CHAPTER SEVEN

Fox in the Henhouse

The strange pull between Eastern European girls and Western men has taken on a new shape. Back in the early days, after communism collapsed, the West was a dreamland—and for many, that dream ended in the backrooms of brothels across Europe. But now, with Wi-Fi and webcams, the rules have changed. Girls want to talk first. They want to choose the stranger before the stranger chooses them. And somehow, that shift has turned into a job for me—one that requires no special skills, just enough English to keep the conversation flowing.

A year has passed quickly. I’ve now completed two years at KIMO—two more to finish my undergrad, and another two for my master’s. Time moves fast, especially since I started working at the coaching centre last year.

I talk to Igor more often these days. He’s happy that I’ve more or less settled into life in Kyiv. There’s no talk of visiting him again. Even with a ceasefire officially in place, I don’t think I’ll see him before the war ends.

We use a mobile chat application that claims to be secure and hack-proof. But you can’t always trust those claims. So we talk with the quiet assumption that our conversations will eventually be tracked or tapped. Even if someone breaches the security and accesses our messages, there’s nothing to find. We don’t talk politics, war, or even use words like “weapon.”

For more than a year, Grandpa had been crossing into government-controlled territory every 59 days to keep his pension. The rules allowed payments only if pensioners claimed them there and didn’t stay away for more than 60 consecutive days. Grandma had already given up her pension. She simply couldn’t manage the two-kilometre walk through no-man’s land.

Some politicians call these journeys “pension tourism.” What an insult! A pension isn’t charity. It’s money people contribute to the government during their working lives, in return for a guarantee that it will support them when they can no longer work. But what a scam! The money had value when it’s collected, yet by the time it’s returned, much of that value has disappeared. It’s no longer enough to meet basic needs. They call it inflation.

Grandpa has an even bigger problem. His pension has been suspended. An inspector visited our apartment in Mariupol, didn’t find him there, and stopped his payments.

Papa found a humanitarian legal aid organisation to challenge the decision. Grandpa won in court, but the Pension Fund kept appealing. He wasn’t alone—over a quarter of a million pensioners had lost their payments. After months of legal battles, his pension was finally restored, but the ten months of unpaid pension were still withheld.

Mykyta’s internship has turned into a paid job. The salary isn’t much, but a job is a job—especially when it’s a government one, and there’s a chance of getting posted abroad.

Igor is at his house in Donetsk with his mother and sister. For the past year, he’s been on a three-month rotation. The ceasefire agreement signed last year has reduced hostilities—though both sides still violate it. Now soldiers like Igor can take longer breaks. He serves at the contact line for three months, then returns home for three months.

It’s summer 2017. Katya graduated. Her parents came from Rivne for the convocation but left the same day. After they were gone, the four of us—Okello, Mykyta, Katya, and I—partied all night to celebrate her graduation.

Other than Mykyta, Okello is our closest friend in Kyiv. We meet once or twice a month—mostly to party. Not much of his usual serious talk these days. Sometimes we even get him drunk on purpose, just to pull the fun out of him.

We keep reminding him: he might be a strong African man, but when it comes to drinking, he shouldn’t try to keep up with the Slavic crowd.

Lately, whenever I meet Okello, he keeps bringing up the same idea: that once I finish my degree at KIMO, I should try my hand at the kind of work he does. He says an internship at a non-profit organisation would be a good place to start. He has already spoken to a local humanitarian group his organisation works with, and he insists it would help me find a regular job later, without pressing me for an answer.

Eventually, I sent Okello my CV. Soon after, I got an email from the organisation he had forwarded it to, offering me a chance to work with them over the summer. My job was to monitor updates on government websites—including the parliament and the Cabinet of Ministers—and track changes in laws and policies related to humanitarian protection, providing analysis when needed.

I did internships with the organisation in both summer 2017 and 2018. They didn’t pay me anything, except for a few goodies—fancy tote bags, pens, notepads, and the usual donor visibility materials they hand out at workshops and conferences.

But I can’t complain. They gave me a job in summer 2019. That’s the same time Katya finished her master’s and joined a multinational insurance company as an HR assistant.

I still have a year—two semesters—to finish my own master’s, and I’ve already taken up a job. My employer has been very supportive, allowing me to manage both work and study. It might sound like a lot, but honestly, I have plenty of spare time.

Now that both of us are working full-time, we’ve rented a flat on the left bank, where the rent is a bit more affordable, and moved in.

Grandma’s health is deteriorating. Parkinson’s disease, worsening healthcare in Donetsk and the stress of war have taken their toll. Grandpa wants to take her back to Karlovy Vary in the Czech Republic, where she received treatment almost a decade ago.

Their international passports have expired, so Papa drives them to Mariupol to apply for new ones. Fortunately, the Novotroitske checkpoint now allows cars through, sparing Grandma the long walk across no-man’s land. A month later, Grandpa collects their new biometric passports, which allow Ukrainians to travel to Schengen countries without a visa.

Grandma prefers to wait until early spring, when the weather is milder. The trip will be expensive, almost enough to exhaust their life savings.Papa is worried about that, so he’s decided to cover part of the expenses from his salary to make sure Grandma and Grandpa don’t end up penniless.

Can someone explain something to me? How can forty years of work be worth less than two months of work?

Grandpa spent his life as an engineer. He helped build things that people still use today. His work hasn’t lost its value. Yet the money he saved from all those years can barely pay for one trip to Karlovy Vary for Grandma’s treatment. Papa can earn that much in a month or two.

Something doesn’t add up.

Grandpa gave forty years of his life to his work. His time, his strength, his health. He received money in return and saved what he could, trusting it would look after him when he was old.

But now that he needs it, the money is worth so little.

Where did the value of his labour go? The things he helped build are still there. So why isn’t the value of his work still there too?

Did it simply disappear? Or did someone steal it?

I remember Okello explaining fiat money. Money that governments can create without having to back it with gold or anything else of fixed value. He said that when more money is created, the money people already hold lose purchasing power. Okello called it a quiet transfer of wealth.

When you are young, the system gives you the illusion that it works. You earn money, spend it, travel, enjoy life. It has to keep that illusion alive because it still needs your labour.

But when you’re old, it’s a different story. Your hands shake. Your body is tired. You can no longer work. And suddenly you discover that the money you carefully saved and entrusted to the government pension fund can no longer buy what you need.

I think about Igor and all the young people fighting this war, or wars elsewhere in the world. Young men on one side killing young men on the other.

When they grow old, will they realise that the real enemy was the fox in their own henhouse?

Since we moved to the left bank, I don’t see much of Katya during the weekdays. Like my office, both Katya’s and Mykyta’s offices are in the city centre —which is a good 45 minutes away by foot and train. Mykyta comes over a few times a month to stay with Katya, but most of the time, they meet after work somewhere in the city centre. Katya usually gets home quite late.

But today was different. Both of them came home together, and much earlier than usual—just after I got back from the office.

Neither of them said anything. Katya dropped her bag on the sofa and walked straight to the toilet. She didn’t even take off her sneakers.

Something was wrong. Her face looked pale, and her eyes—puffy, red. Not fresh tears, but the kind that come after hours of holding it in.

I turned to Mykyta and asked, what happened?

He didn’t answer. Just looked down.

Katya came out of the toilet for a moment, glanced at me, then turned around and went right back in. That’s when I got up and walked over. I stood outside the door.

Katya, open the door, I screamed.

She did.

She didn’t say anything. Just pulled me into a hug, tight. Her head rested over my shoulder, but she looked away—like she couldn’t face me, or the words she was about to say.

“Ira called me — she couldn’t bring herself to call you. Igor died this afternoon,” said Katya.

I cried out loud.

“I don’t believe this. You’re lying, Katya” – I burst out. Then I ran to my room and slammed the door.

I couldn’t breathe. I sat on the bed. I couldn’t sit still. I stood up, then sat back down. Again. And again. My legs were cold. My face was burning.

Katya came in quietly. She didn’t say a word. Just wrapped her arms around me. I tried to push her away, but she wouldn’t let go. She just held me, tighter and tighter. And I broke down in her arms.

I spoke with Igor’s mother a day after. And with Ira.

I didn’t know what to say.

They didn’t either.

The sky was grey and dry that morning near Vodiane, but the wind carried a low, steady hum—like the front line was breathing. Igor had been posted to a half-ruined outpost northeast of the village. Just an old dacha with frozen sandbags, torn plastic sheets, and a clear view toward the Ukrainian side near Talakivka.

The ceasefire was written on paper, not in the ground.

That morning, the shelling started again. The first landed near the kitchen. The second came closer. The third hit the communication trench—right where Igor was walking.

They said it was fast. He probably didn’t feel anything. They found him near the trench, his radio crushed, his hand still holding the rifle.

The report said: Killed in action. Vodiane sector.