For me, the war broke out during an overnight business trip to the city of Rzeszow in southeast Poland, 60 miles from the Ukrainian border.
The days and weeks preceding my trip had been filled with reports of Russian troops massing to the north, east and south; various scenarios for “what if”; failed diplomatic initiatives; and Vladimir Putin’s ominous demands. But we were hoping that all of this was just a form of political theater, a tough Russian negotiating stance that would wind up being settled in some way or another with handshakes and photos in Paris, Geneva or Berlin. We’d learn to live (again) with the result (another concession) and get on with our lives.
Surely, we thought, Putin wouldn’t dare invade an entire country bordering the European Union and NATO-sphere. I speculated that he might settle for another bite of Ukraine, adding to earlier Russian “special operations” in Crimea, Donetsk and Luhansk, to demonstrate his power, increase pressure on Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy and, piece by piece, keep everything just below the boiling point to assuage the international business community. But the entire country? Bomb the major cities of a neighboring Slavic nation? No way — he can’t be that mad.
That morning in Rzeszow proved that yes, indeed, Putin was going for it all and, apparently, going mad. My immediate thought was: “Who knows where this might wind up?” And: “I’m going to remember where I was on this day and what I was doing — like 9/11.” That idea scared the daylights out of me. I knew that U.S. troops had been landing in Rzeszow for several days due to its proximity to the border and airport runway, which could accommodate large transport aircraft. Although we had a client meeting planned later in the day near the airport, I didn’t expect to see any of the 82nd Airborne massing for action as if in some Roland Emmerich movie.
But there, sitting at breakfast in our small hotel in the town center, was a group of young, fit men in T-shirts, quietly eating their eggs and waffles and looking up at CNN between sips of coffee. “Hey look, it’s another ’30-second vacation,'” commented one of them, referring to the frequent travel spots on CNN International. A colleague and I took the table next to them. I struck up a conversation. “So, are you guys from Fort Bragg?”
“Nope, from Virginia.” OK, I’m thinking these guys are not regular troops but probably Navy SEALs. It suddenly became a bit harder to focus on the reason for my trip to Rzeszow. Walking through the town later that day, I came across a prominent equestrian statue of the so-called George Washington of Poland, Jozef Pilsudski, who defeated the Russians at the eastern outskirts of Warsaw to reestablish a sovereign Poland in 1920. This chance meeting with a statue of Pilsudski doesn’t seem like a coincidence.
The crowded train car back to Warsaw was a bit quieter than usual. I started streaming the news on my laptop to catch up on events, but without the earbuds. No one seemed to mind.
The war commenced that day. From our home, we could not hear the bomb runs, but the war came to Warsaw, nonetheless, by WhatsApp, by news alerts and by friends’ phone calls. By the next day, Friday, the stream of refugees, who for weeks had been crossing the border, had become a river. And there was an eerie, precipitous drop in the volume of weekday business communication. The text messages and emails that hit my phone were almost all about providing help or contributing in some way.
“We’re asking for blankets, jackets, toiletries and kids’ toys,” one neighbor wrote on our WhatsApp group chat. “We’ve arranged for a van and driver that will take our donations to the border checkpoint Saturday morning.” Our family immediately gathered items for care packages.
Another neighbor sent a list of most-needed medicines and drugs. Yet another was collecting dried and packaged foods. Inquiries came in about the availability of spare bedrooms, or about donating time to help with volunteer work. Overnight, private citizens took matters into their own hands and mobilized to assist with refugees in one manner or another.
Today, with well over 1 million Ukrainians having made their way to Poland since the conflict started, and considering that most of them are currently living in private dwellings, this is quite a surprising development in a country that has not been particularly open or welcoming to refugees.
We had just finished bringing our contributions to our neighbor’s house when my wife received a call from an old friend in Chicago: “My son, who visited Ukraine a year ago, got a message from one of his friends there. Do you guys have room for a young lady from Odessa? She’s just arrived in Warsaw and is looking for a place to stay.” We agreed without hesitation, and later that day I went with my son Alex to pick up Anna at the apartment of a young couple with two young children — refugees themselves, who had arrived a few months earlier from Minsk.
Anna has been with us for almost two weeks, and every day seems to bring another story about the bits of her young life that now lay scattered along the route from Odessa to Kyiv, to Lutsk, to Lviv, to the Polish border and then, finally, to Warsaw. Luckily, she speaks English well enough (self-taught, apparently) so that we can communicate meaningfully, allowing us to understand that we’re helping a brave, energetic and positive individual trying to make some sense out of a sudden and likely irreversible change in her life.
“My mother called to wake me very early on that Thursday (as the war began) and said I need to pack a small bag and leave immediately.” She paused. “I miss my flat.” A cousin drove her to Lutsk and, the following day, toward the Polish border. She had to walk the last 20 miles, as vehicle traffic was simply not moving. Once across the border, she was met by volunteers who drove her to Warsaw, over four hours away. Today, Anna’s new home is my daughter Ella’s old room now that she lives in the States. When the two of them actually do meet someday, I’m sure they’ll connect by cooking up a pot of borscht.
The news here is almost all about the war, about the daily terror and inhumanity that seem to escalate with each passing day. But it has also become a perverse kind of scoreboard, tallying up the preferences of nations and companies on the Russia issue. Who’s with us and who’s not? A divided world just found another issue to throw on the ramparts that protect our respective camps but that, at the same time, also cut off our views of one another.
Poland is putting on its game face, getting on with what needs to be done, day by day. Yet the atmosphere is foreboding. Are we making ourselves a Putin target by providing civilian and military aid? Should our country provide fighter jets? Do we have a choice? How is this all going to end, and when? The occasional muffled roar of jet engines in the night was never a cause for concern, but now we know that these often come from the military and not just passenger aircraft.
The wail of a klaxon calls out the volunteer fire brigade but sounds extra creepy these long days and longer nights. Tomorrow is another day. Anna has a roof over her head. And we will be OK.
John R. Banka was born in Chicago and attended Highland Park High School and the Kellogg School of Management at Northwestern University. He has lived in Warsaw since 1996 and works as a commercial real estate adviser.
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