CHAPTER ELEVEN

Flirting at the Gate of Erebus

Mama wants Papa to quit his job. She can’t sleep knowing he’s out on the roads, exposed. But Papa won’t hear about it. The money he earns is vital – it’s what keeps things afloat for Mama and Sasha in Berlin. Even with Germany’s generous housing and social support for Ukrainian refugees, Mama still needs help each month. Until she finishes learning the language and finds a job, she depends on him. He knows it.

Mama swears she can manage without the extra money. But that’s not enough to convince Papa.

Then it happened—a driver from his organization was stopped and taken by the military while on duty. That shook something in Papa. He knows it’s only a matter of time before the same happens to him.

When I spoke to him today, I heard it in his voice. The edge was gone. For the first time, he sounded like a man willing to consider quitting.

Katya invited Mykyta to stay over tonight. It’s Friday, so there’s no pressure for him to be at the office in the morning. She and I have been talking for a while about possible ways to get Papa out of the country. Mykyta has better judgment than the two of us—and as an employee of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, he has connections inside the administration that might prove useful.

The plan, for now, is to hide Papa in our flat in the West Bank. According to the government’s records, only Katya and I are registered as residents in this flat—and we’re both women. That makes it unlikely for the flat to be targeted in a conscription raid. Besides our two separate bedrooms, there’s a shared space where we can set up an extra place for him to sleep.

Papa has resigned. His office sympathetically looked into the matter. They offered Papa to stay at their guest house in Lviv for two weeks with full salary. The guest house is habited by expats and as such is not a target for raid.

Papa left the Zhiguli in Ivano-Frankivsk with his colleague Andri. He has given him the permission to drive it as long as he maintains the car. Papa drove his office car for the last time to travel to Lviv.

Papa will stay with us until we find a way to get him out of the country. The immediate challenge is getting him to Kyiv. It’s a seven-hour journey by bus or train from Lviv, and there can be checks along the way.

One of Papa’s former colleagues now works as a driver for the UN. UN drivers are exempt from conscription and aren’t targeted during checks or raids. He gave Papa hope—said he might be able to drive him to Kyiv if there was ever a trip where the UN car returned empty from Lviv.

Despite our doubts, Papa believed him. He believed his old colleague would risk violating UN protocols to help. But the car never came to Kyiv without a UN expat on board.

Papa waited two weeks on that hope. It was never realistic.

I bought Papa a business class ticket on the express train from Lviv. Even that had its own theory. I figured people in business class would be less likely to be conscripted—it doesn’t make economic sense to send rich people to war. They pay income taxes while they work. Why cut off that stream just to put them in uniform, especially when there are millions of poor men to send instead?

You’d be surprised where your reasoning goes when you’re desperate.

I picked Papa up from Kyiv Central Station. The train arrived at 8:46 p.m. By the time we reached home, it was nearly 10. The front yard leading to our apartment complex was dark, the stairwell barely lit. He slipped inside unnoticed. This flat will be his prison—for a while.

Over the next few days, we discussed every possible way to get him out of Ukraine. None of us felt any guilt about planning something the law would call a crime. And why should we? What’s immoral about refusing to kill—or be killed?

There’s no shortage of talk—at the office, on message boards, in hushed conversations—about how men are escaping Ukraine. Some have obtained fake disability certificates through bribery, a method so widespread it led to the resignation of Ukraine’s prosecutor general and the revocation of thousands of fraudulent documents. Others disguise themselves as cross-border truck drivers or forge documents claiming they’re humanitarian volunteers. ​

Papa refuses to discuss any of it. He’s uncomfortable with the idea of breaking the law. But I don’t care. All I care about is getting my father out of this country.

Papa has been indoors for two weeks now. His skin is turning pale, his eyes seem dull, unfocused. He moves less, speaks less—as if the stillness around him has become part of him.

The crisis around Papa has quietly seeped into all our lives. Katya and Mykyta used to have moments of privacy in the flat when I was away—those moments are gone now. Katya hasn’t said a word of complaint, but I can see the distance growing between them.

I feel the weight every time I see Papa’s pale, quiet face. At work, my heart races every time the phone rings. Is this it? Has someone come for him—police, military, someone in uniform? The fear hums constantly beneath the surface. It never really stops.

When the air sirens go wild during the worst attacks—those terrifying nights when drones and missiles strike together in and around Kyiv—everyone rushes to the bunkers. But my father stays in the flat. He has to. He would not let me stay with him either.  Each time I rush to the bunker, I catch one last look at his face. I hold it in my mind like a photograph—just in case it’s the last time I see him alive.

One of the contacts Mykyta gave us wants to talk. Katya and I have arranged to meet him at a nearby café. Even though the contact came through Mykyta, we’re careful to keep him out of it. As a government employee, it’s far too risky for him to be associated with anything Katya and I are planning.

$25,000. Yes, you heard that right—twenty-five thousand US dollars, in cash. Our lips went dry, our throats tightened when we heard the number. The man said he could arrange everything: a medical certificate, approval from the medical commission, and all the paperwork needed to secure a Category II disability exemption for Papa. Half to be paid upfront in cash, a quarter upon delivery of the documents, and the final quarter after crossing the border. He structured the payment in three tiers—like something lifted straight from a corporate procurement manual: advance, delivery, and post-completion.

Katya thought we might be able to negotiate the figure down to twenty, maybe twenty-two thousand dollars. But what’s the point? We don’t have that kind of money—and we’re not going to. My savings, combined with whatever I can borrow from Katya and Mykyta, barely gets us to seven, maybe eight thousand. Papa has no savings—just his last month’s salary.

Papa said Andri had once shown interest in buying the Zhiguli. But he also said he’d rather sell a kidney than part with that car. And besides, Andri’s offer was only seven hundred dollars—so there’s no point talking about it anyway.

As if we didn’t have enough frustration already, news came of a block raid in a nearby neighbourhood. A joint force of police and military went door to door, searching flats one by one. They came early on a weekend morning—when no one had an excuse not to answer the knock.

We can’t wait for the next weekend. We’re sending Papa to Rivne to stay with Katya’s parents. One of Mykyta’s colleagues drives to Zhytomyr every Friday after work to visit her family. She has kindly agreed to go two hours further to drop us in Rivne. We haven’t told her yet, but we’ll cover the fuel—it’s the least we can do.

On Friday evening, we packed Papa’s bag and waited downstairs. Mykyta’s colleague arrived right on time. We loaded the boot, thanked her again, and began the quiet drive west. It was late by the time we reached Rivne, but Katya’s parents welcomed us with warm food and warmer hugs.

Katya and I took a bus back home from Rivne on Sunday night. A thick gloom settled over me and stayed the whole week. I wasn’t focused at the office, and I barely touched anything at home. This time, Katya didn’t try too hard to cheer me up. She let me lick my wounds in silence.

But by Friday, she’s had enough. She organises a small party. The plan: we take half a day off, Mykyta cooks lunch, and in the evening, we head to a pub and drink ourselves wild.

Surprisingly, I’m in a cheerful mood. Mykyta brings Kyiv cutlets and a Napoleon cake from the store and “cooks” a salad at our place. I tease him through lunch about his culinary skills. But I don’t touch the cutlet or the cake—just eat a bit of salad to make him happy.

I tell them I can’t join them at the pub because I have an office party I can’t miss. Katya gives me a long stare—not suspicious, just mildly annoyed. The kind of look that says: Really? You forgot to mention that when we planned this?

But she doesn’t argue. She doesn’t try to press me either. After all, all they want is to see me cheerful—and going to an office party doesn’t sound like a bad way to get there.

The two are heading to a local pub, and I’ll leave for the office party after I take a shower. I give Mykyta a big hug as he heads out. Without even realising it, tears start rolling down my cheeks and won’t stop. I give an even bigger hug to Katya—and this time, I even start to fume a little.

Katya stands firm, holding both of my shoulders and giving me a light shake. “Stupid girl, stop crying. And eat the food on the table. Eat before you go to the party. And promise me you won’t drink any alcohol before you eat,” says my guardian angel.

She gave me a kiss and left.

There is no office party.

There is no promise to Katya.

.
There is no food in my stomach.

I am on my own in a pub. I ordered the most expensive vodka cocktail on the menu and paid using the banking app on my phone.

I did a round two, then three, then four, and after that, I lost count. Just before my world was covered in pitch-black darkness, I heard something—loud, urgent, and strangely distant.

“Masha, Masha, Mash! For God’s sake, Maaa—…”

I am now waiting at the gate of Erebus. The great, grand darkness. The place from where everything started. I have many questions in mind, and still don’t see who to ask.

If there is purification and rebirth, do I have a choice? Can I be a seagull at the Azov Sea, or a tiger roaming free in the mangroves of Bengal?

A fog of uncertainty surrounds me in the great darkness—I don’t know where I stand.

Have I been turned away from the gate of Erebus?

Or I Have already crossed it without knowing?

Or am I still just waiting, suspended in the space before the entrance?

Isn’t it that right before death, the brain enters a hyperactive state—replaying key moments from life like a mental slideshow or screenplay?

I saw Mama stitching my New Year’s clothes late into the night, telling me not to worry—they’d be ready by morning.

I saw Papa bringing home my first bicycle.

I saw the first time Sasha cried, fresh from Mama’s womb.

I felt Igor’s touch.

I saw myself walking through our park in Donetsk, cotton candy in one hand, Grandpa’s fingers in the other.

If the screen play is done already, then why am I not getting the pass to go through the gate?

I can’t wait. I have endless questions to ask. Where can I search for Igor and Grandpa? What punishment shall I have for the gravest of all sins I committed against Katya.

Katya—poor Katya—my guardian angel. I’ve left all my burdens with you. By now, you must have found my note under the pillow. I didn’t commit suicide. It was an accident!  Help Papa collect the payout from my employee life insurance policy. Make sure he gets out of the country. The policy is over two years old, so even if they suspect suicide, the insurance company can’t legally deny the claim. And please—burn this note after reading it. No trace. No evidence. No questions.

Why is it always that we hurt the most the ones who love us the most? Five years ago, when Katya first started working at the insurance company, she shared everything she was learning—wide-eyed, full of excitement. She told me all about policy rules, small print, and exceptions. Now I’ve left her with the guilt of helping me find the path to my own death.

There was no one at the gate to show me the entrance. No one to answer my questions.
The darkness is fading now.

I feel my mouth—it’s dry. Dry like dust on old stone. My throat is burning. Where am I?

The darkness has turned to fog—thick, colourless, shifting. I still can’t see a thing.

Wait… is that a nurse? The light is too strong.

“Hello, Masha. Can you tell me what day it is today?” the girl in the nursing uniform asks.

It’s Friday.

“Friday was yesterday,” she replies. “Do you remember where you were yesterday?”

Where is my Papa?

“I’ll let you talk to him once you’re moved to the general ward,” the nurse says, already turning to leave. “Now get some rest.”

The nurse returns with two broad-shouldered men. Without a word, she removes the breathing tube from my nose. The men lift me from the bed and place me onto a mobile trolley. They wheel me through the corridor and into a much smaller room—a narrow bed, bare walls, hardly any equipment.

The nurse leaves again, and when she returns, Katya and Mykyta are with her.
Katya breaks down the moment she sees me. Her body stiffens, then folds in on itself, as if something inside her has collapsed. The tears come fast, without warning. She moves toward the bed, instinctively reaching for me, but the nurse gently holds her back.

“Easy,” she says softly. “She’s still fragile. Just be calm.”

Katya nods through sobs, trying to steady herself, one trembling hand resting lightly on the side of the bed.

Where’s Papa? Does he know anything, I ask Katya.

“He’s still where he was yesterday,” she replies. “He only knows you had a serious case of food poisoning and that you’re being treated at the hospital. We haven’t told your mother anything yet.”

Never, ever tell this to them.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” she says quietly.

“We called Okello last night out of desperation—we needed advice on how to handle the communication with your parents. He’s already flown to Warsaw and is now waiting to board a train.”

That’s embarrassing, I mutter, my discontent showing.

Katya and Mykyta have been in the room with me for a few hours now. They’ve been at the hospital since last night, and I realise they haven’t eaten anything. I insist they go out and get something. Before leaving, Katya calls Papa and hands me the phone—just long enough to assure him that I’m all right.

Though it wasn’t a pleasant topic for either Katya or me, I couldn’t resist my curiosity—I want to know what happened last night.

It turns out that Katya and Mykyta unexpectedly returned home after a beer. They hadn’t been alone together in the flat for weeks, not since Papa moved in. That might explain the sudden urge to cut their night short and head back.

And once they got into bed, Mykyta found my note under the pillow.

Katya and I share our locations through the same messaging app, so it wasn’t hard for her to find me—my phone was still with me at the pub. I remember Igor once told me, the day I left Donetsk: “Your phone can do the biggest betrayal in your life. It gives away your location to the enemy.”

It’s now my second and last day at the hospital. Okello has arrived in Kyiv and didn’t waste a moment getting here. Like that day we took a stroll on the Azov Sea beach in Mariupol, he shows no interest in discussing what brought him to me. The more I try to talk about the event, the more he jumps to another topic.

You know, Okello—when I was nearing that great, grand darkness, my brain gave me a slideshow of the most precious moments of my life. I saw Mama, Papa, Sasha, Igor, and Grandpa. But I didn’t see you. Does that hurt you?

“I was probably there too,” Okello replies with a smile. “You said it was dark, right? Look at my skin colour—you probably didn’t see me because of the darkness!”

When will you stop joking, Okello? You’ve come to see a girl who had a near-death experience. Aren’t you supposed to console me? Hold my hand gently, tell me I gave everyone a scare, say how pale I look, how I need to rest, how lucky I am to be alive?

“Okay, let me set my mood for sober and serious conversation,” he says, still teasing.

Do you remember, many years ago, you told me the story of Harambe—the gorilla at the Cincinnati Zoo who was shot dead after a child fell into his enclosure, even though he seemed to be protecting the child? Aren’t you all treating me like Harambe—tormenting me in the prison and at the same time not letting me escape from the prison?

“No. Completely the opposite,” Okello says, his tone suddenly serious.

“Harambe was taken out of his natural habitat and locked in a man-made prison. But for you—this world is your natural habitat. This is where you laugh or cry, suffer or thrive, love or hate—whatever you have to do, this is the stage nature built for you. If you walk off that stage on your own, you’re insulting nature. You’re betraying the very point of being human.”

But there’s no purpose to life, Okello. You know that better than I do.

“The process is the purpose. You don’t need to know more than that,” he responds, his voice calm now, but with a weight that doesn’t invite argument.

“You know, humans are just one piece—one among millions, billions, maybe trillions—in the vast puzzle of nature. And nature has only one scheme, one single interconnected design that binds all those pieces together.

“Just because your cognitive power keeps inventing thoughts, ideas, and theories doesn’t mean it changes how nature’s scheme works.

“Think of soil bacteria. Some break down rocks and minerals to release nutrients. Some convert those nutrients into soluble forms that plants can absorb. Others help extend plant roots to reach deeper into the earth.

“Do any of those bacteria know—or care—who ends up using the nutrients? When farmers poison the soil with artificial pesticides, destroying their habitat, do the bacteria give up? Do they stop working, shut themselves down, just because their effort isn’t seen or valued?

“No. They just keep going, as long as they can.

“Because the work they do—the process itself—is the purpose of their existence.”