Conversations that should never take place.
Lviv. A library. A 7th grade girl from Kharkiv:
«Are you having classes now?» I ask her.
«School isn’t mandatory now. It’s for those who can, who have internet. Those who are alive.»
I don’t know what to say. I ask whether all the kids are letting people know they’re alive.
«One classmate’s gone missing. Everybody’s saying that he’s dead, but we aren’t giving up hope.»
The train from Warsaw to Suwałki. An 8-year-old girl from Odesa:
«You must have been bored, traveling by train for so long, weren’t you?»
«Why would that be boring? If I didn’t get on, I would have spent another sleepless night.»
I don’t say anything, but I’m wondering just how many nights this child stayed awake, hiding in bomb shelters.
Evening, the village of Krasnogruda on the Polish-Lithuanian border.
«What's this?» asks a 7-year-old boy from Kyiv, listening warily into the sky.
«That's a passenger plane,» I answer cheerily. «These planes don’t drop bombs. We’re safe here.»
Hello, we’re from Ukraine.
Love to the Poles.