The night before the party

After the winter, which promised to be the worst of the last three years of the war, but which was just as terrible as the previous ones, only we were less afraid because we were already used to it, spring arrived in Ukraine. How we had been waiting for it.

I love spring, but I'm a little afraid of April because I have two birthdays: my daughter's and my own, and the Orthodox celebrate Easter. In the end, it's too many parties, too much effort, too much money spent, too much unhealthy food and alcohol consumed. Somehow I escaped celebrating my birthday, but my daughter was turning seventeen. Seventeen! There's so much spring and love in this issue, so much hope...

“No one wants to associate their seventeenth birthday with a bombing.”

Of course, we went all out to organize a celebration. After waiting for her to fall asleep, we brought and hid a bouquet of different-colored tulips and the blue bicycle she'd been dreaming about on the balcony. Phew, now we can go to sleep. In the morning, we'll have to quietly sneak into her room and sing "Happy Birthday." We were worried that the weather would be bad and we'd have to cancel the picnic with our family.

But we wake up at 1 a.m. to explosions somewhere nearby. It happens often, almost every night. It depends on the number of explosions and the threat level. Sometimes, you can read on Telegram that they're enemy drones shot down by our forces. Then you can roll over and fall asleep. But when they write that ballistic missiles are flying toward your peaceful, sleeping city, you shouldn't roll over. You should put on your underwear, wake up the kids, and go to a bomb shelter, a parking lot, or at least a hallway.

This was exactly the case: the explosions were getting closer, their number was increasing, and the sky was pink. I didn't have to wake my daughter; she jumped up immediately, just like me. We live on the top floor, and it's the most dangerous place during the bombing. You can hear a drone flying overhead, and it makes a rather unpleasant, death-like sound.

After getting dressed and packing our "anxiety bags" (usually backpacks or bags with documents and personal belongings), we took the elevator to the first floor. Then we had to go outside and go down to the parking lot, where there was a place to sit, and a security guard would bring water and, if necessary, coffee. But imagine how eager you are to go out at 1:00 a.m. Running around cowering in fear under a sky where Star Wars is raging. In the end, we decided to stay at the ground-floor entrance, where it was still safer than our house on the tenth floor. There was nowhere to sit, so my daughter leaned against the mailboxes and fell asleep standing up.

The elevator opened and two boys, about ten and fifteen years old, got out. They were fast asleep, holding blankets and pillows. They probably have their own garage in the parking lot, where they'll sleep in their car. I envied them a little. "Good night," the children greeted me, very politely, and disappeared behind the door, into the night. "Good night," I wrote somewhere in my draft. My daughter woke up and asked me what time she was born and if it was her birthday yet. I lied, telling her it wasn't. I lied, telling her all those Shahed missiles and drones were yesterday. But that tomorrow was going to be her party. She calmed down, because no one wants to associate their seventeenth birthday with a bombing...

Sure enough, in the morning we woke up tired and exhausted, but the sun was shining outside, and nothing looked like the night before. My husband and I sneaked into her room with flowers and a blue bicycle. She opened her eyes and smiled. “Happy birthday, our baby!” Every morning I greet her from the balcony. I watch her and mentally pray to God to save and preserve my little girl. But on the morning of her seventeenth birthday, I forgot to do it. Because, as she was going down in the elevator, I opened the news and read it. I read that about ten people had died that night in Kyiv when a missile hit a residential building. Rescue operations were underway. There were many photos from the scene of the tragedy. A group of teenagers caught my attention. They were waiting for their seventeen-year-old friend Danylo to be pulled out of the rubble. And for him to be alive.

I'm a playwright by profession. I capture paradoxes. A dark, terrible night under the bombing and a bright, sunny morning when some children are celebrating their birthday and others are being pulled from the rubble is a paradox. Life and death are the ultimate paradox. But it's also a law of nature. So, does it turn out that our nature is based on paradox? Humor and war are the same. When I write about war, I use humor a lot. What's so funny about it? People ask me after my performances about war. War is scary. There's nothing funny about war. But it's a paradox.

I realize how stupid and ridiculous I am when I put on my underwear during an air raid alert: I feel like I'm more protected then. I laugh at myself when I put a mattress on the inside windowsill of my daughter's room at night, hoping it will carry away the window fragments in the event of an impact. It's funny when, after a sleepless night and prolonged bombing, we greet someone with balloons and songs in the morning.

When children say "goodnight" when they're not good at all. Humor balances my fear and despair. I'm balancing. But they're right, at some point it stops being funny. Seventeen-year-old Danylo died with his parents.