This is a letter to the sky.
I’d like to send it with the swallows
to the one who is no longer with us,
And every memory of whom I hold close!
Every time he made it back from a combat mission, either shell-shocked or not, it always began with an hour-long phone call. It was our secret password: ‘I am alive. I’ve made it out of hell.’ All those days before, my sister, my mother, and I would live ‘unti lthe call’. And every call began with the same words: ‘Hi, Sis.’ There were so many of those calls, sometimes several a day. And then there would be 4–6 days of silence. The guys were at the zero line. Every morning, I sent him encouraging messages. I knew that when he finally got out, he would read them, smile, and know we were praying and worrying for him.
My brother used to say that I was his psychologist and guardian angel, always helping him with prayers. Out there, the guys keenly feel when someone is praying for them.
14 May 2023, 10 pm. A call from my brother, as always, beginning with ‘Hi, Sis! We’re getting ready to head to the zero line. Going out tonight. I’m acting as commander. I’ll bring the boys back, and then home on leave.’ I started a conference call and added mom. We asked him to be careful, checked if he’d packed everything. Vasyl laughed and said he had it all. He joked, ‘Mom and Sis, one more push — and then I’m home.’ We talked and talked, for more than an hour.
7 am, 15 May 2023. A prayer for the boys — they went out last night. Then coffee, and a text: ‘Hi! Where are you now? Lord Jesus Christ, protect Vasyl and his brothers-in-arms. Talk to you soon.’ I sent that message thinking he would return, read it, and smile.
He did read my last message — but from heaven. And I am sure he smiled.
