by Barbara Fischkin
At dawn on February 24, 2022, Russian President Vladimir Putin announced a “special military operation,” in Ukraine—a euphemism for war, if ever there was one. Since that morning, the fortitude of the Ukrainian people has resounded, even as the Middle East vies for our attention. For me, evidence of this grit—as fertile as Ukraine’s soil—arrives weekly, if not daily, in messages from a young woman in a western city. She writes from Ternopil, a relatively safe place. But from her I have heard that no place in Ukraine is truly safe.
I have also heard that its people are determined to stay, survive and rebuild.
My contact is not a war correspondent. She is an English language instructor, a teacher, a college administrator and the mother of two small children. In other words: A regular citizen. Her name is Oksana Fuk and we have been corresponding since hours after that terrifying dawn, almost two years ago, when Russia invaded her country.
We may have met in person years ago, when she was an internationally-recruited counselor at a camp for developmentally disabled children and adults in the upstate New York Catskill Mountains. What we are sure about is that she knows our elder son, Daniel Mulvaney, who has non-speaking autism and attended this camp for many summers.
On February 24, 2022, as I was searching for more news about the invasion—my mother was born in Ukraine—Oksana’s name popped up on my Facebook feed. I saw that she had worked at Dan’s camp.
When we first connected it was 4 p.m. on Long Island where I live. By then the invasion that morning had been front page news worldwide. It was 11 p.m. in Ternopil.
These are the initial emails that went back and forth that afternoon and evening:
Me: “Oksana, dear, sending safety and strength to you and yours. My impression is that you are far from the Russian troops. I hope so. Did you know my son Dan Mulvaney from Camp Loyaltown? Is this why we are friends, or perhaps through one of the counselors? Many Loyaltown counselors are dear to me. Ternopil, by the way, is featured in some scenes in the historical novel I am writing. Much more of it takes place in Hvardiiske, past and present. My mother was born in 1913 in Hvardiiske when it was a Jewish shtetl named Felshtin. Long complicated manuscript. Autism is in it as well. And New York. All this aside, please let me know how you are…”
Oksana: “Hello Barbara! Yes, I know Dan from camp, as I was a camp counselor in 2008-2011. Thank you for your kind words and support. Yes, I am from Ternopil and right now we seem to be safe. But the whole Ukraine is being attacked, so we are really worried. But our army is incredible, we are hoping and praying for the best.”
Now, thanks to private messages and email, Oksana and I know each other well. I also know that she still feels the war every day. Russian planes fly overhead, sirens go off, bomb shelters fill up. Power outages have been prolonged, the fear of a nuclear accident due to Russian interference in a plant that is far—but still too close—is ever-present.
And yet I am confident that Oksana will also be part of the cohort of young Ukrainians who will rebuild their country after the war. She has already taught internal refugees, an effort funded by a United States Embassy grant.
Still, I worry about her and her family.
Most recently I worry with Oksana that her husband, Rostyk, will be conscripted as a replacement for worn out soldiers at the front. Or for those, including friends, who have died there. Like most men in Ukraine, Rostyk has not been permitted to leave the country since the invasion. Not that he would. A musician and a local journalist, he has volunteered in the past to go, as a videographer. Now, like many others, he waits to be called up. About this, Oksana writes: “I really don’t know what to say. For now Rostyk hasn’t gotten a notice from the military office, so he keeps working, donating, and spending time with the kids. But mobilization is still going on, so we never know when he will receive an official notice. That’s how it is—no clarity about the future and no possibility to make plans.”
This is from Oksana’s latest email to me: Fri, Jan 5, 6:15 p.m.
“Thank you for not giving up on me. Anyway, nothing new from over here. Same old story: Sirens every day, but nothing more in Ternopil. Thank God for that. Kids had three weeks of school holidays, but on Monday they are back. Yay! ”
In that email she wrote more about her son Adrian, a first grader and his little sister, Yarynka, who is two. In normal times Oksana would by now be sending Yarynka to a daycare center. But with the war on she will not do this. Too often, as often as once a day, toddlers even in the best of centers are rushed into bomb shelters as Russian planes fly overhead. Of Yarynka, Oksana writes: “She is a happy child. But we are not sending her to the children’s center. We are keeping her at home. I am aware of how hard it is for teachers to get such small kids into bomb shelters. They have to help them to get ready fast…and so Yarynka is still at home with me and with Rostyk and with the grandmas, when I am at work. I am so glad we all live in the same city.”
Late last year I had asked Oksana about Christmas. Would her family continue to celebrate on January 7, as the Russian Orthodoxy does, instead of December 25? The Russian Orthodox church, which still tries to exert some control over its Ukrainian counterpart, celebrates the holiday according to the Julian calendar—as in Julius Caesar—instead of the Gregorian calendar. This year, for the first time, the Ukrainian Orthodox Church sanctioned the celebration of Christmas on December 25.
To this Oksana replied: “My parents are very happy about the historical change and ability to finally celebrate with the whole world and separately from you-know-which-disgusting-country. On the 24th we all will get together for holy supper: my aunt is coming from a different city. My parents will cook twelve dishes (usually we split the chores, so that means I cook one or two dishes. I know it’s not fair but they insist on cooking the rest. lol). We will pray before the supper, pray for those who are not with us anymore. We even prepare a plate and put some meals in it for all the late souls. Then we will sing carols. And on the next day we will go to the holy mass and visit Rostyk’s parents. Christmas has always been my favorite holiday, as I have very sweet memories from my childhood. We used to go to Buchach, a town where my grandparents used to live, and it was always magical…But to be honest, everyone is very depressed these days. Honestly, if it wasn’t for the kids, I would probably not even decorate the Christmas tree. The latest news is very desperate. A few days ago my colleague died in the war. And every day we receive more and more news like this.”
In January Oksana added that her family celebrated Christmas the traditional Orthodox way, as well. In wartime, the more celebrations the better. She wrote: “Oh, by the way, today, in Ukraine, we had the second holy supper and it is called Generous Evening, as we cook not only lean meals. That’s when it is appropriate to sing our famous ‘Carol of the Bells.’ So you know: That was composed by Mykola Leontovych, the Ukrainian composer.”
To recount recent history, when Putin invaded Ukraine in early 2022 the conventional wisdom was that this would be a David versus Goliath battle. Much of the world cheered for David. The truth, as it turns out, is not so simple. Putin was waging a war against a centuries-old culture and language and the land-rich, resilient country its people inhabit. Such is Putin’s hubris. His war has now raged for two years. Ukraine is about the size of Texas. Its people are even tougher. The oligarch of oligarchs rants and raves but has not figured out how to make Ukraine bow to his wishes.
Early in the war, Oksana took her two children to safety in Poland—where they stayed with another former Camp Loyaltown counselor. It was safe, but not home. Oksana needed to “feel Ukrainian soil under my feet again.” So she took her children back to Ukraine for a while, expecting she would likely neeed to flee again. Instead she stayed.
Back home, at first, she wrote to me: “Actually we came back home for a little while, because my grandma is dying and I had to see her. But I’m planning to go back. The lines on the border are not long now, so that is not a problem. But we are fine, thank you! I don’t know what their (The Russian) plan is, but what they keep doing to our people is horrible, just horrible. Women being raped in front of children. Volunteers being shot because they brought some food. Soulless soldiers steal from our houses everything from clothes, jewelry, perfumes to laptops, cellphones, and then send them home to their wives in Russia! They are non-humans. And when they talk on the phone, their wives tell them to keep killing us, because ‘that is what they deserve.’ The soulless behavior of ordinary Russians. Ternopil, though, is very lively now! We have lots of people from Kyiv here, who start participating in the life of the city. Which is great! Lots of people who went abroad came back. But I want to go again for a little while in order to keep the kids safe.”
And then: “I’ve never left again, but my suitcase is ready in case of any scenario. But it is so good to be home. I can’t explain it, but when I am on my ground, it is easy to keep living in these horrible times. It is like a connection with your motherland, family, roots. I hear it from a lot of people who decided to come back home after being abroad for a while. I hope we are safe here. The war keeps going but people keep living, helping, praying, doing possible and impossible things. Our volunteers are the best. They are restless. So I decided to teach a few more classes in order to be able to at least donate to the army some part of the income, as there are so many requests: equipment, cars, medical stuff. And as long as the war is not over, those requests won’t stop for sure. Thank you for thinking about us and my family in particular—it is really powerful! Cannot even express how it helps to be in someone’s prayers and thoughts. Well, kids love toys and Adrian loves books! That is a very nice proposal of yours to send us a package. But are you sure it won’t be very expensive for you to send a package overseas? We don’t lack anything here, for now that is for sure!”
Soon, as I was putting that package together, Oksana and I discovered another coincidence beyond Camp Loyaltown. Adrian loved Spider-Man—and a friend and former journalism student of mine, Mark Ginocchio, is a Spider-Man author and podcaster. I got together a package of toys for Adrian and Yarynka, which thanks to Mark included a Spider-Man book and Spider-Man posters.
And then another coincidence: The shtetl where my mother was born is close to Ternopil so that Oksana knows it and has traveled very close to it. In the fields outside this shtetl a Christian Ukrainian farmer hid my mother and saved her life, risking his own. Oksana has since read portions of my novel, which I sent to her for fact checking—and for her opinion in regard to the story. In short, we are friends and despite distance it is a wartime friendship, the type of friendship that lasts.
For the past two Thanksgivings at a friends and family event at the Bungalow Bar in Rockaway, I have gathered a group of children around a camera to send hope to Adrian and Yarynka. One year we sent it in very basic Ukrainian.
Adrian asked his mother: “How do they know my name in America?”
Next year we hope to send a message to Adrian Fuk, who lives in peace.