CHAPTER TWELVE

There is a Garden Where We Can Meet

Grandma’s condition has taken a turn for the worse. She’s refusing her medication now, and Aunty Zhenia is struggling to manage her. When she tries to help, Grandma lashes out—throws things, breaks whatever’s within reach. It’s no longer just restlessness. It’s resistance. Full-blown

Okello came up with a plan. I talked it through with Mama first, then with Papa. It’s bold—maybe even reckless—but they both agreed.

Grandma is coming to the government-controlled side of Ukraine.

But with the war still raging in the east, there’s no way to travel westward through the country. The roads are cut. The risks are too high. So she’ll go the long way—east into Russia, then into the Schengen Zone, and finally back into Ukraine through the western border. A full circle across borders and battlelines—just to come home.

Luckily, Grandma got her biometric passport just before the COVID lockdown. That small detail changes everything—it means she can enter the Schengen Zone without a visa. One less barrier on a journey already tangled with enough of them.

While Okello was still exploring different options for her travel, Grandma had already picked a plan—the one given to her by Aunty Zhenia and her husband. She couldn’t wait. She took whatever was handed to her, no questions asked.

The plan is for Aunty Zhenia and her husband to drive Grandma to the Terehova–Burachki border between Latvia and Russia.

But Okello isn’t convinced. He doesn’t think Grandma will make it. It’s a gruelling drive—over 1,500 kilometres—and she’s far too fragile.

Unable to contain Grandma’s stubbornness, Okello made a few practical adjustments to the plan. He booked hotels online for two nights—one in Voronezh, the other in Moscow—for all three of them.

The idea is simple: no more than six hours of driving a day. After each stretch, they’ll take a full day to rest before moving on. It’s the only way he sees her making it through.

Okello asked me to begin my journey to Riga today. Aunty Zhenia and her husband will drive Grandma to Burachki, on the Russian side of the Terehova–Burachki border. They won’t be crossing with her—they don’t have biometric passports, and the Schengen Zone is off-limits for them. So they’ll bring her as far as they can, then hand her over to the border authorities.

I’ll be waiting on the Latvian side, at Terehova, to receive her. From there, Grandma and I will take a taxi to Zilupe, then catch a train to Riga. We’ll spend the night there, and the next day fly to Rzeszów. After another overnight stop, we’ll take a taxi to Ivano-Frankivsk.

All the cities and locations are unfamiliar to me. I’ve never had to navigate a foreign country on my own. My only trip abroad was to Berlin—and even that felt easy. Katya was with me, and local volunteers practically guided us everywhere.

Okello saw the hesitation on my face and offered to come with me.
But I took a breath, gathered whatever courage I had, and told him I’d manage.

But I really need to start today—as soon as possible. I want to keep a buffer day in Riga, just in case I mess something up along the way. That way, even if things go wrong, I’ll still make it to Terehova on time to receive Grandma.

All flights from Ukraine have been grounded since the invasion. And there are no seats left on any of the trains heading into Poland. Tickets open three weeks in advance—and vanish within days.

The most convenient route would’ve been by train: Kyiv to Warsaw, then Warsaw to Vilnius, and finally Vilnius to Riga. But there’s no point dwelling on that now. Instead, I bought bus tickets—Kyiv to Lublin, then Lublin to Riga. More than 30 hours on the road, start to finish.

I took two weeks off from work—one week starting from tomorrow, and another week after a gap of 15 days. My HR wasn’t happy about it—the organisation requires at least a week’s notice for extended leave. I cited a family emergency that required me to travel abroad, which wasn’t entirely untrue.

Papa mailed Grandpa’s death certificate to Katya—the one issued by the separatist authorities. Under a new law, there’s now an expedited process to obtain a Ukrainian death certificate based on information recorded in a separatist-issued one. Katya has already sent it to one of the legal aid lawyers her office works with.

Mykyta, on the other hand, has used his government service network to establish contact with a senior official at the Social Services Department in Ivano-Frankivsk. He is also trying to find a contact at the Medical-Social Expert Commission in that Oblast. Grandma will need expedited support from these offices once she arrives in Ukraine.

A new crisis erupted just as I was about to arrive in Lublin. Grandma fell seriously ill after only four hours on the road—long before they even reached the hotel in Voronezh. Aunty Zhenia has given up on the original plan. They’re now searching for a hotel in one of the small towns nearby, anywhere Grandma can rest and recover.

But Grandma is adamant. Once they find a hotel and she get some rest, she wants to continue. No amount of pleading changes her mind. “If I’m going to die anyway in Donetsk,” she said, “I’d rather die trying to get out. Maybe—just maybe—I’ll make it.”

Okello asked me not to return just yet. He and Mykyta are working on an alternative plan and said he’d call me in a couple of hours.

I checked into the hotel in Lublin anyway—the booking was already paid, and non-refundable. I also lost the money on the Riga hotel. Both were online bookings, and the discounted rates I chose didn’t include a cancellation option.

At least I managed to recover more than half of the bus fare for the Lublin–Riga ticket.

Okello called about three hours later—with a sharp, clear plan.

Grandma will fly to Rzeszów. Mykyta’s sister, Olga, and her boyfriend, Andrii, will accompany her as far as Istanbul. Yes—Olga, the same one who betrayed her own brother. Olga and Andrii, the two who took Russian passports and jeopardised Mykyta’s foreign service career.

Like Ukrainian passport holders, they don’t need a visa to enter Turkey. But with Russian passports, they’re restricted from entering the Schengen Zone. So, they’ll take Grandma to Istanbul, and I’ll meet her during her transit at the airport.

Katya called a little later, venting about how greedy she thought Olga was. It was Mykyta who asked her to help, but Olga agreed only on the condition that Andrii be included in the plan. They saw it as a chance to turn the trip into a holiday in Turkey.

Okello didn’t mind buying the extra ticket, though. For him, it’s still a favour—Olga agreed to help, and that’s what matters.

Olga and Andrii have asked for two days to wrap up their regular work before flying. Tomorrow, Aunty Zhenia and her husband will drive Grandma to Rostov, where she’ll stay in a hotel for two nights before her flight. The route is Rostov–Moscow–Istanbul, and for Grandma, there’s an additional leg: Istanbul to Rzeszów.

Olga and Andrii will meet her in Rostov and accompany her as far as Istanbul. They’ll then stay on in Turkey for a full week—but they’ve booked their hotel separately, at their own expense.

I didn’t want to waste two more nights paying for a hotel in Lublin. The train ticket to Berlin cost less than the hotel would have. So I took the train and spent two nights with Mama and Sasha.

The flights from Berlin to Istanbul were fully booked on my scheduled date. But I found a ticket from Leipzig—just two extra hours by train. I bought a one-way ticket. Okello had already booked my seat on the same Istanbul–Rzeszów flight as Grandma.

Today is a big day for me—the first time I’m taking on a real responsibility for the family. I slept well the night before, and I dressed carefully to make a good impression on Grandma. I wore the sapphire pendant and earrings I had consciously brought from Kyiv—the ones she gave me the night before we left Donetsk.

Mama prepared fried varenyky, kolbasa, poppy seed rolls, and hard cheese—each wrapped in foil or wax paper and packed into two compact containers: one for me, one for Grandma. No liquids, of course—I’d be flying.

I arrived at the transit hall before Grandma and waited in front of the gate where she was supposed to come through. Then I saw an airport assistant pushing a wheelchair.

Grandma noticed me from a distance—a pause, then her face opened.

As she came closer, she looked straight at me. A faint smile pulled at the corner of her lips, her eyes wet and shining. Then she glanced at my pendant—just for a second—and gently touched

her own neck. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

Andrii took us to an airport café and bought us coffee. We spent about half an hour together, then went our separate ways.

After we arrived in Rzeszów, we went to a hotel for the night. Grandma didn’t seem exhausted. Aunty Zhenia called to walk me through her medication schedule.

Papa had already arranged for a driver from Ivano-Frankivsk to pick us up in Rzeszów. He arrived around 8 a.m., and we started the journey right away.

Okello had already warned me that Ukrainian immigration might initiate an administrative offence case against Grandma for entering Russia. She had crossed over from Donetsk and exited through Moscow—the stamps in her passport make that route unmistakable.
He told me not to resist too hard. The fines are manageable—a few hundred dollars. The law doesn’t allow for criminal charges. Not yet.

As expected, the immigration officer raised the issue. He asked Grandma a few questions—I answered most of them. But as I explained how much she had gone through just to reach the government-controlled side of Ukraine to see her son, I saw the human behind the uniform—someone who understood what it means to care for family. He glanced at the passport, paused, then quietly stamped it. No lectures, no paperwork, no warnings. He didn’t fill out any forms, didn’t file a charge, didn’t ask us to appear before any court or tribunal. Just a nod—and we were through.

We arrived at the hotel in Ivano-Frankivsk. Grandma took a nap. Mykyta, who arrived from Kyiv early in the morning, came to the hotel with a local doctor.  I woke up Grandma and the doctor had a few minutes chat with Grandma. Grandma went to sleep again.

Mykyta, now has all documents he needed to file two applications to the Social Service Department, and the Medical-Social Commission to obtain formal recognition of Grandma’s medical condition and Papa’s status as sole caregiver.

Papa is still in Rivne. Okello had asked him not to travel until the paperwork from the two government offices are cleared. Mykyta is confident that he will get them by tomorrow noon.

Okello took the office driver—whom he had arranged through his workplace earlier—and drove to Rivne. He picked up Papa and they headed toward Ivano-Frankivsk. Okello also received a confirmation letter from a medical resort in Karlovy Vary, confirming Grandma’s admission for treatment along with a week-long accommodation for both her and Papa.

The reunion between mother and son finally happened when Papa arrived at the hotel with Okello around midday. Grandma held back—she knew the job wasn’t done. The plan had always been to get Papa out of the country.

Mykyta gave me the paperwork from the Social Service Department and the Medical-Social Expert Commission, while Okello handed over the admission and accommodation documents from the Karlovy Vary medical resort. I also have Grandpa’s death certificate and Papa’s birth certificate. Papa gave me his military records, including the medical examination he underwent a year ago. Grandma is carrying her pension certificate, which confirms that she has been receiving disability payments for a Category 1 disability.

With all the documents in hand, I took Grandma and Papa to the Territorial Recruitment and Social Support Centre, where Papa submitted his application for exemption from military conscription. Under the law, if a person requires constant medical care, their sole caregiver is entitled to exemption.

I wasn’t allowed to be present during the submission, but afterward, Papa told me that—based on what he heard from someone inside—he had no reason to worry. His application wouldn’t be denied.

Mama is arriving tomorrow morning. Sasha cannot come—he’s over 18 now, and if he enters Ukraine, he won’t be allowed to leave. So, he’s staying back in Berlin.

The plan is for Papa to meet Mama tomorrow morning, and Okello will drive him back to Rivne. Mama will stay with Grandma while we wait for the letter from the conscription office to arrive.

I stayed two more days with Mama and Grandma, as I still had some leave days left. After that, I returned to Kyiv and rejoined work.

The exemption letter arrived in two weeks. The same driver who had brought us from Rzeszów drove Mama, Papa, and Grandma back to Rzeszów. However, Mama got off at the border crossing point and crossed on foot. It was better not to confuse the immigration officers by making it appear that Grandma had a second caregiver.

They will stay overnight in Rzeszów and fly to Berlin tomorrow.

Katya and I saw off Grandma at the hotel in Ivano-Frankivsk and then headed to Bukovel. I had promised to take her there once Papa left the country. She took three days off, and with the two weekends, we have enough time to spend a few peaceful days in the Carpathian Mountains.

The Petrov family—except for Grandpa, Benichka, and me—are now in Berlin. The fresh air of the Carpathian Mountains feels even sweeter when I breathe it, thinking about that.

Another exciting piece of news—Mama just shared it an hour ago. Her childhood friend Margaretha contacted her after seeing a message Mama had posted on one of the online platforms created to reconnect children lost during the war with their parents. Margaretha now lives in Dresden, and she and her husband plan to drive to Berlin this Saturday to visit.

I asked about Grandma. Mama said she’d been sleeping like a child since arriving yesterday afternoon—waking only for food or medicine, then drifting back to bed.

Our first two day together in Bukovel passed quietly. We wandered the mountain paths, walked along village roads, and ate far too much. By nightfall, we slept like logs.

We continued our walk the next morning, heading out right after the breakfast buffet that came with the cottage. Katya looked more prepared than I did, dressed in the training suit she’d brought from Kyiv. I didn’t think ahead. We climbed a hill and followed a soft trail through a light forest. On the way back, Katya picked wildflowers—dozens of kinds, in every colour: red, white, purple, yellow, and pink. Back at the cottage, she arranged a few small bouquets, then went in for a shower.

It was late morning in Ukraine—one hour earlier in Germany—when Mama called again.

Grandma had passed away.

She’d woken early, before anyone else. Made breakfast for everyone. Set the table just the way she liked: neat, careful, almost ceremonial. Then she went back to bed. And sometime in the next few hours, she slipped away in her sleep.

I sat motionless, leaning my head against the headboard. Katya came out of the shower, towel around her shoulders. She looked at me, sensing something was off.

Katya  

What happened?

I            

Can you bring out one of the wine bottles you brought from Kyiv?

Katya 

What? Why? What’s going on?

I           

Grandma’s gone.

Her expression changed—like the floor had shifted beneath her. She didn’t speak for a moment. Then she came over and sat next to me, still dripping from the shower.

Katya 

Oh God. Why? Why now, after everything?

I                     

I’m going to the balcony. Bring the bottle.

I took two glasses and placed them on the small table outside. Sat in one of the chairs, staring at the mountains in the distance. She came out and sat beside me. Empty-handed.

I went back in, took a bottle from her bag, found the wine opener near the breakfast counter, and opened it. I poured us both a glass.

Katya 

You’re crazy, Masha. This isn’t the time

I                     

It’s exactly the time. This is my way of honouring her. Celebrating a life well-lived.

Katya

            Still… it doesn’t feel right.

I                     

I won’t fake shock—because I’m not shocked. My heart’s not broken. It’s full. Full of admiration. When Donetsk was being shelled, even with her fragile body, she didn’t panic. When the virus took Grandpa, she held her breath and kept going. No partner, no proper care, no steady medicine—none of that made her give up.

Katya

 Maybe she knew the family needed her. That she had to hold on.

I                     

I don’t think she—or anyone—knew. You don’t need to know. You just need conviction. That you’re part of something. A process. And you keep carrying it for as long as you can.

She left like the wind—no noise, no resistance. Like the soil bacteria—indifferent to the chaos above, carrying on quietly, steadily, until the end comes. And when it does, it exits without ceremony, because that too is part of the game.

We both sat in silence, gazing out toward the horizon. The Carpathians rose softly in the distance—lush green folds of mountain lifting from the curved land, scattered with trees, shrubs, and the occasional rooftop of a cottage tucked into the hills. The air was gentle, cool with the breath of late spring. Katya lifted her glass and took a reluctant sip.

Drowsing into half-sleep, my mind drifts—Igor, Grandpa, my favourite park in Donetsk, Benichka… one memory folding into another. Life won’t be the same again.

Then again, it never is. No man ever steps in the same river twice, said a Greek philosopher. The river changes. So does the man.

I won’t go looking for the same river. Just as I’ve loved the Carpathians today, I won’t seek this same Carpathian again. Not even this Katya. Life moves like a river. Like wind. Like all things that live.

I betrayed my country, and I have to live with that. I can answer for my actions before the law—because I didn’t break it. Like a shrewd, cynical lawyer, I exploited the fine print. But I cannot answer to the mothers who lost their sons in the war, to the women raped in Bucha and Irpin, or to the children taken from their parents—other than asking for their forgiveness.

To the mothers—I hope you can see my pain too. I lost Igor. Yes, he was a separatist, an enemy soldier. But to me, he was my Igor. I lost my Grandpa, who died without proper treatment. And I didn’t have the strength to lose my father too.

The emptiness your son’s death left in your heart—wouldn’t you have done anything, absolutely anything, if it meant bringing him back?

I did that—before my father was lost.

To my brothers serving in the military—I won’t try to stop you from calling me a traitor. But I hope you understand: giving your life and carrying the memory of a lost one are not the same. Igor died. His mother, his sister, and I will carry that pain for the rest of our lives.
I am just a human—flesh and blood. Brothers, I didn’t have the strength to carry any more.

Katya stepped out onto the porch, drying her hair with a towel. The sun had dipped behind the hills, casting the mountains in soft blue shadow.

Katya went back inside, and I stayed a little longer. The silence wasn’t empty—it held something. A realisation, maybe. That I am not outside the world watching it; I am inside it. Part of the stage that nature built for me to laugh or cry, suffer or thrive, love or hate, and meet each moment as it comes. I don’t control the script, but I can still choose how I stand in the light.

 To all of you who read my story—I don’t care what colour your skin is, what God you believe in, or where you were born. I’m not interested in whether your ancestors were slaves or slave traders, Nazis, Jews, or Roma. What matters to me isn’t the history you carry—it’s the person you choose to be now. I’m only interested in you.

I don’t care what ideology you carry—capitalist, socialist, nationalist, globalist, or anarchist. When I look at you, I don’t see your beliefs—they’re just a blend of your thoughts.

You don’t exist to me as an idea. You exist as something real. I’ve seen you shiver in the cold, ache when you’re hungry, thirst when there’s no water. And I’ve seen you come alive when given love.

I don’t want your ideas, thoughts, or beliefs to stand between you and me. Leave them behind. And I will tell you—there is a garden where we can meet.