Wikipedia
Borscht (English: /ˈbɔːrʃ, ˈbɔːrʃt/ ⓘ) is a sour soup made with meat stock, vegetables and seasonings, common in Eastern Europe and Northern Asia.
People may remember our epic saucepan hunt from last week's diary, and that's where the Borscht connection comes in. As seen above, the word soup is fundamental to the very essence of the Borscht definition. Bear that in mind.
While rummaging around in the fridge this morning, I'm sure I heard something growl. The fridge light is broken, so nervously, I explored the furthest, darkest recesses, the domain of half-used pots of yoghurt and unidentifiable, curling vegetables. Again, the throaty growl caused me to withdraw; the sound emanated from a white enamel bowl in the shadows. Steadying my hand, I reached in and gave the bowl a shake. Nothing happened.
All liquids are self-levelling; that's how we drink out of cups and glasses, but Zarina's Borscht, for that's what it was, seemed to defy the laws of physics and didn't move. Had she somehow broken Newton's laws of motion and disproved the quantum theory of fluid dynamics, using only the crudest tools in our poorly equipped kitchen?
For a few moments, Zarina existed in my mind's eye as a latter-day Oppenheimer who had crashed the established boundaries of physics as we understand them, armed only with a wooden spoon, some cabbage and a gas hob.
Closer inspection of the bowl under brighter lights dashed any hope of a significant scientific breakthrough. Granted, our fridge runs cold, but it wasn't frozen; it was more mummified. The 'soup' had simply undergone a metamorphosis to a solid, catalysed by temperature and, to a greater extent, time. See below for my Wikipedia edit (in italics)
Borscht (English: /ˈbɔːrʃ, ˈbɔːrʃt/ ⓘ) is a sour soup (or solid) made with meat stock, vegetables and seasonings, common in Eastern Europe and Northern Asia. (It can be served hot, as a liquid, or sliced and served as a salami substitute known as the Zabrisky variation)
A few weeks ago, with the weather improving, I took a little walk with my stills camera to take a few shots and catch a little fresh air. I wandered in the gardens between two of the ubiquitous apartment blocks; many were burned out and blackened from the shelling. I noticed a stick with a shoe delicately balanced on it. Someone had also laid flowers on top of a wooden manhole cover, and I assumed it was a simple memorial to someone recently killed in an attack. I looked around at the rubble and devastation and thought, what an awful place to die. Moments later, a shell landed close by. I took a quick shot and made a hasty exit, forgetting all about the sad memorial.
Zarina and I walked past the same spot a couple of days later, and I pointed to the manhole, "That's where the little memorial was."
Zarind checked it out and told me Volodya had said people use it as an air raid shelter. We peered into the subterranean blackness through a gap in the wooden cover, "I have a phobia about rats and mice. I think I'd rather die than get in there," she told me. I concurred, but we agreed we'd like to meet the people who used this scary hole as a shelter.
Two days ago, Zarina left to meet some volunteers at our local cafe. Five minutes after she left, I received a very excited phone call, "Paul, I've met the hole people. It's not a shelter. They live in it. They want to do an interview."
"I'll be there in five minutes," I said, jumping into action.
I recognised the elderly lady dressed in a smart green coat and matching green hat instantly. I'd filmed her in different locations around Kherson, seemingly always on a mission with their two heavy carrier bags. Tetiana's weathered features put her in her late seventies, but she had a warm and friendly smile despite her circumstances.
Her partner, Felix, was a big, burly guy; he, too, was all smiles. He'd been a sailor in the merchant navy for many years and greeted me in English.
They had lived in one of his family's apartments, but when the war came, they sold up and moved away to Moscow, leaving them homeless, so they took to living underground.
Tetiana was a pianist but now had nothing to play; she missed it dearly, the sadness evident in her eyes. She had once owned a pet Guinea pig, but, somewhat bizarrely, someone had stolen it whilst in the supermarket. She wouldn't get another as she said it was unfair to make it live underground.
"Erm, do you want to go down and film inside?" Zarina asked.
"Pardon?" I replied, glancing down into the unappealing blackness of the hole. I last went down a concrete hole in Syria in 2012. It was three miles long, and my leg had a fist-size hole in it courtesy of a Syrian army GRAD rocket. I'd sworn off holes and have a perfectly developed sense of claustrophobia that I'm entirely comfortable with.
Still, I looked at Tetiana and Felix and thought, it can't be too bad if they live down there. I handed Zarina the camera, took a breath of fresh air and started the climb down an iron ladder embedded into the concrete. Despite the open cover, little light penetrated the gloom, and it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the blackness. I was, of course, spectacularly wrong; it was bad.
The small chamber I stood in was little more than a few metres square. Opposite me was a small alcove, big enough for Tetiana to lie on if she kept her legs bent. For insulation, the whole space was inches deep in newspapers and magazines. I looked for where Felix would sleep and realised I was standing on what must be his bed. On a tiny brick ledge was a puddle of wax from burned candles; below that, someone had scribbled the word LOVE in chalk onto the wall.
I imagined them curled up in the darkness, the only light a solitary candle as explosions ripped apart the surrounding apartments. Every day, they would emerge, pack their belongings into plastic bags, and wander the dangerous streets before climbing down the rusting ladder to their newspaper beds when the evening shelling started.
We stood and waved goodbye to Tetiana and Felix as they disappeared into the destruction of the communal areas and went about their daily routine. Somehow, they were still smiling.
Next week, the diary will be from Odesa and Kyiv, as I'm off to Sweden to testify at a war crimes trial. The case is against one of the Syrian officers who ordered the media centre shelling that killed my colleagues and dear friends, Marie Colvin and Remi Ochlik.
It was good to finally meet you Paul and respect for going down that manhole, I definitely could not have done that… it really is beyond sad witnessing how much suffering people endure in these cities. I don’t know how they keep going - but you do hear everyone saying ‘все буде добреʼ… I guess holding onto hope is the only way…