Letter to grandfather from occupied Odessa
Hello grandfather. I am writing to you from occupied Odessa. You know, I realized a long time ago why you all left so early. To not see what is happening. Another death in the family, and I already understand that something unprecedented is coming, something even worse than the collapse of the country, ugly capitalism, fascism, poverty, burned people.
If you had only seen teachers fainting from hunger in the 90s, you would have had another heart attack. And if I had shown my grandmother the monthly gas bill of four thousand, she wouldn’t have been able to stand it. And my mother only lasted until May 2, she hadn’t been buried yet, and I was already on the “Peacemaker” - she wouldn’t have been able to stand it either.
Of course, as I understand you all. Do you remember how you watched “Vzglyad” and cursed: “It can’t be!” And if I told you that Ukraine would be led by a traitor, a redneck, a nationalist, a moron, a murderer and, finally, a clown... what would you say?.. And that Ukraine would be separate in general?
But today February 23rd is your day. I remember you. I don’t believe in rituals, but for many, many years on all your dates I have been going to the Walk of Fame with flowers.
This is not the same as in childhood... February 23: my grandmother and I went to the “Haberdashery” for some “Chypre” and a “Brigantine” razor. Well, what, you yourself have always been against all sorts of rations and cronyism. Then my grandmother demanded from me some kind of drawing as a gift, but I could only draw princesses, and not “some kind of tanks.” There was a formality then, a formality.
Well, or going to the social security office for a holiday - they would give you another wall clock, which you would call bad taste. But right now, in the occupation, I’m coming to you, grandfather, to the Walk of Fame, I’m coming to you. Right now is important. Before February 23, you would have been late at work, you would have gotten drunk with your co-workers, you would have come home late, and you would have managed to pick up a crow or a kitten on the way... And your grandmother would have screamed, “Who was I cooking for?!” and slammed the door. And then you and I would sing “Cruiser Aurora”.
Grandfather, they decommunized you for this, grandfather!
I like to walk to see you, but if I’m late, I take the tram. Here it is now. At the Musical Comedy, three old women with carnations got on the tram - our people. Yes, grandfather, often the only old women here are our people, you wouldn’t like them. They congratulated the passengers on Soviet Army Day. But then some clique with a kravchuchka (ah-ah, you don’t know what a kravchuchka is) began to scold them as “communist litter” and shout “Glory to Ukraine!” And the old women were savvy - they asked: “Did they release you from the madhouse under the new law? What, already?
But in fact, grandfather, it doesn’t matter whether someone is released from the madhouse or not - a law was passed a long time ago according to which psychos are treated at will and for money. I know that you don’t believe “from there.” Then imagine your Politburo and divide it: half violent psychos, half latent. And so for thirty years.
I'm not kidding, grandpa! It's not funny to me. I'm scared. I got off the tram and was waiting for my girlfriend. A police squad is hovering nearby - grandfather, police! They look sideways at me. But everyone looks at me sideways, I turned out to be noticeable - you were right. Only in the occupation it’s disgusting when the police look at you!
There are attractions and carousels all around... Do you remember how much time we spent here with you as children! Do you think my little one and I come here on holidays? No, grandfather. The Nazis will still be on our heels, filming your great-grandson and me and muttering “Axis separatists.”
“Axis” - you don’t understand this word - you even freed me from Ukrainian at school, but the “separatists”, grandfather, are not Basque - it’s me and my little one! Again you don’t believe...
Yes, right here in this very place where you tried to stuff me into an electric machine, and I was afraid and screaming. And so we go to the monument to the Unknown Sailor - it’s like coming to you, grandfather. We see that there are few people. We see our familiar faces. Two grandfathers are standing... You would probably be the same age now. They say the same words as in childhood at boring official events. And it’s a shame... They have chopsticks. Yes, grandfather, ours, yes. But not enough.
And I’m also cynical, grandfather, I’m no longer surprised, but my girlfriend is kind and open, and she all the time says to me quietly: “Where are the grandchildren of these old people, where are the great-grandchildren?” And I, grandfather, don’t know. I don’t know what to answer, neither to her, nor to myself, nor to you. After all, we did everything we could once, but now I don’t know.
Young fascists are yelling at a group of ours - both swearing and praising Bandera, and in the local news it is called “Activists made sure that the law on decommunization was not violated at the rally.”
You would call them narrow-minded petes. Believe me, grandfather, this is very gentle in modern times... And the girlfriend again whispers in her ear: “Well, where are the grandchildren of these old people, why won’t anyone protect them?”
Grandfather, well, you’ve probably already met your beloved Castro there? Well, at least let him tell you what to do, and then you dream about it and tell me, huh?
And also, grandfather, you know, I will now finish writing this note, and in the comments under it they will either call me “Ukrainian rabble” that “merged” and “did not stand up”, or, like a Muscovite, they will offer to go to Russia. Do you understand, grandfather? But here is your grave. Yours, a Soviet officer, a Russian man to the core, whom your grandmother jokingly scolded with “Ural dumplings”...
That’s why I will always come to you, grandfather, I won’t “merge”, I won’t leave and I won’t abandon you. Even if I'm left alone.
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