May 6, 2022 — #Antytvir: Anastasiya Klymenko

Flash essays from the collection “Wars. Ukrainians. Humanity” tell about the insights, experiences, and beliefs of Ukrainians, that ignited their society in 2022, when the full-scale russian invasion of Ukraine began.

The Cultural Hub community and curators carefully collected, translated, and illustrated these texts to capture the values ​​of Ukrainians — Freedoms, Bravery, Dignity, Responsibility, and Humour.

A series of publications in partnership with Chytomo introduces this collection to the English-speaking audience. Volume 14 continues to present the series. You can get acquainted with the previous collection here.

This essay was written in 2022 for Antytvir, a writing contest for teens. It is an educational project by Mystetskyi Arsenal at the International Book Arsenal Festival. Its goal is to promote creative writing among high school students and create a platform for expressing yourself in a non-standard way. The organizers designed this project in 2020 and 2022 to support Ukrainian youth in highly stressful situations by allowing them to write and make their voices heard. Cultural Hub translated into English, illustrated, and added these texts to the “Wars. Ukrainians. Humanity” program as a special series of wartime writings.

Anastasiya Klymenko, 15 years old
Musicians do not live underground. May 6

“Mum, mum, mum, mum, mum, mum, where are you, mum, where is Alina, where are you, mum, mum, mum! Please answer, mum. Please,” I whispered, clutching the phone. I was following the crowd of people exiting the subway. Phone rings and the pounding of my heart drowned each other out, like my parents when they’d fought, ignoring me, a little boy craving silence just like now — squeezing my eyes tight and pressing my trembling lips together.

“Everything will be alright, buddy. Don’t tremble like an aspen leaf,” a screeching voice mumbled in my ear. “Your mum will be alright. Don’t be afraid. Pull yourself together and man up!”

A shaking hand, lined with a fine labyrinth of wrinkles, patted me on the shoulder. The words of the telephone operator hit my eardrum much harder.

“The caller you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please try again later.” “Wait for a bit. Perhaps, there’s no cell signal, or the phone battery is dead. Or maybe your mother doesn’t hear it ringing. My daughter always misses important calls. I’d ask her, “Please turn the volume up and check if the battery is charged.” And she’d go, “Why are you so worried? What can happen to me?” What can I do? Teenagers are like that. They think they’re safe. Well, perhaps at least this generation will realize that all of us are far from being safe.” 

After the umpteenth call was left unanswered, I finally turned toward the stranger. He was not an old man with a hunched back and gray hair created by my imagination. The real man wore a white shirt with a dirty-blue tie and brown pants. He was looking at me sternly and yet with a barely perceptible smile. It was an incredible combination of adult anxiety and childish serenity.  

“Why are you staring at me, huh? I was asking what you are doing here, buddy. Did you go for a walk with your friends or girlfriend?” he asked, peering at me. His smile widened into a curved line.

“Now it’s not the time for walks, you know,” I said in a trembling voice, turning red. I spent the past two months surrounded by the walls of my room and my own thoughts, not by my friends. 

“Why not? Look at this weather. I know that the war is raging, but you, teenagers, must be thoughtful and responsible. You can’t be cowards. The world will not survive another lost generation,” he said. His look turned stern again. He stared at the book of fairy tales someone had left at the subway station as if it was a piece of junk. A thing that lost all its worth.  

Then I heard his voice again. “So what brought you here if you weren’t out for a walk?” he asked.

Black spots with thin lines between them appeared before my eyes. I listened to that man so attentively that I didn’t even feel my fingers go numb and let the backpack strap go. White sheets of paper fell out of it and dropped onto the concrete floor like petals plucked off a chamomile. 

“No, no, no, no,” I dropped to the floor, ignoring the weird glances of women, the curses of old men, and the laughter of the man next to me.

“Are you always this clumsy, or is it my bad influence?” the man asked, looking at me from above.

“I..No, I.. I’ll pick everything up… Don’t wait for me. I don’t want to keep you.”

“Oh no, I’d better wait for you and help you get to the exit. I don’t want you to fall down on the rails. You never know what musicians like you can do next,” the man said, smiling.  

“I’m..not…,” I said, stuttering, stuffing Chopin’s nocturnes and Gould’s etudes into my backpack. I stood up. “Not all pianists are like that. Don’t get disappointed in all musicians just because I made that impression,” I mumbled, blushing.  

I saw a look of surprise on his face and then heard a familiar hoarse laughter: 

“My dear friend, I got disappointed in musicians back when I still worked at the music academy. It’s an inevitable experience of any solfeggio professor,” he said, overtaking a few people moving toward the staircase. I was following him obediently. “So, don’t worry. I…”

“Wait. Did you say you worked at the music academy? As solfeggio professor?” I interrupted him, overcoming a moment’s surprise.

“You’re a musician — and you have no ear. How come they didn’t kick you out of the music school?”

For the first time in the past hour, the concrete slab of anxiety stopped pressing on my chest and let the sincere laughter escape. Putting his hands behind his back, the man followed the crowd streaming toward the exit. I heard people talking with relief, small dogs barking, and children chattering. For a moment, just for a passing moment, I felt as if I was on my way home from music school. I bought a lemon bun before entering the Poshtova station and met that whimsical man in the subway car. That girl with a guitar over her shoulder was returning from a rehearsal with her band. And that young man in a business suit was coming back from his office after a long day. All those people were going home to their families, friends, and loved ones to kiss them, hug them, make love, lie on the couch, watch TV, cook dinner or prepare for exams. Simply to live.

It seemed just like that for a moment until the subway car froze in time and space, the collection of fairy tales loomed lying on the floor, and I met the eye of a little girl scared by what was happening out there, above the ground — beyond the concrete shelter, in our new, absurd reality. 

“I’m always nervous and clumsy when I find myself in a stressful situation or meet new people,” I said, finally taking my eyes off the little girl.

“And you’re afraid of it, right?”

“What? No, I…”

“But it is scary when you feel foolish among other people, especially at the most crucial moments. I vividly remember my first concert exam. The whole room was watching my every movement. I was so scared I didn’t even know how come I didn’t piss my pants. And how come I didn’t forget the opening chord to that damn Polka. It’s still beyond me,” he said, a nostalgic smile playing on his lips. “But remember what I just said about your generation?”

“What? No… I don’t.”

“I see you have no memory, either. What kind of pianist will you make?” he said, smiling ironically. “I said you must not be cowards. Freedom is part of your genetic code, so protect it like the apple of your eye, buddy. You will need it many, many times. You mustn’t be afraid to use it. That’s what matters the most.”

We’d already climbed the stairs to the exit, but I was still musing over what he’d just said. Suddenly, someone’s small and delicate hand lay on my shoulder. Stopping in the middle of the crowd, I saw Sonia, my dear Sonia. She was holding my arm and smiling.

“I knew that would be you dragging along in the crowd. Who else would have crumpled copies of sheet music sticking out of their backpack? Olha Anatoliyivna would’ve told you off had she seen you.”

“Sonia!” I pulled her to my chest and rested my chin on her short chestnut hair, ignoring people who bumped into our elbows, shoulders, and other parts of our bodies. I even ignored my new acquaintance who had been staring at us with curiosity and then said: 

“Tim? Seriously? Why can’t they give normal names to kids? Andriy, Mykola, Serhiy, whatever,” he said. He rolled his eyes and pushed the metal door with posters announcing upcoming or past concerts.

“I…I… I’m actually Tymofiy, so…”

“Wait. Who are you?” Sonia asked, interrupting me. She followed the man, holding the door for me.

“Sonia, please,” I mumbled, letting her go and squeezing through the door after her.

“And what’s your name, I wonder?” Sonia did not listen to me: she asked a question, which I — what a fool — had not even thought of asking.

“Arkadiy. But for you, miss, I’m Arkadiy Oleksandrovych,” he said. His face hid under the mask of dissatisfaction again. A barely perceptible smile showed through it like a ray of sunlight through a gap between the curtains.

“Alright, Arkadiy,” Sonia said, not letting the argument drop. She was following him toward the stairs to the underpass. “So, why don’t you like the name Tim?” I just followed them silently, no longer trying to cool my girlfriend’s ardor.

“Because you can’t tell what his real name is. Tymur, Tymofiy, or Tim. I just hate uncertainty.”

“Really? I would’ve never thought that people from the world of music hate uncertainty.”

Arkadiy Oleksandrovych stopped on one of the steps and looked at Sonia with surprise.

“You, Arkadiy, have the fingers of a pianist, and when you gesture, you cup your hand as if you’re holding an apple,” she said, putting her fingers together as if she was really holding an apple. “My parents are music teachers, so I always notice little things like this.”

“Not bad, Sherlock. I’m impressed. Why don’t you hold your hands like that, I wonder? Or did you go against your family tradition?” We walked upstairs, and I saw my piano among countless people who hurried every which way. It was intact, with shiny velvety-brown varnish.  

“Well, professional deformation is not that merciless with everyone, you know,” Solia chatted away while I was heading toward the instrument, leaving her voice and the voice of common sense behind. 

Only the instinct of self-preservation guided me. When you hold your breath under the water, you try hard to get back to the surface, to the air, right? I was also yearning for a gulp of much-covered air, forgetting about a monotonous answering machine in my phone. I craved at least a passing feeling of safety, just like a few minutes ago in Sonia’s embrace or in the kitchen with my mum in the morning. I experienced that feeling when I saw a cherished combination of black and white and touched the ivory, older than me.

Plopping down on the stool, I stared at the sheet music I’d left on the stand after the air raid siren went on. I ran my fingers along each rectangle, long and short, trying to enjoy the softness of keys. I traced every line, imagining how they would weave together into a secret language of a nocturne or symphony — and completely ignoring an attentive gaze focused on me. Sonia was standing with her arms crossed and an all-too-familiar mischievous smile on her face.

“Did you finally let him be?” I asked, looking up at her.

“Unlike someone else, I found out not only his name but also the music academy he works at. We’re finishing school this year, if you still remember, and I won’t say no to having a powerful friend at the college.” She picked up a sheet pretending to study my sloppy marks.

“A friend? But you’ve known him for like five minutes.”

“People will remember me even if they know me for less than that.”

“Won’t argue with that, Smurfa. I just won’t.”

“Don’t you dare to say that moniker, did you hear me?” she asked, pointing a sharp edge of the sheet at me.  

“Alright, alright. Just don’t crumple my sheets. Put them back, will you, Smurfa?”

Sonia slapped me with the sheets, tipping her head in a burst of laughter.  

“I wish you’d be so courageous in front of others, too. You’d be golden,” Sonia said, ruffling my hair. She put the sheets back onto the music stand.

“I wish, Sonia, I wish,” I sighed.

There was a moment’s pause that I tried hard to ignore. I was trying to escape a so much-needed conversation, hiding, as usual, behind the scores and my instrument. But Sonia — also as usual — was brave enough to start the conversation.  

“Did you manage to play anything before the air raid siren went on?”

“No. I’d just sat down when it started blaring. Must’ve been a sign of destiny.”

“Oh God, don’t start harping on your favorite tune, okay?” she said, rolling her eyes.

“I don’t, Sonia. Look, it’s you who’s making a mountain out of a molehill,” I said quietly and took her hand, pale, almost translucent, a bit sweaty, and trembling with anger. It was a typical Sonia: defending her point of view with foam at the mouth, not even realizing she was imposing her opinion on others. “I know you don’t like what I believe in, but…” 

“Oh, come on, Tim, what does it have to do with anything? You can believe in whatever you want, even in aliens, but stop saying it’s all signs of destiny while, in fact, you’re just a coward!” She said the last sentence so loudly that some people turned and looked at us.

“I haven’t seen you for two months, Tim,” she said, a grimace of helplessness distorting her face, “and all those two months, I’ve been worried: for myself, my mum and dad, Bohdan, and you. Especially for you, Tim. I was afraid that I just won’t… recognize you when I see you again. You’ve always done this whenever anything happened: you hid deeper and deeper underground, farther and farther away from the world and me!” She grabbed my arm again and, taking a deep breath, went on:

“I was afraid that you’d bury yourself, your talent, and your right to be happy so deep that no one would be able to get it out. Even me. So please, sit down at the piano and play at least a damn C-major scale. I can’t live in constant fear of losing you — not just as a friend but also as a musician. I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”

The tears frozen in her eyes hit my head like a sledgehammer, as hard as thousands of sirens blaring all at the same time. “She mustn’t cry. She mustn’t, mustn’t, mustn’t!” I thought, turning my back to her. I was screaming, “She mustn’t!” in my mind, but I didn’t say anything out loud. I just sighed and mumbled:

“Sonia, if the siren goes off again…”

“We’d just go down into the subway like we already did.”

“Do you realize that it’s just not reasonable?”

“Why did you come here if you think it’s unreasonable?”

“It was a mistake. A momentary whim. I regret it. So, it would be better if you could…”

“No!” Sonia cried out, waving her hands. “No! No! No! You’re not going anywhere! You never — can you hear me? never! — played in the street, even before the war. You always played in empty underpasses, praying that no one would look at you for longer than one second. And now you… you yourself decided to come here,” she said, smiling through tears, and put her hands on my red, hot cheeks.

“Tim,” she said, breathing out, still cupping my face. “I’ve told you this a thousand times and will say it again. Musicians don’t live underground. They fly high, very high, even if something or someone tries to shoot them down. So please, do it for my sake…”

“Sonia…”

“Just try. I’m not asking you to…”

“Sonia, wait!”

“…play to the sounds of machine-gun fire. Tim, please.”

“I won’t play the damn piano while my mum might be lying somewhere out there dying!”

I yelled those words straight into her face, hoping she’d finally hear me. My face was still burning, but I no longer felt the pleasant chill of her hands. Sonia jumped back, embarrassment and misunderstanding gleaming in her eyes.

“What do you mean, Tim?”

“She stopped answering her phone at 3:05 pm. I first called her after I got here. You heard that explosion before running down into the subway, didn’t you? Do you remember when it happened?”

“No… I think it was…”

“At 3 pm, Sonia. At three in the afternoon. You’re smart, Sonia. Can’t you put two and two together?” I whispered in a shaking voice, stuffing the sheet music into the backpack.

“Tim, I…”

“I don’t understand why I’m standing here listening to your philosophical rambling about musicians and your pep talk,” I said. I shoved the last few sheets into the backpack, almost tearing them. The phone in my pocket started to vibrate.

“Tim, wait!”

“Who’s that?”

The answer stuck like a lump in my throat until I pressed the coveted green light of hope.

“Mum! God…why haven’t you answered all that time?! Mum!” My voice rose to a shriek filled with mad relief. I completely forgot where I was. “Are you alright? Did you hear explosions?”

I glanced at Sonia out of the corner of my eye. She looked like her heart had also stopped for a moment.

“I’m alright. Of course, I’m alright. My battery was dead. I forgot to charge my phone, silly me. Then the siren went off, you know, and then…” my mother chattered away as she always did when she was overwhelmed with feelings and emotions. 

“It’s okay, mum, don’t worry. You’re alright — and that’s all that matters.”

“Yes, yes, we’re alright. Don’t worry. By the way, are you planning to come home anytime soon?”

“Yes, in an hour or so. Why are you asking?”

“That’s great,” mum said, ignoring my question. “Your sister finally decided to grow up and bake a cabbage pie for us. You can’t miss an event like that.”

“Oh, come on, mum!” I heard a thin girl’s voice in the distance.

“What? But I say good things about you. Don’t I, Tymosha?”

Hearing a name only mum called me, I felt a surge of warmth in my chest. I heard Sonia giggle to the left of me. She heard it all, to be sure.

“Who’s that laughing? Is it a girl? Did you go on a date?”

“Okay, mum, I’’ll be back soon. Wait for me.”

“I’ll surely will. But you won’t escape my questions!”

“Alright, alright. Bye, mum,” I said and finished the call, blushing again to the roots of my hair. Sonia was looking at me with a mischievous smile.

“You said you’d be home in an hour. Does it take so long to get from Maidan Nezalezhnosti to Pecherska station, Tymosha?”

“Don’t you dare to call me…”

“Thank you for staying with me. No, really. Thank you.” Her look grew serious, and she stepped closer again.

“It’s alright. I’m doing that only to delay my painful death from Alina’s cabbage pie.”

“Keep trying to convince yourself,” Sonia said, still smiling. She wiped droplets of tears in the corners of her eyes and then, putting her hand on my shoulder, whispered:

“Would you play Zimmer’s “Time” then, huh?” she asked.

“What?”

“Zimmer. You won’t play only that Gould of yours all your life, will you? Throw in some tunes by other composers in the mix. Chopin or what?”

“You just can’t survive longer than an hour without fighting, can you, Sonia?” I pulled the sheet music out of my backpack again and started to arrange it on the stand.

“I’ve been living like that for two months. So, don’t even start to complain. I need it as much as you need your piano right now,” she said, grimacing as if feeling hurt. She snatched one of the sheets out of my hands. “There you go!” she cried out, waving a sheet with the title “Time” typed in bold.

“Okay, but you’ll treat me to green tea and…”

“…oatmeal cookies, I know. Get ready then, and I’ll be back soon.” She patted me on the shoulder and switched back to whispering. “Try using the piano as a sword at least once, Tim. Not like a shield. Just try.”

I was arranging the sheet music on the stand, trying to follow the correct order, but Sonia’s words still echoed in my head. She had repeated the word “try” so many times for the past day and the past hour as if I had a choice. As if looking at her — so strong and sturdy, but ready to slip between my fingers at any moment and run away from this world, run away from me! — I could do differently. As if watching her disappear in the doorway of a café, I couldn’t imagine her turning into a porcelain doll from all the drugs, hospitals, doctors, and all things medical in her life. As if now, hypnotizing the drops of ink on the music scores, I could allow myself to hide behind them again, as I had always been doing up until that day.

I checked whether the amplifier was plugged in. Do, Mi, Sol. C major. Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La, Si. Octave. Every key rang out loud, even louder than I thought when I’d bought those instruments before the war. It felt as if they’d gotten tired of being silent and now wanted to shout, too. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw several people stop by, but I couldn’t see who they were. A shiver ran down my arms, as always before a performance. That time, though, it felt a little different — as if I was standing on the threshold of an empty, dark apartment with no furniture, no lights, no people, and I had to make a choice: either to step inside or run back to my little underground shelter, where no one would find me, and I could be alone with my fear. I thought about Sonia hurrying to my performances right after chemo and about people running toward the tanks not to give in to fear, and I realized that I had to make that choice. I owed it to everyone who had never had it.

My fingers took the shape of the chords, my eyes closing like the door of the apartment I entered, after all. I touched the bass thirds slowly, softly, weary of harming the piano. The notes emerged from the speakers — dull at first but then louder and louder.

I didn’t see the crowd that the sounds emerging from under my fingers attracted. But then, sometimes, I couldn’t even see myself, slipping into the gray zone between painful reality and even more unbearable fantasy. My hands began to play the violin part all by themselves while I tried to fight back a barrage of images attacking me. Sonia buying a new cello bow because the old one broke when she fought with her classmate. Dead bodies in the streets of familiar towns. Sonia again, blowing out the candles on the cake on her fifteenth birthday. The girl on the subway, her eyes filled with terror. A collection of fairy tales lying on the ground, under the feet of the entire humanity.

My fingers were pressing the keys harder and harder. I couldn’t understand why I was hearing the siren howling instead of music. Suddenly, I dropped back into reality, like into a tub of water, and then I could finally see my hands. Long and skinny, with a small callus on my right middle finger. They kept hitting the keys while the air-raid siren was blaring like crazy, trying to drown them out. I recalled how my parents used to fight when I was a little boy. I craved silence at moments like that. I wished I could hide somewhere. It wasn’t until I realized I had nowhere to hide that I stopped wishing for peace and silence. So, I continued to play. I kept playing, pressing my lips tight and clenching my teeth, my whole body, my fear.

“Air raid siren is on, young man! Proceed to the shelter immediately!”

I could no longer drop out of reality. On the contrary, things around me looked clearer — I could make out every line and every sound in the world. I kept hammering the keys, hurting them so much that I would be ashamed of it later. But for the first time in my life, I finally felt like I wasn’t afraid anymore. I felt like the next moment, after another hit, everything would change, and I could finally protect the people and the things I loved instead of waiting until they slipped between my fingers and flew into the sky while I hunkered down underground.

The sirens kept howling, the police officers kept shouting, and I saw a pale, delicate hand tapping out chords in the third octave just as hard. I didn’t need to look up to my right to see who that hand belonged to. Neither did I need to look up to feel that Sonia was scared, too. But she did not cry or hide waking up in the morning and touching her hair or what still remained of it. She picked up her bow and fought against death, like with a real sword.

“Music can say what words cannot,” mum used to tell me all the time, and I always waited for a moment I’d be able to understand it. That moment arrived after I sent the last chord flying up in the air.

After the police officers yelled again, and I heard a thud close to the Palace of Sports, I finally got up and dashed back underground together with Sonia. We sat on the floor, huddled together as if entwined in a nautical knot. She held my hand tightly, resting her head on my shoulder. Sonia’s skin seemed so pale and thin. I was afraid I could damage it with my fingers, but I never let go of it. We kept silent for half an hour, maybe even longer, knowing that any sentences, words, or sounds would be untimely. Our phones started ringing almost at the same time, shattering the silence. We untangled our hands and pulled them out, realizing that those were not green lights of hope but warning signs of danger.

“Hello. What happened, mum?” Sonia cried out while I was listening to the barrage pouring from the speaker into my ear.

“A shell hit the house on 6A Lobanovska Street. All apartments from the eighteenth to the twentieth floor were destroyed. Can you hear me, Tymofiy Mykolayovych? Do you live in apartment 145 with your mother Valentyna Serhiyivna Koryhina and your sister Alina Mykolayivna Koryhina? We need you to come and identify their bodies. Can you hear me, Tymofiy?” I listened to the fragments of phrases coming from the speaker while someone was shaking my arm and crying loudly next to me. I was still sitting on the concrete floor; the woman on the phone kept talking; the world kept crumbling; and someone kept shaking my shoulders, touching my face, and screaming into my face.

I struggled to get up while someone’s body was still clinging to me. Another explosion blasted somewhere up. “Tim! Tim! Look at me,” someone was shouting. But I only gaped at the stairs leading outside. Running upstairs, pushing away everyone who happened to be in my way, I knew that it was not the piano waiting for me there. The blinding sun and the consequences of my choice I’d have to accept awaited me. The consequences I’d have to live with for the rest of my life.

*

“Tim…” Masha said, her tears dropping onto a yellowed piece of paper. “Oh my God, Tim. Your mother and sister… They…”

“Yes. It was a direct hit. They had no chance. So, I never tried that cabbage pie, as you see,” the man said, smiling wryly and adjusting his bow tie in front of the dressing room mirror. 

“Come on, Masha, it’s time to go on stage. We’ve been dreaming about New York ever since our time in the academy, so don’t you dare to think about anything else but our triumph. Did you hear me?” he said, with a faint smile, and pressed his lips to hers. “You can still think about me, though. That’s not bad.”

“Hold on, Tim. Did my dad know?” she asked quietly, pulling away from him.

“No, he did not. Don’t blame him,” Tim said, rolling his eyes.

“But he was there! You yourself wrote about that!”

“It doesn’t mean that he knows something, okay?” he said, quickly looking away. He headed toward the door but then stopped for a second. “After their death, my dear daddy took me to Poland. Arkadiy Oleksandrovych was there. He knows about the explosion but not about my mother and Alina. Alright? No more questions? Now let’s go backstage. It’s starting soon.”

Masha breathed out and started to adjust the lipstick on her lips. “Are you serious, Masha?” Tim said irritably.

“You knew I’d need to reapply lipstick after the kiss, didn’t you? So give me three seconds, and don’t be a jerk, okay?”

Tim looked at her sternly and left the dressing room, slamming the door. Masha took a deep breath, in and out, pinched the bridge of her nose, and went back to fixing her lipstick. Koryhin was certainly right about one thing — they’d been dreaming about that night for the past nine years. She couldn’t let her emotions ruin everything. She also left the dressing room a few minutes later, bringing along her bow. She saw people with headphones in the corridors, people in elegant suits in the hall, and people with musical instruments on the stage. People were everywhere. And it was impossible not to notice Tymofiy Koryhin among them. Confident walk, long and slender arms, slightly tangled hair. The reincarnation of Glenn Gould, no doubt. Masha sat down on a chair, watching Tim politely talking to the sound engineer. As if sensing her gaze, he patted the man on the shoulder and started to walk toward her. When there was less than a meter left between their bodies, he came up to the chair next to hers and took a gray jacket, completely ignoring her.

“I never thought you could be so sensual, Tymosha. You pretend to be a slab of ice but in fact…”

“Don’t you dare to call me that name,” Koryhin snapped, tensing up like a string of a violin.

“Antonova! If you’re not in the string section in five minutes, I’ll call Dafna on stage. She knows your part, anyway. Did you hear me?” the director said, her voice indifferent. She gave Masha her violin and, yelling something at someone else, disappeared behind the stage.   

Tim was still standing with his eyes closed, trying to pull his helpless thoughts together.

“Listen. I wrote that in the first few days after my mother’s death. It’s been ten years now. The war is over. I’m trying to fucking move on, can’t you see that? So, let’s pretend you never found that damn notebook, alright?” He stretched his hands forward and fixed her with a piercing stare. “Don’t stuff your head with information you don’t need.”

“Sure. Who am I to know things like that about you.”

“I’m glad we agree at least on something…”

“Do you love her?”

Silence descended backstage. All the people — in the corridors, in the hall, on the stage — seemed to have vanished. Tim’s eyes widened in surprise, and his hands began to tremble. Sirens howled in his head with a quiet “try” between them. Only a desperate whisper escaped him:

“What?”

“Musicians don’t live underground,” she said, smiling vainly, thin rivulets appearing on her cheeks. “The tattoo on your chest. It’s her who told you that, right? Sonia? And she’s also a violinist. Well, looks like it’s your type, Koryhin. Is she dead, too?”

“Don’t you dare…”

“Antonova! Where the bloody hell have you been? We start in a minute! Go to your damn seat!” the director yelled, running toward them.

Masha grabbed the violin, adjusted the earbud, and spit into Tim’s face:

“You love her.”

“Don’t get started, Masha.”

“It was not a question, Koryhin. That’s the answer I gave instead of you.”  

Masha hurried to take her seat, despite the veil of tears before her eyes. The curtain rose, and the music began to play, the spotlights directed at the grand piano waiting for him. The only one waiting for him now. With his hands shaking, Tim walked onto the stage to thunderous applause. He tried to enjoy the moment of triumph without looking at the blonde violinist in the orchestra or searching for another violinist in the audience.

Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La, Si. Do. The octave. Tim’s hands took the shape of chords. The first sounds of “Time” emerged from under his fingers. Diving into the sounds of the grand piano, Tim took a deep breath and looked up. The bald woman in the first row copied his gesture.

“It’s for you, mum and Alina,” the man whispered, chasing the fear off his hands.

“It’s for you, Tim,” the woman whispered, not letting herself fall into a merciless sleep.

This essay was written in 2022 for Antytvir, a writing contest for teens. It is an educational project of Mystetsky Arsenal within the International Book Arsenal Festival. Its goal is to promote creative writing among high school students and create a platform for expressing yourself in a non-standard way. The organizers designed this project in 2020 and 2022 to support Ukrainian youth in highly stressful situations by allowing them to write and make their voices heard. Translated into English and illustrated by Cultural Hub NGO within the Wars. Ukrainians. Humanity program.

The editorial “rule of small letters” or the “rule of disrespect for criminals” applies to all the words related to evil, like names and surnames of terrorists, war criminals, rapists, murderers, and torturers. They do not deserve being capitalized but shall be written in italics to stay in the focus of the readers’ attention. 

The program “Wars. Ukrainians. Humanity” has been created by joint effort and with the financial support of the institution’s members of the Cultural Business Education Hub, the European Cultural Foundation, and BBK — the Regensburg Art and Culture Support Group from the Professional Association of Artists of Lower Bavaria/Upper Palatinate.

Author: Anastasiya Klymenko, 15 years old

Translator (from Ukrainian): Hanna Leliv

Illustrators: Nastya Gaydaenko and plasticine panel by Olha Protasova

Copyeditors: Yuliia Moroz, Terra Friedman King

Proofreader: Tetiana Vorobtsova, Terra Friedman King

Content Editors: Maryna Korchaka, Natalia Babalyk

Program Directors: Julia Ovcharenko and Demyan Om Dyakiv-Slavitski