First days of war

Lviv | Ukraine | 2022

The day was turning into night as a local man takes me to Lviv train station. The streets heading towards the train station are packed with old trams as we struggle to break through to the main entrance. Cloth-like snowflakes are effortlessly dancing in the sky. Not in a hurry to fall. On the other side the grey smoke of coal and wood debris rising from fires, surrounded by silenced and worried faces. How is it possible? – is the thought wearing them out. The town square is filled with a long line of those waiting for a warm meal. They sip the warm liquid with great care as it warms up their bodies and souls. Where is God to let this happen and who are we to remain alive? Twilight falls and the scent of burning coal further scalds into their souls. From a distance we hear a tiny weeping voice of Olga Mieleszczuk, turning the war scenes beyond time into WWII and causing us to freeze in frightful revelation.

The main waiting room, built prior to the Great war, is packed and everyman is turning eyes towards the time tables. They carry all their possesions, everything they managed to get from under the ruins. Carrying small suitcases and bewildered they stroll the unlit halls under the rails. By the ATM an elderly woman collapses, a crowd yells at the police officer who helplessly shrugs. The platform is now empty. The sound of an old locomotive comes from afar, draging long blue carts, the breaks squealing and abruptly all sounds stop. Rusty doors open, letting out the air filled with scents of coal smoke, sweat, rot and decay. It is the smell of blood and inevitable death. In this cloud appears a face of an old woman, helped by others to descend. She is bruised, barely covered her wounds, she can hardly manage her crutches, loudly weeps and cries for help »Gospodin pomiluj!« Behind her running and relentlessly screaming a gipsy family enters the train carrying all their possessions in a big cloth. My gaze stops at two ladies waving to their children at the cart window. Where to, who will welcome them and for how long? Will they be safe? Will we?

(Tamino Petelinšek, from diary entries, Lviv, March 2022)