Mila of Mariupol
The sky couldn’t have been grayer. Light gray. The gray that makes one wonder whether there’s ever anything beyond the clouds because their totality eclipses the possibility of imagination. It is under these eiderdown clouds that Mila paced the parking lot. She held a baby in her arms with his face shrouded in a shawl that was neither warm nor cool. His name was unknown. To Mila he was Anton.
The parking lot was situated in a city most have never heard of, north of a city few knew existed until five weeks ago when the invasion began. The parking lot became a makeshift drop spot. A place where buses and sedans and vans and buses towing sedans with ratchet straps ferried people out of a city that was being flattened and burned and erased one building, one block, one childhood memory at a time. Every vehicle had five paper signs taped to it. Written in various markers in bold ink was the word “children.”
Mila and Anton were not strangers to the parking lot. Everyday she would gather and watch the streams of people pour from the vehicles. Through the tears and relief Mila would sift through the faces, searching for the familiar bucolic face of her husband. More often than not, he was not there. For as long as the cease fire held. A steady stream of vehicles. The promise of her husband. The desperation.
She didn’t like stopping. She liked to stay on the move. A captive animal plodding along its cell walls looking for someone to say something, anything, to bring her the freedom of unification with the other half of her soul. But there was Anton now, too. She looked at the cherubic face from time to time. She fed him formula that the NGOs provided at the staging area. The diapers came from there, too. She changed him on the hoods of abandoned cars with her jacket the closest thing to a blanket or changing sheet.
She stopped measuring time since the invasion. It is a luxury to know the date for her. To know what day of the week it is. None of it means much to her. She has never been this wholly present and afraid. She may have been pacing for days or hours. Time was dictated by the sun. The shadows of lamposts moving across the pavement. The flickering of their bulbs that miraculously were still powered. The night downing that crept among everyone in the staging area. The fires that were built in trash cans licking the metal and the cool night air.
Mila rested by one of these fires. The indifferent faces around the fire glanced in her direction. They saw the child in her arms wrapped in a shawl.
“Does it cry?” one face asked.
“No,” Mila said.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s their name?”
“I named him Anton.”
“Can we see him?”
Mila lowered the shawl and revealed his calm rosy face to that turned orange in the fire light. Hair like thin brush strokes fell across his forehead. The strangers huddled at the fire nodded as they gandered.
“We will need him.”
“You must be a proud mother.”
“Bless you.”
She wondered what she could say to these strangers. Was there anything that needed to be said? Was the presence of a child enough? What little promises could she give to ensure he would be a strong boy, a boy with parents, a man with a heart full of love and courage and strength for the horror of the world he was born into?
“He is my Anton,” she said. “I found him after an attack. From the air. He was alone. Didn’t make any noise. He hasn’t still.”
“Does he have food?”
“Yes.”
“Does he eat?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Formula.”
“You can’t give him milk?” one of the men asked.
“No, not possible.”
“Do you love him.”
“That doesn’t matter. I must. There is no other choice.”
“Do you have a husband?”
“A boyfriend?”
“Yes. But he is still in the city.”
“Which?”
“Mariupol.”
Silence fell over the group. They stared at the fire. Anton stirred and turned towards the fire. His black eyes reflected the flames in perfect symmetry. He giggled.
