously away on RuTube: \u201c\u2026let \u2019 em just sit there with no light, no gas, no water! Let \u2019\u0435m shit into bags\u2026\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Electricity, gas and water were restored pretty quickly. Not so trams and trolleybuses: they w\u0435r\u0435 left waiting in th\u0435ir d\u0435pots. Metro stations, though, were left open as bomb sh\u0435lt\u0435rs. But the missiles hurtling in from the Black Sea and the Caspian and raining down from the air weren\u2019t just hitting power plants and other technical facilities. They were pounding factories, shopping centres, train stations, residential districts. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhen they hit Artem,\u201d my son says, walking us towards Peremohy Square, \u201cthis friend of mine \u2013 she lives right nearby \u2013 had every window blown out by the shockwave. She was in the kitchen having tea. Made it through in one piece, but only just. She\u2019s got her windows fixed, but now every time the siren goes she heads for the corridor \u2013 you know, the two-walls rule\u2026\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
The two-walls rule? We know. Of course we do. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
In Israel it\u2019s one of the first pieces of guidance given to new olim: if a rocket attack starts and you can\u2019t make it to a shelter, and your building is old, and you don\u2019t have a safe room, you need to take cover someplace with two solid walls between you and the outside. If you can find such a place, the walls\u2019ll protect you. Not from a direct hit, of course. But they\u2019ll shield you well enough from shrapnel, debris and blown-out window frames or balcony doors. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBut look,\u201d I say, \u201chere we are, walking down the street \u2013 if the siren goes now, where the hell d\u2019you run? What walls d\u2019you hide behind? What shelter d\u2019you head for..?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWell,\u201d my son says, almost upbeat, \u201cit\u2019s kind of hard to imagine a Kinzhal launched from the sea hitting you dead on\u2026 We\u2019ve been over this.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYeah, well, it doesn\u2019t have to. If it lands a hundred metres away, that\u2019s plenty close enough, no? I mean, say it hits that house there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He frowns.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMilitary advice is keep away from buildings. You don\u2019t want bricks, concrete, timber, glass or whatever coming down on you.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat, so you\u2019re supposed to just hit the ground in the middle of that park and cover your head with your hands?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYeah. That\u2019s the official line, anyway. But who actually follows the official line? Anyway, things\u2019re very quiet here. Not scary at all. Not like\u2026\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLike what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looks me square in the face for a few seconds. Then glances round, sees that Mira\u2019s far away, and answers. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
2.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sometimes there is no front line. No one knows where anyone is. No one even knows who you<\/em> are<\/em> \u2013 soldier, civvy or volunteer. You were transporting supplies \u2013 water and pasta \u2013 and you took a wrong turn during a lull. And now it begins. <\/p>\n\n\n\n An IFV explodes into the street. And is hit in the flank. Close range. Javelin. Blue smoke, engine-shriek. Spinning. Lurching on one track. Mud sprayed across heaps of earth and concrete. A man rolls out the rear hatch. And is hurled sideways, back slamming into the corner of a well shaft. His legs thrash, frantic, frantic. Then he goes still. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Two more tumble out, screaming, one after the other. Burst of gunfire, God knows from where, and both\u2019re mown down. You\u2019re running now, God knows where to, running and staggering and slipping in the churned-up ruts and falling flat and crawling off and rolling over and leaping up and falling flat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n To your left and behind you is Andrei. He\u2019s running too, and someone\u2019s running with him. He\u2019s shouting something. Then he drops back. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Straight ahead, where the street meets a T-junction, a two-storey school bursts into flames. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Smoke \u2013 thick, choking smoke hits you full in the face. You\u2019re down again. You roll towards a fence. Relief, slight relief. Hail-whistle-boom all around. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Your ears\u2019re blocked. Your eyes\u2019re burning. But you still see what comes next: the burning facade collapses, and a \u0422-72 emerges from the whorl of flame and debris. It freezes at the junction, swings round its barrel and blasts an HE shell down the street. Andrei\u2019s just off to the side. Far off an explosion. Gunfire close by. It slices through him. The tank veers right, vanishes behind a red house. Instants later a column of orange flame blasts skyward from behind its metal-tiled roof. <\/p>\n\n\n\n And now \u2013 what\u2019s this? Instant silence, just like that? Or\u2019ve you gone deaf? You nestle up against the fence, trying to figure it out. The mud takes hold. You\u2019re fucked, game over. Nothing matters now. Except Andrei. You crawl his way. Grab the straps of his pack and drag him fenceward, to the gate and through it. On, on, on, along the leaf-strewn path to a rusted iron bed by the wall of a summer kitchen. You haul him onto the mesh. He\u2019s alive. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Breathing. Blinking. Silent. He\u2019s silent, and you\u2019re rummaging. Rummaging, rummaging, rummaging through the mud-smeared pack. Bandages, water, where are they? Fuck! Gone! Hit to the stomach means no fluids. <\/p>\n\n\n\n You\u2019re shaking as you undo his straps and jacket. Fear: what\u2019re you about to see. Hands trembling, vision going. But now strong arms haul you upright by the pits. Move you aside. Sit you down on a step. Three men already working on Andrei, swift, practised. Maltese crosses on their patches. Out-breath. Hospitallers. Out-breath. You sit there, back to the doorframe, and wish you smoked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Next day you hear: Andrei didn\u2019t make it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n They couldn\u2019t save him. His insides were in pieces. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Your friend. <\/p>\n\n\n\n 3.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The road runs downhill. Mira approaches. Streetlights overhead. Where the fissured pavement widens a little stands a white concert grand, its raised lid smashed, its keyboard splintered \u2013 a strange, splayed thing opposite a huge grey columned building, one of those Soviet-era \u201celite\u201d blocks. Night\u2019s coming on fast, but two or three windows are lit. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cEveryone\u2019s upped sticks\u2026\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Whirls of light snow settle over the little park. Roadside trade beneath a heavy yellow lamp: potatoes, cucumbers, tomatoes. The lamp sways. With it sway the stalls, the sellers in their aprons and fingerless gloves, the crates of produce. Red spheres: we buy some, put them in our rucksacks and move off. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Wartime city. Our first time in it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n No, no, don\u2019t get the wrong idea! We\u2019ve been here before. Many times. But back then the city was a peacetime one, its air awash with joy and revelry. Champagne-splish, fountain-splash, bird cherry and chestnut blossom, gentle warmth. And now\u2014 <\/p>\n\n\n\n Now it\u2019s nothing like anything. <\/p>\n\n\n\n We\u2019re yet to take this in, get to grips with it, let it move all the way through us. <\/p>\n\n\n\n But you, my son\u2014 <\/p>\n\n\n\n It\u2019s a part of you already. You\u2019ve been here since the beginning. Since the first explosions. My best friend. My life. The most precious thing on earth. My son. <\/p>\n\n\n\n 4.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCareful, young man! Your shoelace is undone.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019m overtaken by a woman in a dark overcoat and white downy <\/strong>kerchief. She gestures at my shoe and the strips of fabric trailing from it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I fail to catch sight of her face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMind you don\u2019t trip,\u201d she says over a shoulder as she hurries on. <\/p>\n\n\n\n And yet\u2026 And yet! She said this \u2013 in Russian! That\u2019s nothing I\u2019d bat an eye at now. But on the way here I kept thinking, How am I going to manage in a shop? In a museum? (If I even set foot in one.) How will I ask a stranger for directions? How will I handle a taxi driver? The police? The military? If it comes to that\u2026 (It did.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n Early morning. Behind us: Moldova, black-clad border guards bristling with kit. Ahead: blue-and-yellow flag, stern-faced man in camouflage. He takes our passports.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDo you have a residence permit?\u201d he says in Russian.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo,\u201d we answer. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He frowns at us, a little taken aback, then disappears with the papers. <\/p>\n\n\n\n No queues at the checkpoint. On this overcast morning, ours is the only minivan there. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNow that\u2019s<\/em> a customs post!\u201d says Roman the driver, in Russian also. He stretches, and his joints crack. \u201cYou can work with that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat,\u201d says Mira, \u201cis the Polish border hairier?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTotal shitshow. Queues for kilometres, both ways.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDo many turn back?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLoads. Those two, for example.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He jerks his head to the side. Mother and teenage girl asleep. Suitcase each \u2013 bright yellow and green, colour of mimosa and young foliage. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWe\u2019ll see how things go,\u201d the girl says as she wakes. \u201cMight have to leave again.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Russian once more. Not a trace of an accent. <\/p>\n\n\n\n After that it\u2019s the same story everywhere \u2013 in shops, in cafes, out in the street. The one exception is the ticket desk of the history museum. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u0420\u043e\u0441\u0456\u0439\u0441\u044c\u043a\u0443 \u0437\u043d\u0430\u0454\u043c\u043e, \u0430\u043b\u0435 \u0437\u0430 \u043f\u0440\u0430\u0432\u0438\u043b\u0430\u043c\u0438 \u043d\u0430 \u0440\u043e\u0431\u043e\u0447\u0435\u043c\u0443 \u043ci\u0441\u0446i \u0437\u043e\u0431\u043e\u0432’\u044f\u0437\u0430\u043d\u0456 \u0433\u043e\u0432\u043e\u0440\u0438\u0442\u0438 \u0443\u043a\u0440\u0430\u0457\u043d\u0441\u044c\u043a\u043e\u044e. \u041c\u0438 \u0436 \u0434\u0435\u0440\u0436\u0430\u0432\u043d\u0456 \u0441\u043b\u0443\u0436\u0431\u043e\u0432\u0446\u0456. We know Russian, but workplace rules require us to speak Ukrainian. We\u2019re state employees, you see. <\/p>\n\n\n\n <\/strong>Then: \u0412\u0438\u0439\u0434\u0435\u043c\u043e \u043d\u0430 \u0432\u0443\u043b\u0438\u0446\u044e. Let\u2019s pop outside, I\u2019ll explain everything there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n State employees? Fair enough, by the book it is. Outside we go, through the heavy doors and onto the entrance steps. We find out everything we need to know, come back in, buy some tickets and wander the echoing deserted halls. Paintings of the baptism of Volodymyr\u2026 battle scenes\u2026 models of cites\u2026 gold and silver\u2026 princely raiments\u2026 Varangian blades\u2026 handwritten scrolls and books\u2026 a film about Taras Shevchenko\u2026 Then, towards the exit: rockets, shells, ammo crates, military gear, helmets, body armour, camouflage netting \u2013 emblems of these sorrowful times, \u2019fourteen to present. But all that is still ahead of us. In the meantime\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n The stern border guard returns with our Israeli passports.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWho\u2019re you visiting?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMy son.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI have an aunt in Ashdod.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cEver get in touch?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhen I can, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Roman turns the key in the ignition and presses a button. A low hum fills the air. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Doors closing, please stand clear. The next station is unnamed. <\/p>\n\n\n\n All this is ancient history now. Three days feels like a century here. And then on <\/strong>Bulvarno-Kudriavska Street a kind woman alerts me to a possible mishap. Your shoelace is undone. If you don\u2019t tie it, bam! \u2013 forehead, meet pavement. <\/p>\n\n\n\n And, like so many here, she speaks Russian. And I just can\u2019t seem to get used to it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 5.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We begin searching for accommodation in advance. We turn to an old contact \u2013 a letting agency we used before the war. The apartments they found for us back then didn\u2019t disappoint: comfortable, central, marble bathrooms, superb top-floor balcony views. Now, though, the process drags and stalls. Mira emails them, to begin with, then ends up WhatsApping them from a Russian number (she has no other). <\/p>\n\n\n\n The reply is instant: \u201cRussian warship, go fuck yourself\u201d. A laugh-or-cry moment: where\u2019s the \u201cRussian warship\u201d, and where are we?! Mira fires straight back: \u201cTake your own advice.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Hatred of the Red Castle and its savage armada \u2013 a hatred ignited by a ferocious invasion, by the killing of civilians, by the destruction of cities, by mass displacement \u2013 can extend even to phone numbers. Just like that, you can find yourself lumped in with that armada and treated as though you\u2019re moving along the same course. Especially if the person you\u2019re dealing with fails to realise that a Russian number could well belong to an \u00e9migr\u00e9 who\u2019s left the country out of contempt for this vile war and the band of thugs behind it. People often don\u2019t care who you are \u2013 Israeli, American, or the holder of a German humanitarian visa. What matters to them is your phone number, symbol and marker of your affiliation with the enemy camp. <\/p>\n\n\n\n A pity \u2013 that\u2019s one useful contact lost. Still, we manage to rent a flat easily enough. Liuteranska Street, 21. Diagonally across from the famous church, and a stone\u2019s throw from Bankova Street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We tell some friends.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut that\u2019s bang in the middle of the city,\u201d they say. \u201cThe centre\u2019s what they\u2019re looking to hit. Be careful. Ask the landlord straight away where the shelter is.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh,\u201d say others, \u201cbut that\u2019s right in the centre! That\u2019s target number one. But it\u2019s also the best defended. Even so, don\u2019t wait \u2013 ask about the shelter.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n OK, we\u2019ll ask.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We\u2019ve got a six-hour drive ahead of us, Batumi to Tbilisi, Gia at the wheel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019ll get you there in no time. No problem!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n We set off. Mountains, mountains, mountains. Orchards, orchards, orchards. Mountains again, forests, fields, rivers. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou still scared?\u201d says Mira. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo point, is there. We\u2019re already on the road. And anyway, he hammered it home to me \u2013 we don\u2019t go now, God knows when we\u2019ll see each other next. It\u2019s already been, what, a year and a half since Tbilisi. Being without him\u2019s worn me out. I\u2019ve missed him so much. So I didn\u2019t take much convincing. He\u2019s very good at talking people round, actually. When he wants to.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat\u2019s the way he\u2019s always been. Even as a little kid. He\u2019d be pestering me, you know, \u2018Mama, mama!\u2019 And I\u2019d be like, \u2018Leave off, lemme think my own thoughts a sec.\u2019 Which\u2019d just astonish him: \u2018Your own thoughts? What thoughts could you possibly be thinking?\u2019 Fair question, really. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd have you noticed, he never asks for things. He offers. Always has done, even way back when. None of the usual \u2018Mama, can I\u2026?\u2019 \u2013 it was always \u2018Let\u2019s go swimming!\u2019 or \u2018Who\u2019s coming for a walk?\u2019 or \u2018C\u2019mon, it\u2019s forest time!\u2019 Oh, that forest! How old was he then? Four? Five? <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThese days you step out the gate and there\u2019s trees down all over. Barely move for fallen trunks. Back then there was space. You could run amongst the firs and not worry you\u2019d trip. Which is what he\u2019d do. Age of five, running tree to tree, wrapping his \u2013 his little arms around \u2019em. He\u2019d go all still, and he\u2019d whisper something, and he\u2019d stroke the bark and kiss it. Gazing straight ahead of him, you know, like he was \u2013 boring into the heart of the trunk. Into the secret of life.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDid he speak to them?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe did.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd did they answer?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe could hear them, I think.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n She gives me a sceptical look.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo wonder the other boys dubbed him Leshy\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat\u2019s right, they did. Though I don\u2019t think it really stuck, that nickname.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat nicknames did he have after that, d\u2019you know?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI forget now. But I do remember him marshalling the village kids for a forest clean-up. Off they went, bin bags in hand. Dragged a whole heap of rubbish to the dump. Strutted about afterwards, proper proud of themselves.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIn year \u2013 er, I want to say year eight? \u2013 he\u2019d be \u2013 turns out he was always going off into the forest after dark. Testing himself, you know: could he make it through till morning out there on his own. Me and you, I mean, we were away so often. It\u2019d just be him and Grandpa or Grandma, so come nightfall he\u2019d slip off into the woods. He\u2019d never tell us \u2013 didn\u2019t want us worrying, thought we\u2019d get all worked up. I only found out maybe ten years ago. Out on a hike, sitting round a fire \u2013 that\u2019s when he spilled the beans.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd could he?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCould he what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMake it through till morning.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo. He\u2019d come indoors.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cStill, he was a very brave boy. He was only little then.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBrave. Yes. That\u2019s what worries me. I\u2019m nothing like that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n 6.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Gia throws open the doors: <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell hello-o-o there! Come on then, out you get, my dears. Just as I said \u2013 no problem! Tbilisi. Night flight from here to Kishinev, then it\u2019s on to the City. But the flight\u2019s been delayed.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHow long for?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDunno. No info.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy\u2019re you surprised?\u201d says an elegant elderly lady. \u201cAir Moldova\u2019s always like this. Delays, cancellations\u2026 same story every time.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Ours goes ahead. Calm-voiced announcement: boarding for Chi\u0219in\u0103u. <\/p>\n\n\n\n We take off. The gifts have gone into the hold. <\/p>\n\n\n\n In Kishinev, the border officer studies my passport with interest:<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd where to next?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t know. We\u2019ll stay here a bit. Then maybe Europe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cR-i-ight\u2026\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n But she stamps it anyway. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The airport\u2019s small and very well kept. An unexpectedly huge plasma screen shows a montage of Moldovan landscapes, costumes, dances, dishes, festivals. Under the screen, people sit on benches waiting for transport to Ukraine. We won\u2019t be here long, maybe three hours. Then on to a Lukoil filling station. Minibus, nine and a half hours to the City. We pass checkpoints, concrete roadblocks, groups of watchful soldiers, armoured vehicles. Lorries, lorries, lorries in both directions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The road\u2019s not exactly battered, but it gets pretty damn bumpy at times. Less than stellar next to Georgia. Some stretches there are better by far, to say nothing of Israel with its pristine highways. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Already Odessa\u2019s receding behind us, that seaside pearl, city of tuzhurka<\/em>-wearing Murka and the Greek contrabandists of song and story. A city where a raggedy kid was reckoned a seasoned sailor from the days of his boyhood. Where he swam and went under but was pulled ashore again, thank God. From where he\u2019d head to Kherson to pick up pigeons, his skiff with its gull-white sails flickering in the distance. And where, back in \u2019twenty-one, the three of us were happy. <\/p>\n\n\n\n So long ago now, all that was\u2026 Those placid waters, that wine, the Pryvoz. Pirozhki and vodka. The Dacha restaurant \u2013 its garden. Serviettes, meatball sets. Our love, the guileless hopes we harboured. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Hurtling, all of it, into other times, other worlds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Cityward we go, past the turn-off for Uman, as yet unscathed by missile strikes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A few more hours on the road. And then \u2013 the City. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Checkpoint on the approach. Concrete blocks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Dug-in position. Firing slits. Soldiers with very serious faces. But they don\u2019t stop us. And so, after all those hours of travelling, here we are at last.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The stretch from the outskirts to the meeting point \u2013 the station \u2013 vanishes from our notice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There he is. By the entrance. Waving.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In a khaki jacket. Close-cropped. Robust. Buoyant. Our boy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He\u2019s met us here before \u2013 the pair of us, and me alone. Can\u2019t begin to say what joy it was to see him: that well-knit figure of his, ambling down the platform with an easy sway. Or standing there by the taxis.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sometimes all of us\u2019d come together. <\/p>\n\n\n\n From Izmail. Where things were sweet beyond telling\u2026 <\/p>\n\n\n\n 7.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Once, an impossibly long time ago, we packed him off to scout camp. Either we didn\u2019t give it proper thought, or we were swayed by advice from elsewhere. Back then I had friends amongst the camp\u2019s organisers. Mobiles weren\u2019t a thing yet, but somehow we managed to keep in touch. If memory serves, he\u2019d ring us from a payphone. At some point he told us a parents\u2019 day was coming up. We should come, he said: he missed us. So we got in the car and off we went. And what happened? We left as soon as we arrived. With him in tow. Him and the camp just weren\u2019t a good fit. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Now it\u2019s parents\u2019 day once more. If only this one could pan out like the first one did. If only we could take him with us. We\u2019re bringing him various goodies, just as we did then \u2013 Georgian delicacies. Wouldn\u2019t say it\u2019s all wholesome, either. Take this homemade chacha, for instance: dark gold, sixty per cent. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThis is the good stuff, genatsvale<\/em> \u2013 trust me!\u201d winks the moustachioed vendor. \u201cMade it myself. Won\u2019t find anything like it out there.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n A beat, then: <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat\u2019s taking you there, anyway? You not scared to go?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWe are. But we\u2019ve a parents\u2019 day to be at.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHow d\u2019you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOur son\u2019s there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDoing what?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSame as everyone else, I\u2019d imagine.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n He makes a sympathetic noise.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhen it began last February we all thought it\u2019d be over in a blink. What a force they went in with! All that tank-and-planes-and-whatever\u2026 On TV it was the same blether on repeat: three days and it\u2019s parade time, one raised eyebrow from us and you\u2019ll fold. But no. The city held. Year down the line and it\u2019s still standing. Real fighters they\u2019ve got there. Well, safe journey to you. Take care of yourselves.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Take care \u2013 <\/em>funny little phrase, that. Whenever you say it, whoever you say it to, it almost feels like you\u2019ve put a sort of spell on them. <\/em>Yes, take care they will \u2013 for sure. And they will<\/em> stay safe\u2026 <\/p>\n\n\n\n God willing. <\/p>\n\n\n\n We pack the chacha and drive to Tbilisi. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Which I\u2019v\u0435 alr\u0435ady writt\u0435n about. Mountains, mountains, mountains. Orchards, orchards, orchards. Fi\u0435lds, woods, fi\u0435lds. Rivul\u0435ts and riv\u0435rs. Bridg\u0435s and cross\u0435s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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