I am Larisa Pavlovna. An academician. In biology. It would be fine, but I'm an academician in Donetsk. I've been living in a state of war for over ten years. Water once every three days is a gift.
And today I'm standing in line at the bus station. Going to see my daughter in Mariupol. No more shelling. It's calm now. We're Russia now. But I'm afraid.
Afraid of this large man standing in front of me in the queue. I'm a small woman. In my little hat, in my little fur coat. Waiting for my son-I want to give him a tormozok. A tormozok for New Year. You don't know what a tormozok is? A miner's word. Food packed at home. While the miner eats-work stops. Hence the name. Pirozhki, candy. Small things. But not small.
And this large man in an ushanka-he stands nearby, and I'm afraid. It's been five years without my Lyosha. He was an academician too. What do we have against men like that? Our biology?
Have you read Dostoevsky? I don't know why I'm thinking about this. But I am.
Vitya appeared from the crowd-my boy, forty-two years old, but still my boy. Hugged me, kissed the top of my head.
-
Mom, come on, not again...
-
Here. - I pushed the tormozok into his hands. - Cabbage pirozhki. And candy. Don't argue.
He smiled. Tired, but warm.
- Thanks, Mom. Call when you get there.
Hugged me again. Left. I watched him until he dissolved into the crowd.
The line moved. The large man turned around. I shrank.
And then my world turned upside down.
- Go ahead, dear...
Voice soft. Eyes-huge, light. Tired. But he's smiling.
- Go ahead, dear. You're going to Mariupol?
I nod. Can't speak. I pass.
The bus is full. I sit by the window. Look at my ticket-seat 7A. And of course-of course-he sits next to me. 7B. Fate.
I shrink. Look out the window. The bus starts. Donetsk drifts away behind us.
Silence. One minute, two, five. I feel him next to me-big. Dangerous? I don't know anymore.
And then he takes out a book.
I glance sideways. Soft cover, worn. Camus. "The Plague."
Camus.
This large man in an ushanka is reading Camus.
I can't help myself.
- Camus?
He looks up. Smiles-that same soft smile.
-
Yes. Rereading it. Third time, probably.
-
Why "The Plague"?
He looks at the book. Then at me.
- Because it's about us. About those who stayed. When everyone left-and you stayed. And you do what you can. Not because you're a hero. But because someone has to.
I'm silent. A lump in my throat.
-
And you? What do you do?
-
Biologist. Academician.
He nods.
- Seriously. Then you'll understand Camus better than me.
I laugh. For the first time today-I laugh.
We talk. The whole way-we talk.
His name is Andrey. He's thirty-eight. From Moscow. Came in 2014. Was a history teacher-became part of history.
- Twelve years. I know the statistics. Those who came then and survived until today-almost no one left.
And he sits next to me. Reads Camus. Smiles.
Now-he doesn't say it directly, but I understand.
He talks about Dostoevsky-yes, he's read him. And Tolstoy. And Chekhov.
- In the trenches, there's time, - he says. - Between... between everything. Books save you.
Falls silent. Looks out the window. Then adds quietly:
- I had a comrade. Very young. I gave him "Crime and Punishment." He read halfway through.
Doesn't finish. Doesn't need to.
I tell him about Lyosha. About the institute. About water once every three days. About how you hold on when there's nothing to hold on to.
He listens. Doesn't interrupt. Nods.
-
You're strong, Larisa Pavlovna.
-
I'm old and stubborn.
-
That is strength.
Mariupol. The bus stops.
I stand up. So does he.
-
Thank you, - I say. - For the conversation.
-
Thank you. - He hands me the book. - Take it.
-
What? No, I can't...
-
Take it. To remember.
I take it. My hands are shaking.
He smiles.
- You probably have it already. But still. When you finish-pass it to someone who needs it more.
He exits first. I watch him go-big, in his ushanka, slightly hunched. Disappears into the crowd.
My daughter waves to me.
I press the book to my chest. "The Plague." Camus.
I was afraid of him. The whole queue, the whole bus station-afraid. And he...
One of those who stayed.
That evening, at my daughter's, I open the book.
On the first page-an inscription. In pencil, neat handwriting:
"To those who stayed. And to those who will return."
I read until morning.