CHAPTER NINE

Where is Debu

A slight tension had brewed between Mama and Sasha. He wants to take a part-time job delivering food. She’s furious. He only turned 17 this June—he should focus on his studies, not zipping around the city on a bike. If he wants a shot at a public scholarship and a university seat in Kyiv next year, there’s no room for distractions.

I think I know why Sasha is so desperate to work. Mama gives him twenty, maybe twenty-five dollars a month—barely enough to go out with friends, let alone try to impress a girl. I made him a secret deal: I’ll send fifty dollars a month, but only if he promises to study hard and aim for a public scholarship next year. Some secrets are best kept between brother and sister—especially when they involve Mama’s youngest spending more in a week than she does in a month.

The long, idle stretch of the Corona years seems to have settled deepest in Benichka’s bones. He no longer moves like a nine-year-old—more like a dog well past his prime. His legs slowly rise, and his steps are careful, as if each needs thought. But the way he looks at Sasha and follows him—none of that has changed. That part of him is still young.

He follows Sasha everywhere, like a shadow, just behind, just beside. When Sasha sits, Benichka lies at his feet, eyes fixed on his face with that silent, worshipful stare only dogs give to those they love beyond measure. It’s not just loyalty. It’s something more profound. If Sasha shifts in his chair, Benichka lifts his head, ears twitching, ready. As if to say, I’m still here. I’m still yours.

Mama chooses a flat in the Primorskyi district, even though it costs a bit more. The neighbourhood is close to the coast, with views of the Azov Sea on clear days, and far enough from the factories to avoid the worst pollution. Mariupol is known for its dirty air—the plants to the north and east cover the city in a constant haze—but Primorskyi does better than most.

A new complication arises. The flat’s market price is likely to exceed its assessed value. Since the mortgage will only cover the assessed amount, Papa will need extra cash to bridge the gap. He plans to borrow the difference from a few colleagues. He and I will repay it gradually from our salaries by December.

Now that the flat is sorted, I have one afternoon left—and I know exactly how to spend it. I’ve been waiting over a year to see Hashi and Khushi, the Royal Bengal tigers born in the Mariupol zoo. Last time I saw them, they were still cubs. Sasha no longer cares to walk with me—teenagers grow out of such things—but a visit to Hashi and Khushi? That’s something he’d never say no to.

Bingo! There’s a new one—and it’s a boy. People around me say he was born three months ago. One of the zookeepers has taken him out of the maternity enclosure and into an outdoor exercise pen for some time in the sun. He’s bottle-feeding, playing with him, letting the little cub roll and pounce like an oversized house cat. A low wooden barrier keeps visitors at a distance. I wish I could cross it for a moment to get closer—to touch him.

Hashi and Khushi have grown. They’ve been moved to a separate enclosure, away from their parents. Behind the iron fence, they sit—still, unreadable. I used to think they looked sad, longed for the mangrove forest, and hated us for this. But that’s human thinking—always stuffing our guilt into the silence of others. Tigers don’t need to look broken for the wrong to be absolute. They don’t need to cry out for us to know this isn’t where they belong. Whatever they feel, it doesn’t need to match our imagination. Don’t think like a human. Just look. That’s enough.

Sasha scrolls through Bengali names, looking for one that fits the new cub. After a few options, we settle on Debashish—Debu for short—one who carries the blessing of God. It feels right. Born during the Corona lockdown, to parents displaced from the Donetsk zoo, and now raised in this small corner of Mariupol—if anyone carries a blessing, it’s him.

Back in Kyiv, I’ve settled into my job again. The work culture at my new office feels like a quiet revelation—no harshness, no raised voices, just a steady current of appreciation. People say thank you. They notice small things. Even doing what you’re supposed to—like showing up on time in the morning—earns quiet respect here.

Lately, I’ve started attracting some attention from Ukrainian and international colleagues. It’s subtle, respectful. And I don’t shrink from it for the first time in a long while. The memory of Igor is still there, tucked deep inside, but it no longer closes every door. Something in me has shifted. I’ve stopped treating grief like a fortress.

Katya is going to Rivne for Christmas. I’m staying in Kyiv this year, spending Christmas and New Year with colleagues, for the first time, without my family or Katya. I was in Mariupol briefly, just for one night, the day Papa received the keys to the new flat. But they’re not staying there for the holidays either. They’ve gone to spend a few days with Grandma in Donetsk.

There were some discussions at the office today about the Russian military buildup in Belarus, carried out under the banner of joint exercises. People recalled that a much larger deployment had taken place along the Belarusian border the previous year, yet it didn’t lead to war. This kind of tension isn’t new.

The Valentine’s Day office party, however, was fun. I had to gently turn down two dinner invitations—both delivered with polite persistence. I preferred to join the after-office gathering organized right here at work.

A thunderous roar tears through the night and yanks me out of sleep. For a moment, I can’t tell if I’m awake or trapped inside some collapsing dream, where the sky folds in and sound moves like liquid through the walls. Then I hear footsteps—fast, uneven—and Katya bursts into my room, screaming my name.

I switch on the light, but she’s already in my arms, clutching me like a child pulled from deep water. Her body is shaking. She’s not speaking—just screeching, words tangled and senseless. Language has collapsed under the weight of fear.

“There’s war, there’s war—let’s run, Masha! I don’t want to die!”

Those were the first complete sentences Katya managed to scream, her voice cracking, wild with panic.

The air siren is wailing—long, rising, relentless. I fling the curtain open in our 14th-floor flat, the sky is on fire—wild, directionless. Smoke coils up from the ground below. I grab my phone, take Katya’s hand, and pull her toward the front door. We snatch our jackets from the wall hooks, shove our feet into sneakers—no time to bend, no time to tie—and rush down the fire exit staircase.

The phone’s flashlight cuts through the dark. We’ve never used the fire exit staircase before and don’t know where the switches are. A few floors down, other families appear, their lights bouncing off the walls. We descend quickly and reach the ground-floor hallway.

The ground-floor hallway is nearly full, with more people arriving. There’s no basement or underground parking level on this high-rise. Oligarchs run the country—and the real estate business. They maximize profit, even if it means stripping away what might stand between life and death.

A massive strike lands nearby. The building shakes. Most people in the hallway drop to their knees—some with hands over their heads. The sound and pressure hit straight in the gut. Katya is silent now, holding my arm, her body slack with surrender.

Papa and Mama are on the phone. Mariupol is under attack. Mama keeps breaking down into tears, worried about my safety. But they need to pack and run too. I have to hang up. Mykyta is calling. Katya left her phone in her bed.

Katya is disappointed—Mykyta won’t be coming to take us. He must report to work immediately. He’s packing a few things into his backpack, just enough to spend the night at the office. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs has underground bunkers.

A few missed calls from Okello. I called him back. He’s in the bunker—his Soviet-era flat on Pushkinska Street has one built for nuclear strikes. Katya grabs the phone from my hand:

“Get us out of here, Okello. Get us out of the city. Do something, Okello. Please

do something,” Katya keeps repeating, her voice cracking, desperate, as if saying it enough might make it real.

I take the phone back from Katya. Okello has received security guidance from his office. I haven’t heard from mine yet—we work for similar INGOs, but expat lives move to the top of the list. Katya works for the UN—just maybe, something came through. But her phone is upstairs.

Okello gives clear instructions. “Put your laptop, charger, some dry food, water, and any first aid supplies into a backpack. Don’t forget your wallet and ID. When the shelling pauses, head straight to the Lukianivka metro station and get underground.”

As I’m about to hang up, Okello adds—“Listen, do you hear me? Stay warm. Have food and water with you. And keep your phone charged.”

I head upstairs to pack. I asked Katya where she left her phone and wallet.

“Phone’s on the bed—wallet’s in the top drawer of the bedside table,” she says quietly.

I take the lift—no strength left to climb fourteen floors. Katya walks with me, insisting on coming. I push her back gently and tell her to stay put until I return.

I pack both Katya’s and my backpacks. I pull on my jeans and toss hers into the bag. Two pairs of socks, gloves, and a winter hat. Everything Okello listed—except the first aid kit. We don’t have one.

The sky is dark, lit only by a cold, silvery moon as Katya and I head toward Lukianivska metro station. Inside, it’s crowded—men, women, and children packed into every level. The deeper we go, the tighter it gets. Katya walks in silence and stops only when we reach the lowest platform. Built for a nuclear strike, the station offers a grim reassurance.

Katya checks her phone for the first time—missed calls from Mykyta and her parents. She spoke to Mykyta earlier on mine, but hasn’t reached her parents yet. The signal’s too weak for voice calls where we’re sitting. She types out a few messages and walks one level up to get a connection. As soon as they’re sent, she comes back down.

People move constantly up and down the station levels—some even to the street—to download news clips and social media posts, trying to piece together what’s really happening. No missile strike has occurred nearby, but the Artemov Weapon Factory is just 300–400 meters from here—which could be an obvious target. I deleted that detail from my phone before handing it to Katya.

It’s late morning. We still don’t know what our next move should be. Texts from Mykyta, Okello, and our parents come and go—none with a clear suggestion. Nothing from our office security teams either. It seems their only concern is evacuating the expats.

Foreign news channels show traffic stretching for kilometres—endless lines of cars as Kyiv residents try to flee the city. We don’t know anyone here with a car. One of Mykyta’s colleagues drives to Zhytomyr every weekend, but she’s required to report to work today.

A sliver of hope surfaced by late morning—Ukrainian Railways had launched special evacuation trains from Kyiv to the western oblasts. But that hope dimmed quickly. Social media filled with images of the central station—crowds stretching far beyond the entrance. Reaching the platform alone looked nearly impossible.

Katya isn’t eating—just a few sips of water now and then. This is a different Katya. She’s always been the stronger one between us, the one who pushed me to make hard choices when I faltered. But something cracked this morning.

The hard shell she carried so well shattered under the pressure of absolute insecurity. And now, beneath it, the childlike Katya has surfaced—the one who just wants to be safe, and held, and far from all of this.

We need to get out of Kyiv today—there may be no chance tomorrow. Russian troops that crossed through Chernihiv are already advancing toward the capital. There’s an air battle underway for control of Antonov Airport, just 25 kilometres from the city centre. If they take it, they’ll use it to airlift more forces, and Kyiv will come under direct attack.

If they come close to Kyiv, they’ll make it another Stalingrad. I know the Russians—I grew up among them, I carry their language and stories. Their psyche is shaped by siege and sacrifice, and they have a cruel mastery of artillery war.

They don’t move in—they blow everything apart until there’s nothing left to defend. They level cities to silence resistance. If you have a chance to flee, you flee—or you wait to be buried in the rubble.

Since morning, some people had left the station when metro staff said the siren was over—only to return when it sounded again. Katya and I stayed. When the siren stopped once more, we went back to the flat to use the restroom. Katya didn’t want to climb up to the 14th floor, so we used the staff toilet on the ground floor and returned to the station.

Okello called around 4 pm. He has convinced his colleague Oleksi, who is driving to Ternopil tomorrow, will take us to the Polish border. We shared contacts of Oleksi and scheduled pick up from the metro station at 7:10 am. There is curfew in Kyiv from 10 pm till 7 am. We will be staying at the station during the night. 

Okello asked us not to carry more than a backpack and a computer bag each. I went upstairs again during an air siren break and packed some more clothes for myself and Katya.

Sasha called around 8 pm. Benichka was not feeling well. Sasha’s voice was tight and uncertain, trying to sound brave but slipping in and out of panic. They were somewhere past Dnipropetrovsk, heading west.

He said Benichka was shivering in the back seat, wrapped in two blankets but still cold to the touch. His breathing was shallow, uneven, and he no longer reacted when Sasha called his name. The heater in the Zhiguli barely reached the back, and they couldn’t risk running it too high—the fuel was low.

More people arrived at the station as curfew hour approached. Soon, there was barely any space left—to sit, to stretch, even to lean. Katya and I braced our backs against each other for support, our bodies the only thing keeping us upright. Cold crept up from the concrete floor—slow, steady, and bone-deep. We spread our spare clothes beneath us for insulation, but the chill pushed through everything.

It was a couple of hours past midnight when Mama’s call woke me up.  They had pulled off a rural highway somewhere in Vinnytsia—low on fuel, too cold to keep driving. Curled up in the back seat, wrapped in blankets, they tried to rest. Sometime in that frozen silence, Benichka slipped away.

When Sasha found him, he broke—screaming, shaking the body, refusing to believe it. Mama said it was like something broke loose inside him—loud, raw, and beyond words. When it was over, he stopped talking.

I tried speaking to Sasha, but he didn’t respond. They buried Benichka by the roadside, at the edge of a frozen field. There was no spade—only a tire iron from the trunk and their bare hands.

Sasha didn’t make a sound. He just wept—quietly, steadily—as he and Papa broke through the hard earth together.

Somewhere, at the edge of a frozen field, a small mound of disturbed soil now holds everything that mattered to a boy I love. No marker. No warmth. No way back.

My eyes snapped open. I kept staring at the train platform, seeing nothing. The cold floor beneath me—somehow I don’t even feel it. There’s this sharp, needling pain that comes and goes, like it’s moving through my whole body, making me feel weightless, unanchored. My little brother lost his best friend while fleeing a war. And tonight, I can feel every bit of that pain inside me.

Mongolians bury their dogs on high hills or mountain slopes, closer to the sky, facing the sunrise. Sasha must be bleeding inside, helpless to honour the loyalty and friendship of his best friend. He left Benichka in the dark, frozen earth of a place he’ll never be able to find again.

Oleksi picked us up just after 7, outside our apartment block, where we’d returned briefly to use the restroom. The highway out of Kyiv was already choked with traffic. Some had violated curfew and started early; others had spent the night in their cars, engines off, waiting for morning. It took us four hours to crawl just a few kilometres and reach the city’s edge.

Those were the scariest four hours of my life—worse than the day I was blindfolded and taken by the security agency in Kyiv back in 2014. Our car sat stranded among hundreds of others, the air siren wailing overhead, while reports of an air battle at Antonov airport filtered through the news—just outside the city. There was nowhere to take shelter, nowhere to hide. Just the car, and the creeping terror that at any moment, something might fall from the sky.

The highway outside the city moved slower than usual, but at least the traffic was flowing. Near Zhytomyr, Oleksi had to stop for fuel. We waited nearly two hours in line at the petrol station for our turn. I offered to cover the cost, but Oleksi said Okello had already arranged to reimburse him.

Rivne is not far from where we are now. Katya excluded the option to take shelter in Rivne given its proximity to the Belarusian borders. Russia has already used Belarus for invading Ukraine.  It is a Russian ally in this war.

It’s 9 p.m. Mama and Sasha have been inching forward at the Krakovets–Korczowa crossing for over twelve hours. They estimate another three before they reach the Polish side. Papa had left after dropping them off—men of conscription age aren’t allowed to cross. He’s now making his way toward Kalush, in Ivano-Frankivsk, the hometown of one of his co-workers.

We decided to head for the Zosin–Ustyluh crossing, where people on social media said they made it through in about ten hours. We still had no idea where we’d go once we were on the other side.

It was just past midnight when Oleksi dropped us as close to the border as he could—enough to turn around and drive back. Moments later, Mama called: they had crossed. Aid organizations and volunteers were running free transport to various cities across Poland.

 Mama had several options, but she waited, hoping for a bus to Germany. Any part of Germany would do. She had held that country close since childhood, ever since her best friend Margaretha migrated there in 1989. Eventually, she and Sasha managed to board a bus bound for Berlin.

We crossed the border in the morning. No international passport was needed—just our Ukrainian ID cards, which was all I had anyway. By then, Mama and Sasha had already found shelter with a host family in Berlin.

We weren’t as lucky with direct transport to Germany. Aid organizations prioritized children, the elderly, and the most vulnerable. One group offered us a ride to Lublin. From there, we took trains to Warsaw and then on to Berlin. We didn’t have to pay—tickets were free for Ukrainians.

Upon arrival at Berlin Haupt Bahnhof, volunteers from the Ukraine Arrival Centre welcomed us with warm, cooked food. One of them accompanied us on a shuttle bus to the former Berlin-Tegel Airport, now serving as a refugee coordination hub.

At the reception desk, we were matched with a host family. It was late by the time the same volunteer brought us to Anke and Martin’s home—a couple in their late sixties or early seventies living in a third-floor apartment in an upscale Berlin neighbourhood. Originally from Leipzig, they had moved to the capital after the fall of the Berlin Wall.

We barely had the strength to acknowledge the kindness of the couple who took us in. They went out of their way to make sure we were comfortable, but we were too drained to respond with more than a few quiet nods. After a hot shower and a quick meal, we collapsed into bed—one proper bed and a sofa they’d converted for us—and slept without a word.

It must have been early morning—the first deep, uninterrupted sleep in days. In my dream, a warm green world unfolded: tangled trees draped in mist, bright birds fluttering between branches, and a silver ribbon of water winding softly through the land.

From somewhere beyond the brush, something stirred. The leaves parted. He emerged—not rushed, not afraid—a great cat draped in orange and black, moving with the unbothered grace of a king returning home.

His belly white, his tail swaying like flame in slow motion. Closer, step by step, he approached the stream, as if he’d always belonged to it.

I shot upright in bed, breath caught in my throat, and the words tore out of me before I knew I’d spoken:

“Where is Debu?”

Is he hungry? Will his body waste away in silence, ribs pressing through his golden coat as the days pass without food? Or will fire find him first—an artillery shell tearing through steel and bone?

Mariupol is burning. Kyiv is burning. This is a war of men, of borders and power, of lies wrapped in flags. He never chose a side. Never believed in our madness. Like so many in this country—trapped in basements, stranded at borders, buried in rubble—he was never given a chance.

The least gullible among us, yet the most helpless. We fled. We fought for space on roads and trains. And him? We left him behind—no exit, no escape, not even the small mercy of running for his life.

Back in the forest, where he reigns as king, he never uses his power to destroy the lives or habitats of others. Now, watching what humans do with theirs—this madness, this hunger to conquer and ruin—does he laugh at us? Look down on us with pity and disgust? If he does, he’s earned that right.

We left him behind. But not forgotten.

And when this is all over—if it ever is—I will find a way to honour him.

Not because he was a tiger. But because he showed us what we had lost—mercy, innocence, and the will to do no harm.