Before the Siren’s Wail

Vignettes from Central Ukraine

Mar 18, 2022

This article is written by my father, Efim Marmer, a distinguished Ukrainian journalist, who lives and writes in Kropyvnytskyi, a town in central Ukraine, where I grew up. Before the war, when I’d come for a visit, it would take me five hours to get to Kropyvnytskyi from Kyiv airport, and I’d curse my fate every time. Today, I am grateful for the town’s remoteness, tactical irrelevance, and therefore its relative quiet, save for a few recent attacks on the military airport in the city’s outskirts. And yet the sirens wail nearly every night, alerting people of passing warplanes, forcing all into shelters; thousands of refugees pour in, some passing through, others staying; roads are blocked, and the stores are gradually emptying out. This piece is a wartime reflection, a diaristic glimpse into the lives of those Ukrainians, who, like my parents, are out of the immediate line of fire yet are immersed in the war. — Jake Marmer

Not too long ago, we would get irritated by the nightly ruckus of garbage trucks—even complained to the city mayor about it!—and now, their noise brings us nothing but joy. The sounds of the siren, however, turn one’s soul inside out. Especially when they go off at night, for prolonged stretches of time.

This week, an alert like that lasted for more than five hours. Some stopped thinking about the dangers, even. The only question they had was, Why is it going off for so long? Is it true that it’s broken? No, it’s not broken. It took a break for a bit, and now it’s back to its business.

While the siren wails, you can’t even watch TV—all you see is war, anyway. Day after day. And horrifying footage of Kharkiv and Mariupol, Bucha and Borodyanka. Can’t focus on the phone for five hours straight, either. All you see there is promises: Biden, Macron, Bennett. And the string of motivational clips and addresses from President Zelensky. And, of course, the backbiting of our own folk—can’t do without it. Most of the time, it’s the bots barking at each other—ours, Russian? Instead of names, idiotic nicknames; instead of photographs, cheery images. Also, on the phone, is the PPL triumvirate: Putin, Peskov and Lavrov. Where, where do such assholes come from?

The brain can’t handle the endless repetitions, and you turn everything off, but sleep doesn’t come. You start turning your head from side to side, and there is no choice but to let your mind roam and contemplate.

What is that man thinking in his cold, nearly empty shelter as he clutches to himself two dogs swaddled in blankets? Is he thinking about his family, who are now very far away but in safety? Or about when all this is going to end? And what about a woman, tired from walking up and down the stairs from her seventh-floor apartment and into basement shelter? She spread the mattress in her hallway, between the two walls that seem most sturdy, hoping to keep herself safe. Don’t want to disappoint her, but even she herself knows …

“Is this forever? Of course, not! You will certainly come back to our town. We’ll meet again. But no, not everyone will come back—it is all, as they say, God’s will.”

Every day, buses leave Kropyvnytskyi and head westward. Mostly women and children. People say their goodbyes, promising each other a reunion on their own land, under their own roof, but the eyes are filled with sadness. Is this forever? Of course, not! You will certainly come back to our town. We’ll meet again. But no, not everyone will come back—it is all, as they say, God’s will.

The city is noticeably emptying out. Just recently the mayor of the city used to shout himself hoarse at his weekly meetings, demanding to clear the endless traffic. The war cleared it right up! No one’s out on the street, no mutual growlings can be heard between pedestrians and drivers. People are glad for their infrequent encounters. Lots of smaller stores closed up: no deliveries, and the paying clientele is all far away now. The president promised to slash taxes and cancel regulatory fuss—anything, just to tide people over. The local authorities are praying for folks to get back to their market stalls. Heard it myself just the other day. A loud-mouthed lady in an apron was taunting the guard: “What, now you gonna go after our dairy-and-chicken mafia?”

The siren wails again. The supermarket ceases all operations immediately. Wait, not all operations: A babushka, with a “god’s dandelion” haircut, gets her purchases. The rest of the people are stuck at the store, grumbling, but the cashier defiantly points out, “She’s allowed. She can’t hear the siren anyhow.”

Remember how, in peaceful pandemic times, we felt embarrassed to admit, even to our friends, that we got sick with corona? Similarly, now, we dodge the question, “Do you go down into the cellar every time the siren goes off?” It’s funny and it’s stupid.

Personally, I have a strange reaction to the siren—I go into a trance, always the same one. The minute I hear it, I remember an old joke and try to tell it to anyone who will listen. I will tell it to you all as well.

- Simyon Lvovich, why do you always come to my store, check the headlines, but never purchase the newspaper?

- I am waiting for the obituary.

- But those get published on the last page of the newspaper.

- The kind of obituary I’m waiting for—it’s going to make the front page!

Efim Marmer is the editor in chief of Ukrayina Tsentr. He lives and writes in Kropyvnytskyi, Ukraine. This piece was translated by his son, Jake Marmer, Tablet’s poetry critic.