The Knock That Shattered My World

As a bookworm, I read all the books on the shelf, both appropriate and not for my age.

That morning, I woke up hoping to find a new story hiding in a paperback. Mom was heating water for tea, and there were still cookies left on the plate. The warm, sweet smell of shortbread made the kitchen feel cozy. Life was good! We felt peaceful. I was happy.

Then someone knocked at the door! It was loud! We looked at each other, confused. Neither of us wanted to unlock the door. The knock didn’t belong that morning; we were still in our pajamas. All I wanted was to hug a huge cup of hot tea, bite into a cookie, and dive into a new adventure — a story written by a stranger. The knock sounded too heavy for our quiet home and too sharp for “good news.” For a moment, it felt like something unexpected could change everything. So, I walked away from the entrance.

Phew, it was just a neighbor. What interesting thing could she tell us? Probably some local gossip. At first, I heard whispers. Then the voices became stronger, and my mom squeaked in the highest tone I had ever heard from her:

“We do not have our country anymore?!?”

What?! Wait, what?! That statement drew me away from the bookshelf. I felt disturbed! The death of someone would be sad, but at least slightly expected. But… how can a country die? What did it mean? A million thoughts stormed through my mind.

I could not say I loved my country, the USSR. I was only a teenager. How many thirteen-year-old girls could clearly explain whether they loved their countries and why? But the statement “we do not have our country anymore” struck me as utterly wrong.

I was a child, but I was not a political virgin. By the age of thirteen, I already held the titles of an Oktobrist and a Pioneer. As a Little Oktobrist, throughout elementary school, I wore a badge: a bright red star with a portrait of young Vladimir Lenin in the middle.

And in middle school, I became a young Pioneer and proudly wore a red scarf. I was looking forward to high school and becoming part of the next-in-rank political organization, the Komsomol. My parents were part of Komsomol, and my father was even a member of the Communist Party. Did it mean I would not follow in his steps?

And what about all the training we had at school, learning how to hide from American nuclear bombs? Did it mean they had already nuked us? If yes, where was my gas mask, and how was I still breathing without it?

I had it right; that knock at the door was not innocent. It wasn’t the messenger — it was the message that ruined my day and changed our lives.

The shock, confusion, and continuous discussions were on repeat. At least my parents knew what they were talking about. Days later, I still tried to comprehend the meaning of “we do not have our country anymore.” And no one could explain. The adults dismissed me as too young for a political discussion, but I sensed they were… embarrassed. And, just like me, they could not grasp the reality.

And even if they did, no one knew what to expect.

Days later, I still heard the sorrowful discussions and heated disagreements.

—“We were the most powerful country in the world! We were the Soviet Empire!” my father, the patriot of communism, announced from time to time.

—“It will be better! The Iron Curtain is removed! We will travel and see the world! And buy fancy clothes!” my fashion-loving mother dreamed out loud.

—“Travel? With what money??” Grandmother ruined it for everyone.

And, woefully, she was right. Soon, inflation was so cruel that even I, at thirteen, understood what it meant to “not have a country anymore.” The two thousand rubles my parents had saved to buy a gas heating system for our house — which we were all waiting for — became nothing overnight. I should not say “nothing”; two thousand was enough to pay for a few loaves of bread. So, after years of saving, we were united by one gloomy truth: we had a starving and shivering winter ahead of us.

Then there was a loss of jobs. Many big factories could not function because, during the USSR, all republics worked together and supplied each other. Now we lived in Ukraine, a newborn country, premature and fragile, raised by leaders who had no idea how to guide it. Factories stopped, but people kept waking up, catching buses, showing up to work — only to find there was no pay waiting. And ultimately, survival moved elsewhere, mostly to the market.

The market grew daily. People were selling personal items or exchanging them for food. You could meet anyone there — a teacher, a university professor, a nurse, an engineer. My first job was in that market. My friends and I were buying and reselling bananas. We used the difference we made to buy groceries, and the next day, we did the same. The cold bite of winter nipped at my fingers as I stood in line for bread, clutching the few coins I had earned. I felt as if that morning’s knock at the door kept echoing through winters, through markets, through days of need.

Now, we had a country: the new democratic Ukraine, which fought for its life by dealing with massive poverty, corruption, and inequality. Since I was at the bottom of all of it, the memory of that unforeseen knock and that bizarre message has always made me downhearted.

Just like with any transition, it is hard when you are the one who goes through it. My father is still grieving. He compares the Communist Party and its constitution to the Bible, and Vladimir Lenin to Jesus Christ. And many think just like him. And many do not. Countless Ukrainians travel and enjoy seeing the world, just like my mom wanted. To my mind, I am happy that I lived in both countries and in between.

Since that morning, I have never stopped comparing “before and after.” And, until now, I still hear the echo of that knock on my door, reminding me how quickly a world can disappear.