Motherland

Uliyana hid in the basement wrapped in a thick blanket. Sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor, she held Alina against her shoulder, stroking her wispy hair, occasionally kissing her pudgy cheek. Kuzma leaned against her, thumb in his mouth, holding a teddy bear by its leg.

“мама,” he whined, looking up at her with large brown eyes, so much like his father’s who she hadn’t seen for a week. She tightened her grip on Alina, burying her face in the child’s soft blanket, tears stinging her eyes. “мама.” He tugged at her arm. “води.”

Uliyana took a deep breath and wiped her eyes.“один ковток,” she whispered back, tipping the half-empty water bottle to his lips, allowing him only one swallow.

“більше,” he begged, reaching for the bottle with his grubby fingers.

“тссс, Kuzma, тссс.” She handed him the last two crackers and shifted the baby to her other shoulder, noticing a slight dampness. After adjusting an extra layer of blanket under her bottom, she began nursing her, taking comfort in the gentle tug of her lips. Rocking and humming a lullaby, she prayed her children would be asleep when the bombs arrived.

For the past week, soon after dark, explosions rocked the neighborhood, shaking the ground and rattling windows. Each night she kept vigil as her children slept through the horror, and every morning she thanked God for sparing her babies and prayed for the safety of her husband.

This morning they awoke to a blast that shook the walls, knocking plaster from the basement ceiling and shattering the small window at the top of the wooden stairs. Grey light, cold air and the stink of burning buildings crept into their hiding space. Both children were crying, inconsolable, until she made a tent out of the blanket, put Alina to her warm breast and distracted Kuzma with silly songs.

Uliyana shivered at the thought of how close they’d come to death. She glanced at Alina who had fallen asleep, her fingers still clutching her thick braid.  Kuzma was cuddling his teddy, sucking his thumb, eyes drooping, when she tucked them side by side into a pile of blankets. Within minutes he was sleeping.

It was quiet in the dark basement. Uliyana worried about food and water and diapers, but it was too dangerous to venture upstairs at night. With no light she could fall through a hole in the floor, or if she used a flashlight she risked being seen. With no power, there would be no water pressure, and what little food they had was most likely spoiled. With no diapers—she shuddered.

Kuzma cried out in his sleep and Alina whimpered. Uliyana caressed their heads, their faces, their backs until they settled into silence. She decided that at dawn, before they awoke, she’d go upstairs and forage for what supplies she could find. She had no choice.

That night between bomb explosions, she thought of Krystyan, his tangle of black hair, intense brown eyes, dimples when he smiled. His eager kisses and gentle hands. The way he held Alina as though she were fine crystal and how he tussled with Kuzma. He had laughed at the rumors of war, confident no one would dare invade Ukraine. He reassured her they’d be safe, that it was all a ruse by an attention-getting fool.

Suddenly he was ushering them into the basement with a pile of blankets and a backpack full of supplies. He ordered them to stay as gunfire peppered the street.  He kissed her and hugged the children.  Fighting back tears, he kissed her again and stumbled up the stairs, not looking back as she called his name. For two days they texted which gave her hope. Then they lost power.

Just before dawn the bombs abated, further away this time. After checking to make sure the children were sleeping, she crept up the stairs to peek through the broken window. Snow dampened her cheeks as she surveyed the rubble that once was her neighbors’ homes. Burned out cars lined the streets, trees were blackened skeletons, and a large crater had swallowed the playground in the corner park.

Then she saw movement. Two soldiers wearing yellow armbands and carrying rifles dodged among piles of twisted metal, crouched behind concrete heaps, making their way toward her home. “Krystyan,” she breathed as a rocket-launched missile engulfed the street, knocking her backward off the stairs where she tumbled to the floor into the arms of her mother.

“мама!” She pointed to a pair of white storks skimming the surface of the lake.

“лелека, Yana,” her mother acknowledged with a kiss to the top of her head, then explained a stork was a sign of good luck. Uliyana watched the birds’ graceful ballet as they landed on the water. Her mother whispered into her ear to make a wish as she hugged her tightly against her breast.

Uliyana thought of her father who disappeared when she was only three. She couldn’t remember his face, only his large hands and hearty laugh as he tossed her into the air like a bird and caught her in the nest of his palms. She closed her eyes.“Я бажаю—”

“ні, Yana, ні,” For a wish to come true, you must think it, her mother had told her.

Uliyana wished her father would return.

When she opened her eyes, she looked into a familiar face, dark eyes full of love and concern. His lips moved but she couldn’t hear the words. He’s home, she thought before her eyes fluttered closed.

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Shirlee Jellum is a retired English teacher. She publishes fiction, nonfiction and poetry and has been nominated for a Pushcart Award and Best of the Net.