“The Stench of War. Two Weeks Before”

A message arrived on Viber: “Marinka, if you have time, come to the library. We are hanging the paintings today!”

I was in a good mood. The rich aroma of coffee was already filling the apartment, and I stood in front of my wardrobe choosing what to wear that day. I wanted something bright, perhaps red, because I was already tired of that grey and melancholy month of February.

Usually, at that time of year, I would prepare to travel somewhere warm. I had considered spending the money and going on a winter holiday again. But at the beginning of the month, my late grandmother appeared in my dream and repeated several times, very insistently: “Marinka, stay at home. Make sure you are at home, do you hear me?”

I asked her how long I should stay because I had many plans. She answered: “The road will belong to you only after 15 March.”

Until then, I had never received any such guidance from the other world in my dreams. My grandmother and I had been the closest people in the world, so I decided to listen to her. There was no urgent reason to fly or travel anywhere, and I stayed in Kyiv.

My artist friends were already waiting for me at the library. The plan for the day was very positive: to hang paintings on the walls of the Green Library and then have lunch together.

Ukrainian artists Inna Artamonova and Iryna Saibel were preparing for their solo exhibitions. I have always loved such events, and the preparation itself feels like part of the celebration to me.

We began discussing what to call the exhibitions, and against the background of anxious rumours about war, they received the titles “Make Art, Not War” and “Make Love, Not War”.

During lunch at the Kyiv café Mansarda, our conversation about art shifted towards more dramatic subjects. Intelligence services in the United States and other countries were warning Ukrainians that the war would begin the following day, 16 February, that it was inevitable and that Russia had already prepared everything necessary along the borders for a treacherous invasion.

Russian politicians and diplomats insisted that it was all nonsense and that only scheduled military exercises were taking place. I remembered a similarly tense situation the previous May, when everything had eventually turned out well and I had gone on my planned holiday to Odesa. So I advised the girls not to worry and to continue preparing for the exhibition.

The exhibition opening was lively and joyful. Guests arrived from every corner of the capital to enjoy the artworks created by my talented friends.

There were flowers, congratulations, champagne, poetry, the ringing of glasses and treats for every taste. A record was turning on the gramophone, and Iryna and I even danced to well-known Odesa melodies.

I was cheerful and happy. Sadness and anxiety had moved into the background. Only the increased attention to my video stories from supporters of the “Russian world” living in territories occupied by Russia since 2014, including some people I knew, made me uneasy.

Their mass observation had suddenly intensified, as though they were already anticipating something and preparing to savour events that could become horrific for Ukrainians.

Beautiful evenings like that remain in the memory for a long time because they separate a happy and carefree life from a whirlwind of fateful events that cannot be controlled and that, like a hurricane, break or transform millions of lives.

The sixteenth of February was a wonderful day followed by a quiet night. The war had been delayed, and we continued living our joyful Ukrainian lives for one more entire week.

The last peaceful day of 2022 for my homeland. We Ukrainians did not yet know it and continued with our everyday lives. The tension was noticeable, but no one truly believed that a large-scale war would begin.

On Instagram, a stranger left me a comment in Arabic saying that Putin’s army would soon arrive and kill us all. I never understood whether he was gloating or trying to warn me.

I needed to travel to the city centre. At the Ra Art Gallery, a diploma from the School of Curators was waiting for me, confirming that I now had the knowledge and experience to organise exhibitions independently and create artistic projects.

At the gallery, we met its owner, Natalia. The conversation was pleasant but sad. A feeling of terrible danger was consuming our mood: war was once again being predicted for the morning of 24 February, and people said it would certainly begin at four o’clock.

The evening was mild, with neither snow nor rain. After the meeting at the gallery, I went for a walk through central Kyiv.

There were not many people in the streets. I passed several foreign reporters speaking into cameras about the situation in Ukraine.

Walking quickly, I reached the Golden Gate, but it was already closed. I caught myself thinking that I had never taken a historical tour of that place and that I absolutely needed to correct that.

Feeling slightly cold, I went into an Italian café and ordered dinner. While waiting, I made several sketches in my notebook.

The opening of my exhibition in the centre of the capital was supposed to take place two weeks later. Several paintings were still unfinished, and thoughts about them did not leave me for a single moment.

By chance, I overheard a telephone conversation from a girl sitting at the next table. She complained that the city had frozen in anticipation of something terrible and that people were beginning to panic.

To distract myself, I picked up my phone and began looking through the photographs taken of me with the diploma at the gallery.

They were beautiful photographs, but on the wall behind me hung a painting with a disturbing subject: two sorrowful warriors holding weapons appeared from behind my shoulders, as though war itself were looming over me.

Why had I stood beside them? I was almost angry at such accidental signs and predictions.

After finishing my Italian pasta and salmon tartare, I called a taxi and went home.

The night was peaceful and my bed was warm. I was reading something and could not fall asleep for a long time. The clock showed 4:20 a.m.

A little weight lifted from my heart: the war had been cancelled, so I could finally fall asleep peacefully.

I put on my soft, warm dressing gown and went to the bathroom to moisturise my face. Then I switched off the light and returned to bed beneath the thick duvet. To make myself comfortable, I placed two pillows under my legs, closed my eyes and smiled, remembering all my unnecessary fears and anxieties.

Treacherously, at dawn on 24 February, Russia attacked peacefully sleeping Ukrainians with hundreds of missiles and shells.

The war had begun…