When I was packing I told him to grab a book. I needed some time to hide a knife in my luggage; I never used it; I threw it away before we got to the first city; I was afraid. The news had made me sick; I was sick with fear. I also thought that he should have something to read up to the border. I don’t know how he was so patient on the car ride. It took us 9 hours for an otherwise short journey. But it only takes a bridge disappearing along the way to add 4 hours to the route to go around it.
This book is one of his favourites, it’s an adventure book about a dog, something he’s always wanted, who always has mischief on its mind. He draws it by his side, they’re a team. He didn’t open the book for the first two months. Somehow the whole commotion kept him constantly distracted. And then there was his gang of little people. In the North Train Station centre and then in the Romexpo centre, he was always surrounded by children. I thought he was shy, but he’s adapted better than kids older than him. He didn’t dislike it and didn’t ask about home as often. He was ‘lucky’ – can you even say that in the context of a war? A colleague’s family happened to come along with us. They have 4 children, one of whom is very young, and so the father was allowed to leave with his family. Does the saying about being lucky even fit here? If it weren’t for the bad luck of having our country bombed we should never have even split into ‘the lucky’ and ‘the unlucky’.
At home we were mostly alone; I’ve never been married to his father; my parents are long gone; I had my job; and the pandemic changed our visiting habits. But here there as many as 40 children in one place. I think he’s even learned some Romanian if you ask him. Kids have a much easier time adapting.
Half of the luggage we left with in April of 2022 has the kid’s things in it: useful things, clothes for every temperature, although I only made plans for one season: early spring, which is when we left, as it should’ve been when we came back. I had started a new job and I liked it; it was my third one since getting back from maternity leave; I’d found my place. One of my colleagues often went to church and I found it a little odd: I thought she was too young to have a rosary on her hand and to always be praying. When we were bombed we went to work for the first few days out of inertia; it was not going on in our city; we prayed every afternoon. I asked her to teach me who the protectors of peace were, which saints could make right what had befallen us. I left with her rosary. I gave it away shortly after crossing the border: that was my promise to the Man up in heavens, if He helped us cross the border safely, I would never ask for His help again.
We changed our clothes with the season; we had immense support from the volunteers and the centres; now we are staying in a small apartment, and we are alright with the 50/20 programme. I was a volunteer for a while; now I work for a company in Târgoviște.
A colleague who had taken classes at the Seneca bookstore told me about the library of Ukrainian and Russian books. I realised that this was the first time that I had time to sit down and read with him every night. I have more time; we are less alone. I’m still thinking about going back, but I’m grateful for what I have here. It could’ve been much worse. It’s not bad, but I feel like the life we live is up in the air and you can’t tell how much you can really get attached.”
A testimony collected by Stefania Oprina for the ‘Baggage of Abandonment’ campaign. A project funded by CARE via SERA Romania, Care France and FONPC.
