a Kind of Refugee / 05.02.2023

The need for translation these days is overwhelming: international instructors training members of the UAF before deployment; a documentary theater script based on personal diaries of the first months after russia’s full-scale invasion; testimony of war crimes committed by russian forces over the past year; correspondence between foreign donors and Ukrainian charitable foundations; not to mention screenplays, a curator’s handbook, interviews with participants of the 2013-2014 Maidan revolution, a Ukrainian feminist scholar’s book. I turn down anything that is not directly related to the war.

And then there are things that I read in Ukrainian that I want to share with people who speak English: fresh thought, reflections on Soviet culture that shed light on what Ukrainians are giving their lives to defeat, reports from the front lines written by soldiers who until recently were full-time writers, historians, museum workers, booksellers…

Translating takes time. It gives me the time to get into a text, whole body. Only the task of having to say it in English forces me to really understand, deeply and truly and personally, what I’m reading. Translating also demands precision, concentration and mental dexterity, which helps detach from otherwise debilitating nerves and anxiety.

A lot of the material I choose to work with is steeped in the brutality of war—its practice and consequences—or the Soviet history and culture that underlie the Ukrainian nation that has refused to be enslaved by them. Here I’d like to offer my translation of soldier-writer-artist Valeriy Puzik’s sketch from southern Ukraine.

This, dear readers, is me being gentle with you.

SO HERE’S WHAT HAPPENED by Valeriy Puzik

Stop by the clinic for a few minutes to buy some nasal drops and carry in the wounded.

Seven people—three dead, four wounded.

They hit a mine.

One guy with a blue, bloody face keeps whispering: I’m okay, I’m alive, I will live. His legs below the knee are mangled.

And everything smells of blood.

The guys moan.

The guys cry out.

The young doctor: “Help! Stretchers! To the car…”

Again, more mangled.

Their lips barely tremble.

“Careful, transfer him!”

There’s blood everywhere. It’s dripping. It sticks to your hands. And leaves wet stains on your camo.

+ +

HALF AN HOUR AGO I found two children’s books of mine in the store. My mood went up instantly. I started turning the familiar pages, looking at the illustrations. What strange, what mixed emotions. Finally I choked out:

“Anders, take my picture.”

“They’re yours?” he asks.

“Mine. Look. It’s written here.”

On the cover: Valeriy Puzik “Defli and the Sorcerers.”

The black dragon haunts me. He pops up in places, very strange places. A constant reminder of the unfinished series.

The salesgirl is looking at me.

“Want me to sign them?” I ask her.

“You wrote them?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing here?”

In dirty pixelated camo, in a bulletproof vest. My head aches.

“The war.” I choke out.

This sounds strange here, in a town where the russians were. There are damaged buildings everywhere. The fences read: “Danger, mines!”

I could not keep writing fantasy. No matter how many times I tried.

I buy three books from an old series published by Folio called “Map of the World”: Alessandro Baricco’s “Without Blood,” Sofi Oksanen’s “When the Doves Disappeared,” Peter Høeg’s “Smilla’s Sense of Snow” and a flashlight for reading them. To read, if there’s time…

+ +

NOW Buryi is behind the wheel of our pickup.

“I’m going to puke.” The Ford Ranger is parked by the side of the road.

“Have some water.” Anders hands him a bottle of mineral water.

Gulp.

Gulp.

Gulp.

Buryi stops and looks at the road.

“Okay?” I ask.

“Gimme a minute,” Buryi whispers.

We can’t catch our breath in this air.

We can’t get enough of these clouds.

Buryi wipes the blood off his hands with a wet wipe.

I open a pack of Winston Blue. There were all of two cigarettes between these three events.

Published with permission from the author. Original in Ukrainian here.

PS Valeriy’s unit is largely outfitted by volunteers. If you’d like to help fund their needs, you can send a contribution via paypal to me (larissa.babij@gmail.com) and I will pass that money on to his Ukrainian bank account (see his recent FB post).