Where the Sunflowers Grow -- By Michelle Lindsey

 

Where the Sunflowers Grow

By Michelle Lindsey

London

April 2022

The ticking clock. The rain pattering against the window. The flashing lights from the city street bouncing like phantoms off the wall. Since returning from Ukraine, and my time there, during the early days of the war, everything feels more immediate. Sounds are sharper, colors and lights more vivid, emotions more intense. That's what war does to you. And loss. It hollows out your heart like a crater. All that is left is the ticking core of the bomb, buried in a trench of dirt and agony. The distant wind carrying with it your memories, your hopes, your dreams, along with the dust of war and the battlefield of broken glass and lives left in its wake.

Sitting here, gazing out my window, at the hustle and bustle of London, I feel as if I have entered another dimension. These hotel walls seem a strange surrounding, and the flash of Piccadilly, although just outside, seems a universe away. I feel separate. I feel as if I never left Ukraine. It is with me in every breath, every moment. I can still smell the smoke, the embers of burning buildings that were once homes, where babies were changed, and birthdays celebrated, and lives lived in their daily ordinary loveliness. I can still feel life slipping away from hands I held in the rubble. I can still taste the metallic, evil bitterness from air collapsed by thermobaric bombs. I can still see tears, rolling like a river of fear, down the faces of children huddled in underground shelters as sirens screamed above them.

A streak of crimson stains my press ID. Ayla James. American. International Correspondent. Is it my blood or someone else’s? I don’t know. For the first time in my life, I find I am unable to separate myself from the experience of being in the story, in order to write it from an objective, detached point of view. This time, I was too close. I am too close. I am still walking, moving, breathing among the courageous battlefields of the cities of Ukraine. A land I had never before seen yet now can never forget. My time there has become a suspended perpetual existence. I cannot part myself from my memories. Nor can I part my heart from all I left behind on those brave, bloodstained streets.

The memories float through my mind like shadows, light reflecting off broken glass, shards of remembrance haunting my dreams and my waking hours. They come to me in whispers, gentle intonations of beauty, shattered by the screaming starkness of war. Here and then gone. A reverie destroyed by reality. 

And then, there is Andrew. So close yet so far away. As much a part of me as my own heartbeat. I still see his face, his smile like a ray of sun in the darkest depths. Where is he now? Dead, like so many I held and couldn't save, vanished like a vapor into memory? Will I ever know for certain? Or will I spend the rest of my life wondering, hoping, praying, searching, remembering...

Ukraine

February 2022

Sunrise over an icy field, a winter frost covering a swath of land that, come summertime, would glisten with sunflowers. My first glimpse of Ukraine. The train rolls through the dawn heading from Poland to Kyiv. It has been only a few days since the missiles began to fall and I am on my way to cover the story. 

My closest friend from childhood is from Ukraine. To this day, he is still the dearest person to my heart, although I haven’t seen him in seven years. Andrew Petrenko. His family immigrated to the United States when he was a toddler. They lived next door to my parents and me. When Andrew was eight, and I was six, he taught me to ride a bike. When the kids at school made fun of my blonde pigtails and my constant studying habits, and I sat crying on the steps, it was Andrew who dried my tears. There was always something different about him. He had an exceptional kindness and grace, like a light shining from within. It came as no surprise to me, when he was twenty-four and I was twenty-two, that he decided to enter the church and become a priest. I had hoped, one day, he and I might make a life together, yet I never really believed it. Our relationship had always been platonic and I had long sensed that Andrew’s heart was set on something more.

Memories of my years and moments with Andrew flood my thoughts, especially the stories he told me of Ukraine, and the times he spent here with his grandparents, exploring his homeland. He showed me photographs of glowing landscapes, verdant green valleys, mountains kissed with snow, glistening lakes and rivers, quaint villages, exquisite churches, towering trees, fields of sunflowers. Images flashing through my memory, blending with the reality outside the train window. A beautiful land now shattered by war.

The train station is a rolling sea of humanity. People weeping. Women and children boarding trains heading west, saying goodbye to husbands and fathers remaining behind to fight. Hands clutching, arms grasping, babies wailing. The cold morning air slices across my face like a knife. I walk through the crowd, my first up-close view of war’s assault upon innocence. The steam from the train blows across the masses like a bitter mist. The bright colors of their coats like a field of flowers strewn in memory for all that has been taken from them.

How do you describe war? How do you describe the utter loss of life, place, stability, home, and safety? Here one breath, gone the next. Hospitals and churches bombed. Craters where schools once stood. Missile strikes on a Red Cross supply building. Children, pregnant women, elderly gunned down in their vehicles and while walking on the streets. Structures, towns, lives, forever shattered, forever lost.

I have been an international correspondent for my magazine for five years, covering a myriad of stories of varying degrees of importance. Yet, this is different. I don’t know any of these people but I can imagine myself in their shoes. This is immediate, magnified, personal.

Everywhere I go, the scenes shock and move me to my core. Terror, agony, loss, sacrifice, courage, bravery. The fortitude of Ukraine’s president resonates throughout the country. Some leaders inspire courage in others. Some leaders live with courage themselves. Volodymyr Zelensky is doing both. As is every man, woman, and child in this remarkable land.

The women I meet are extraordinary. Mothers braving missiles and Russian convoys, carrying their children, fleeing to safety, trying to survive. Pregnant women, giving birth in a war zone, yet filled with hope for their children’s future in a free and independent Ukraine. Ninety-two-year-old Olga survived the Holocaust, and she says she would fight now, if only she could. Her great-granddaughter is among a group of young women who have joined the Ukrainian army. “This is our land,” they tell me. “We stay. We will never leave. We will fight.” They never say “One day when the war is over.” They always say “One day when we win.”

Walking through a city square, I observe several men kneeling together, praying. I hear the faint sound of music and singing. Following it, I find a building toppled but the flag pole bearing the Ukrainian flag still standing. A group of people are gathered in a circle, amidst sandbags and barricades, holding hands, singing the Ukrainian anthem, joined by a small city symphony. A soldier sits on a curb, hand-stitching a rip in a blue and yellow Ukrainian flag – symbolizing the sky and a field of sunflowers.

In the corner of the square, a tent provides temporary shelter for refugees, as well as food and medical aid. Walking toward it, hoping to help in some way, I hear a sound I recognize as well as the sound of my own heartbeat. Andrew’s voice. I would know it anywhere. In a schoolyard, on a summer’s day, in the middle of a war. Looking up, I see him standing there, wearing his clerical collar under an army fatigue style jacket, holding a sobbing baby in his arms. 

I can’t move. I am frozen in place. Body, mind, and spirit. Flashbacks of the last time I saw Andrew flood my thoughts. Seven years ago. It was a week after my thirtieth birthday. I received a call that my parents had been critically injured in an auto accident. I rushed to the hospital but arrived too late. They were gone. In a stunned, tear-stained daze, I was walking out of the hospital, when I collided with Andrew. He had been there, visiting a patient from his parish, but I believe God sent him there that night to be there for me. He hugged me and let me weep until all my tears had run dry. He sat by my side, all night, on a park bench, near the hospital. With the coming of the dawn, I found the peace and strength I needed to survive. God’s grace, answered prayers, and the dearest friend imaginable who never left my side. A few days later, Andrew helped me bury my parents. Then we said goodbye. 

He returned to his work and I returned to mine. And not a day has gone by that I have not thought of him and missed him…and loved him. I always knew we were not meant to be together. He was doing what he was meant to do in life and so was I. That has given me peace. Though it didn't keep me from missing him, or wondering how he was, and where. I never expected to see him standing here, in this rubble, holding a hurting humanity in his arms. But I should have. For that’s Andrew. He has a heart the size of the whole world.

Looking up, his blue eyes meet mine and a look of shock and disbelief fades into his warm, caring smile I know so well. “Ayla?” His faintly accented English, saying my name, sounds like home. “What on earth…” 

Walking up to him, I lean in and we hug gently as he holds the baby. I lean down and kiss the little one on her head. “I’m here for my magazine.”

“I’ve read all of your stories. I always knew you would use your gift for something special, something important.”

I look at him, surprised he would have the time to read my work. “You’ve read my writing?”

“Everything I could find.” He smiles. “It’s outstanding, beautiful, moving. I love everything you write.”

Looking around, and seeing the nearly two dozen children, with seemingly no parents, I ask Andrew, “Are they orphans?” 

He nods. “The building where they were sheltering was bombed. Three of the children died along with four of the adults who were caring for them.” 

Tears well in my eyes as my gaze shifts over these precious, innocent victims. “I can help. I have first aid training.” Without waiting for a response, I walk over to a little girl with a cut on her arm and begin dressing the wound. 

“Where will you take them now?” I ask Andrew, as I open a bottle of water for the little girl. 

Andrew runs a hand through his short brown hair and shakes his head. “I don’t know. Ideally, we need to evacuate them to the border, but I don’t know if we can travel west from here without running into a Russian convoy.”

“Father Andriy.” Before I can respond, a middle-aged woman, holding a toddler, approaches Andrew, addressing him with the Ukrainian form of his name. “We must move these children. We must tonight.”

Andrew nods. “Jack is looking for a truck or a bus for transport. I don’t know if there is a safe route though.”

Andrew introduces me to the woman. Her name is Maria and she is the only surviving caregiver from the orphanage blast. They are being assisted by Jack Holmes, a former British special forces commander, who now does humanitarian aid work, and is trying to procure a vehicle large enough to transport the children.

“I think I know a way. To make it to the border.” I look up at the sky, studying the clouds, wondering if they have snow or rain in them. “I spoke with a fellow reporter this morning who recently went to the border and returned. He saw Russian tanks but they never saw him. He stayed off the roads and drove through the sunflower fields. He said it would work as long as it wasn’t muddy.”

Andrew gazes up at the sky. “That might work. If Jack finds a truck, and if it stays dry, we can try it tonight. God be with us.” He momentarily bows his head and crosses himself.

The hours pass. We feed the children what we can, dress their wounds, try to comfort them, knowing they now have scars within that may never heal.

Jack returns with a large flatbed truck. It is just large enough to hold everyone. 

I start to climb onboard when Andrew grasps my hand. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going.”

“No way. It’s too dangerous.”

“You’re going, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then so am I.”

Andrew looks at me for a moment. He knows me too well, and has known me for too long, to think he can change my mind. He once told me that I was the most stubborn person he had ever met. I had replied, “Thank you.” To which, he just smiled and shook his head.

Letting go of my hand, and taking my arm, he helps me onto the back of the truck.

It is a cold, clear night. The moon is high in the sky and its luminosity casts shadows across the landscape. Turning off the road, we head into the sunflower fields, dry and barren for the winter. The few blankets and coats we have, we drape over the children. We must keep them warm. And quiet. Russian patrols could be anywhere.

Shortly past midnight, the moon still bright overhead, we hear a low rumbling sound nearby. Andrew and I are riding in the flatbed with the children. Jack is driving. Maria is in the passenger seat. Andrew gently taps on the window to alert Jack and motions for him to stop the truck. With the truck’s engine now silent, we hear the unmistakable mechanized roll of a tank column. Andrew and I exchange a knowing glance and place ourselves over as many children as possible, sheltering and comforting them, whispering for them to remain quiet. 

I hear my heart pounding in my ears as the tanks slowly roll by on the road, a mere one hundred yards away. Praying silently, I know Andrew is doing the same.

Eventually, the column passes and stillness returns. A lone night bird sings out from a nearby barren tree. Andrew motions for Jack to continue onward.

Shortly before dawn, we near the border. We made it. Stopping in a safe, wooded area, we let the children climb down from the truck. We build a fire and prepare a small snack for our band of brave little angels.

The warmth from the fire wraps around me like a comforting quilt. Shadows from the flames dance a macabre waltz across the landscape, as they carry with them the memories and embers of the shattered ruins we left behind.

Looking across the fire, Andrew catches my gaze and smiles. “Your name is perfect. Ayla. ‘Carrier of light.’ And you do, you know, carry light inside you. You bring light to so many people…as you have always brought it to me.”

I smile at him as tears flicker in my eyes. I can’t find the words to respond. But he knows how I feel without me uttering a sound. Small words and moments of silence, swollen with meaning, and with all the words we could never say to each other. That has been our life. Our story.

“Ayla.” I meet his gaze once again. “You, Jack, and Maria will take the children across the border. I have to go back. I can get a ride from the village up ahead. I have to go back to the east. That’s where I’m needed.”

A tear rolls down my cheek and I nod. “I know.”

Rising, he walks toward the edge of our little camp, heading toward the village.

“Andrew!” I run toward him. He turns around and faces me, tears in his eyes. We stand there, staring at each other, all the years, the bond we have always shared, all the things that can never be said, colliding in this moment. I throw my arms around him and hold him close to me. For what feels like the last time. 

“Andrew.” Tears roll down my face. “I don’t know how to say goodbye to you.” 

“There are no goodbyes for us. There never have been. Our bond is greater than goodbyes.” He pulls away from me and takes my face in his hands. “Ayla.” He tries to speak through his tears. “If I had been different, if my life had been different… There is no one on this earth I would have wanted to spend my life with but you.” 

“Andrew.” I take his hand in mine and kiss the palm of his hand. He squeezes my hand, then lets go, and walks away, past the firelight, beyond the dancing shadows, into the dark.

Five days pass before I am able to return to the east. Stepping out of the vehicle in the aid convoy, I survey the landscape. Five days had turned a once beautiful city into a dystopian nightmare. I walk through what had been the center of town. The streets are vacant, the windows gone, the trees a charred remnant, but the ghosts are everywhere. Footsteps of children who had skipped on the sidewalk, whispers of lovers who had strolled hand in hand, laughter of warm summer evenings, and the fragrant aroma wafting from coffee houses on a cold winter’s morn. 

Air raid sirens pierce the eerie silence and I run for cover beneath an overturned car. A missile lands nearby. The ground shakes and I hear a loud explosion. Then silence. I crawl out from my shelter and run toward the smoke. An apartment building has been bombed. Bodies are everywhere. Some are still alive, some are not. Those who are uninjured race about trying to help, pulling people away from the building. 

“Is there a priest? We need a priest!” A man shouts. 

“A priest went inside the building,” a woman answers. 

I run to the woman. “A priest? Do you know his name?” 

The woman shook her head. 

I can’t give up. I must know. “You saw him go in?” 

“Yes, he ran in to help, right after the explosion.” 

I pull out my phone and show her a picture of Andrew. “Is this the priest who went inside the building?” 

The woman nods. “Yes. That is him.” 

I look up at the building, partially standing, engulfed in flames. Andrew is still inside. 

I turn around to find someone I can help. A young woman sits on the ground, bleeding, crying. I kneel beside her. “My name is Ayla. I’m going to help you. What is your name?” 

“Oksana,” she answers, coughing. 

In a breath swifter than the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings, a secondary explosion rocks the building. Far greater than the first blast. I feel my head and face slam into the pavement. Debris from the explosion filters through the air like falling snow. My ears ring. My heartbeat thumps like the echo of a bass drum. Everything spins around me. Blood turns my blonde hair crimson. My blood. Blood turns my white shirt crimson. Not my blood. Oksana’s. Crumpled by my side. Dead. Why? Why am I still here and she is gone? Even in the midst of this heart-wrenching, horrifying fog, I know this question will haunt me for the remainder of my days on earth. 

The horrific dichotomy of sirens and church bells rings out, flooding my thoughts with an image of a peace dove, penetrated by shrapnel, covered in blood. A cacophony of suffering. 

Struggling to stand, I look at the building. Gone. A mountain of concrete, glass, and devastation. 

“Andrew! No!” I scream and try to run to the rubble. My legs buckle beneath me and I collapse to the ground. On my knees, overwhelmed by my loss, I begin to weep. My entire body shakes with shock, pain, and grief. The trauma and tragedy of war has ripped my soul into pieces, like the millions of innocent people here, suffering in solidarity. 

The day I left Ukraine it was snowing. The icy wind kissed the tears on my face with a cruel chill. I felt bolted to the train platform. I hoped and prayed that, somehow, I would hear his voice, see his face. Nothing. I climbed aboard at the last possible moment. I was leaving my heart behind me. And nothing would ever be the same again.

London

April 2022

I lift my pen and begin to write. Words I write in ink. Words brave Ukrainians are writing in their own blood. This evil war of malicious aggression, perpetrated against innocent people. Darkness encompassing what was once light. Yet beauty remains. The beauty of undaunted courage, of unquenchable faith, of undying love. The beauty of the hearts of a people who would rather die than lose their country, who would rather lose their lives than lose their freedom. 

I have no doubt Ukraine will rise like a phoenix from the ashes and build a bright future in their beautiful homeland. One day when we win.

I write through the night. As the lamplight on the desk blends with the morning sun filtering through the window, I put down my pen and breathe deeply. I feel I have captured and conveyed it all, as best I can, with the limitation that words in all their transcendent and insufficient glory allow. All of it, except one thing. Andrew. I couldn't tell Andrew's story. Not yet. Perhaps, because I am too close to it. Perhaps, because I don't know the ending, and pray with all my heart that his story still goes on, that he is somehow still alive. Andrew.

I rise from the desk and stretch my aching back and neck. Leaving my room, in search of the fresh air of the dawn, I make my way to the hotel rooftop. Gazing out across the skyline of London, I close my eyes, and feel the breeze upon my face. I imagine I can see beyond the Thames to the White Cliffs of Dover, across the Channel, across the continent, to a field of golden sunflowers kissed by the Ukrainian sun. A warm wind wraps around me as I hear Andrew's laughter, like a phantom from my youth. I hear his voice as he says my name and grasps my hand, telling me to be strong and hold fast to my faith.

I know that one day I will see him again, in this life, or the next.

And wherever he is, I know he is still fighting for what he believes in – faith, freedom, love, and being there for your neighbor, whether they live next door or on the other side of the world.

Where the sunflowers grow tall and strong, where the breaking dawn mixes with the distant sound of a bird song, where liberty lives and faith never dies, that is where I remember him. In a land beyond the sea, past the hills and valleys, in the field of golden light. 

Where the sunflowers grow.

© 2022 Michelle Lindsey 

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