Wars and a man I sing, an exile driven on by fate....
PRZEMYSL IS A small town in Poland, about 15 minutes from the Ukrainian border. It has a beautiful train station, built-in 1895 in the neo-baroque style. The building is lovingly maintained, the chandeliers grand and glittering, the colourful tiles bright and clean, the paintings glowing with colour.
But it was not the building I was looking at when I stepped out of my train. The platform was crowded with people, with tables loaded with coffee urns and vats of soup, with suitcases, with plastic bags overflowing with bread and packets of instant noodles.
At the far end of the platform, a little away from the crush of people, there was a girl sitting on the floor. She was slumped against the railings and had a sleeping bag wrapped around her legs. I smiled at her, mak-ing my eyes wider to say hello, and through her exhaustion she instinctively replied with an effort at a smile.
I stopped to say hello. Her voice was so soft that I could barely make it out. I did discover, however, that the sleeping bag wasn’t wrapped around her legs, but rather around a little dog called Archie. Next to Archie was a big package of dog food. It must have weighed at least five kilos.
Can you imagine… fleeing a war, taking whatever you have that may help, needing to take things that will help, knowing you might have to carry it for days, you might have to walk with your things for god knows how long… and instead of a case of water, she carried food for Archie.
The young man next to her looked like Mick Jagger and had a very deep voice. He did most of the talking.
Damian and Erika. 16 and 14 years old.
This story is from the March 13, 2022 edition of THE WEEK.
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This story is from the March 13, 2022 edition of THE WEEK.
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