The War That Kills

My name is Kolita Mark Nikolaevich, born 25.06.1976, and here you will find a rather captivating account of the romantic relationship between two people. Most of you know these people personally; some do not yet know the pair, some know only one of them. But the narrative presented on these pages will reveal a sequence of events that will indirectly allow the reader to sense the true nature of the characters in this account.

A young man named Mark, in those distant times, was studying at the music college in Simferopol. Since he lived quite far from the city, he had to stay with a friend (whose name we will not mention here), and, by fate, in the same hospitable house stayed another character of our story during her college sessions. She was an extraordinary person, pure of heart and incredibly shy. Our hero fell in love with her at first sight, from the very first moment he saw her. He felt that this was their destiny. She, this celestial being descended to the mortal world, showed favour to the young man, which soon blossomed into the most beautiful feeling on earth: love.

They did not have much time to be together; in the area where they stayed, there was private housing and a stretch of steppe, still undeveloped at the time. One day, our heroes chose a moment and went for a walk — as you all know, the steppe is beautiful in late spring. He picked a bouquet of wildflowers, and she gladly accepted it. It was not a luxurious bouquet of expensive flowers, but it felt like the most precious and meaningful gift she had ever received. Then it was time to return home; the session ended, the tests and exams were passed. He went with her to see her off at the bus station. She said she was going to her grandmother in Belogorsk. A short but rather heavy rain fell, and streams of water ran across the road, so he carried her across. While waiting for the bus, they sat on a bench and shared their first kiss. It was the gentlest, longest, and most unforgettable kiss of their lives.

Our hero did not even ask where she was going or how to find her. It was so secondary that he simply did not think about it. After all, she was there, nearby, and there was no need to think about anything else but her.

The bus time came. She climbed the steps into the bus. They tried not to take their eyes off each other. As the bus departed, she waved, and her face bore the happiest smile ever seen in the history of humanity.

At that time, mobile communication did not exist, and one could not exchange messages as is common now. Who knows, had those possibilities existed back then, you might not be reading this narrative. She left, and only then did he realise he did not know how to find her. He returned to his friend’s home, not knowing how to ask for her address. Summoning courage, he asked — the friend did not know, or pretended not to know. The only clue our hero had was Belogorsk, grandmother, Berserkova Zera (and, yes, at that time I had not read Tolkien, and knew nothing about The Lord of the Rings (a reference to the famous phrase, Shire, Baggins)). Summer came. The Crimean sun was merciless, and the steppe areas at that time looked like a desert, with burnt grass and patches of green, adorned by scattered shrubs.

Mark did not know how to get in touch or find his beloved. Well, there was only one solution: if someone is lost, you must search. And so, he set off to find her.

First destination, Belogorsk. And beyond… Logic suggested searching through the address book or passport office; I do not even remember which organisation I approached. I remember telling our story, and the staff were helpful, reviewing all the records, but they found nothing — there were others named Zera, but no complete match of name, surname, and year of birth.

I was bewildered; it could not be that I failed to resolve such a vital task. Where was the life of a small town concentrated at that time? It struck me: the market — everyone knew everything about everyone, especially about the granddaughter living with her grandmother. Such a person was found; he sold affordable shoes, as I remember, rows of sandals laid out on a piece of tarpaulin, right on the ground. He invited me into his home; I remember there were many children. We sat down to eat, and I was surprised by his hospitality. I, a stranger, an unknown young man, was invited into the house, and they even offered help to find my beloved. They lived modestly, but the house was full of happiness. He saw the way I looked at the children, how they ran around the house, and asked me, do you want it like this? I hesitated, but a minute later replied, very much so. He stood, said in a stern voice, sit here, wait. I did not wait long; he came back and joyfully told me that my Zera had been found, giving me the address. I do not know why, but I had not a shadow of doubt that the address was correct. I only asked him why he treated me so kindly. He smiled and replied that happiness hides sin.

I had some small amount of money left; I handed it to him, he shook his head and said, 'You will need this now,' and simply shook my hand.

I will not mention the address here; I will only say that it has not changed. She is still there. I do not remember exactly how I reached that settlement or began asking passersby for directions. Eventually, I found it. The house where the Bekirov family lived was under construction, like most of the houses of repatriated Crimean Tatars. I approached the fence, saw someone in the yard, and asked to summon Zera. It was one of her sisters. She went into the house and called my beloved. Zera ran out into the yard, joyful, surprised. But we did not even exchange a word before her father came out; he categorically refused to allow us a meeting. He said it was impossible by definition. That was the first time in my life I felt true emptiness.

At that moment, I could not resist or insist. Respect for elders, for parents, outweighed my rebellious nature. Of course, with the benefit of hindsight, I would have acted differently, and everything would have turned out another way.

I gave up and went home, to Sevastopol. As I later discovered, Zera had called my home number in Sevastopol, but my relatives behaved incorrectly. I was not at home, and nobody passed on that Zera had called.

That same autumn, I left for Moscow, but I never forgot that bright soul.

Time passed — days, months, years. The young man named Mark grew older, trying his hand at business. At that time, many people were finding their way in various professions; he installed windows, carried out apartment renovations, and, having gained experience, founded a small construction company. They built across Ukraine, from Sevastopol to Lviv. On these sites, I met a woman. She reminded me in some way of my Zera. I realised that I was doing something wrong. There were moments when I called her Zera. When asked what I had said, I lied, making something up.

With that woman (I will not name her here), we had a daughter — an amazing, tiny being. I moved to Kharkiv. I lost interest in business, had conflicts with the Privat group, where there were gangsters and runaways — shootings. Then, everything settled down, as if on command.

And then came 2010. To earn a living, since the business was gone, I started a new venture. And, as is often the case with small schemes we dislike, I crossed the path of city officials, or rather, their interests. To avoid putting my family in danger, I took a plane ticket and flew to Israel.

I had been there before and left a rented apartment to a friend (or so I thought at the time), while the payment documents (cheques) were in my name. From these lines, it is clear that the friend did not pay the bills or the rent, which led to legal disputes and other unpleasant consequences. That was the first time in my life I did not know what to do or where to start.

The decision I made was the simplest and the most wrong at that moment. I started doing unofficial work, sending a small monthly sum to Kharkiv. Three and a half years passed this way. Then came the events of the Maidan — children beaten, protests, the first casualties in this senseless war. I did not see the whole picture, but the spirit of freedom and rejection of injustice told me this was only the beginning. I insisted that my family at the time come to Israel.

They arrived. Their daughter had grown; at that time, she was five years old. A year later, my wife decided to return to Kharkiv, reasoning that her eldest child needed to be taught at home. In Israel, this would have been impossible due to the language barrier. This decision surprised me, but I did not object. It was a turning point. Later, I realised that my daughter had effectively been taken from me.

I continued sending funds for her upkeep, but the desire to act had vanished. After work, I walked the streets, staring blankly at those around me. They all seemed so dull, each occupied with trivialities. I began reading — everything from fiction to textbooks on the fundamentals of analysis, solving problems, and developing an interest in medicine, psychiatry, and neurology. It distracted me but did not ease the pain.

Then I thought, why must I constantly follow arbitrary principles, obey someone else's instructions? I began searching for Zera on social networks. I found her. She dislikes publicity and leads a rather private life, but I found her. We began communicating — cautiously at first, with some distrust. But she accepted me, broken, destroyed, yet she accepted me. She restored my faith in myself, made me move forward, and I began paying off debts. Despite her parents' strong objections, she came to Israel to be with me.

We were together again — a feeling of completeness, just like before. I wanted nothing other than what she needed. We dreamt of children, desperately wanted them, but nothing happened. Later, I divorced my first wife — yes, I was ruthless, ignoring her pleas, even though she agreed to everything except the divorce. She did not understand that the reason for my reunion with Zera, and our marriage, was solely because of Zera, her presence. Perhaps I was wrong, most likely I was, but I do not claim sanctity. That is how I found my happiness — my Zera. And I intend to give her to no one, not even myself.

Later, I visited Belogorsk. Many of you remember how radiant she was, sparkling like a sunbeam dancing in a drop of dew at sunrise. There were so many moments for which I would have willingly endured any suffering just to experience them once more.

Then, as you recall, Zera travelled to me, but Israeli customs did not allow her through. I returned home (yes, home, because my home is wherever we are together). We went on small trips, stayed in rented apartments and modest hotels. We cherished each other, savouring every minute together. Then, as everyone remembers, the pandemic arrived. And... the years passed again. No, don’t misunderstand — we were together, even at a distance, we were still together...

Then the war began. In the night of 24 February, my frightened daughter called me, shouting down the phone, 'DAD, IT'S HELL HERE!' Shelling started in Kharkiv. Human bodies lay torn on the streets — many of them children, women, men — and there were no soldiers in the city yet. We lived on the 13th floor, and the artillery pounded the residential blocks like a training ground. I have many accounts due to the nature of my work, many recordings, and all of this unfolded before the eyes of a 12-year-old child.

They evacuated. What happened next? Zera shared my anguish; we were in contact almost constantly. I began assisting my military friends, studied programming, and became a military programmer. Almost all of my friends went to the war from day one.

I wanted to go then, but Zera and my daughter told me not to. My deceased friend had blocked my entry at the borders through his connections — the details aside (though I did try to join my comrades, but I wasn’t allowed in, as I later learned, due to the ban Lyutyi arranged).

Time passed — the first year, the second, the third. We kept communicating; I insisted that Zera come to me, and we began arguing. Zera refused to come. Why, I still don’t understand, and I don’t wish to understand.

There were a couple of days when we didn’t speak, so I called her, and Zera — my Zera, the light of my soul, my life — told me she considers herself my ex-wife.

Above all, I feared losing her. I thought, in old age, if she were to leave first, how could I live without her?

Before this conversation, the cybersecurity team I led had returned with losses. I bore part of the responsibility; I knew them all. Half of them were from Bila Tserkva, from our Agricultural University. I knew their families; we gathered at the birthday of one of their sons. I didn’t tell Zera about my work; she herself forbade me from talking about my colleagues, the war, or what I was doing.

I could list them all; only four remained...

Before this conversation, my daughter asked me, 'Dad, do you think you are a good dad, or is something wrong?' I couldn’t explain why such questions arise, for if I did, instead of asking, she might begin to hate her mother — better she hates me...

I told Zera none of this; she already had enough to bear. But when I heard 'I’m your ex-wife,' I was carried away. Out of fear of losing her, I did everything to make things happen. I reminded her of how we had lost the children we so wanted, the children we had always dreamed of. I shouted, wrote remarks accusing her, and over time believed I was right.

Did I cause her unbearable pain? Ask her; it all happened before your eyes. I now realise that yes, I caused her great pain. Did I want this? No, absolutely not. When she filed for divorce, I did not apologise to her. Instead, I escalated the situation, thinking she would come back. That it wasn’t serious, for she loves me, as I love her.

And she loves, still loves, but fears going through that pain again. That is why she says she is fine on her own. And nothing more is needed.