What Would Zelensky Do?

What Would Zelensky Do?

After a few cars passed by my home, I pulled on my sneakers and started making my way down the hill to attend our coffee hour. I’d moved into the small park-model development during the pandemic and hadn’t been able to get to know people, but lately, we’d been told it was safe to be unmasked with people.

When I got to the row of mailboxes that separated the upper section of the development from the lower, I oriented myself towards Edith’s flower garden. Today her daffodils were in bloom which made my tactic less noticeable. I continued to hope someone had done something about the offending garden flag, which hung in front a single-wide. But when I glanced in that direction, I saw it was there. Still, no one had done anything about it. I envisioned doing it myself, sneaking down in the middle of the night to remove it. But I hadn’t. Where would I go if I got kicked out of this place?

I was still thinking about the flag when I went into the community room, where ten to fifteen of the year-round residents sat at tables or stood near the doughnuts and coffee pot. It seemed a homogeneous group: white wrinkled skin, gray hair, sagging bellies and cheeks. We made it through winter by volunteering, playing pickleball at the town’s community center, doing jigsaw puzzles, and reading. The other attendees appeared to enjoy each other’s company, but even though I had many things in common with them, I wasn’t sure they were my people.

As I made my way to pick up my name tag, I passed the TV showing images of the war and heard Leo say, “If I was there, I’d stay and fight.” He pushed out his chest, so it almost protruded further out than his belly. “I can still fit into my uniform, you know?” Leo stood in front of Mike, but of course, Leo was speaking to the room as he seemed to do. He ratcheted his head around as if challenging anyone to disagree. When he caught my eye, I nodded and smiled.

“I’d go out and shoot me some Ruskies.” Leo continued. Mike backed away ever so slightly as Leo’s wife, Gloria, edged in closer.

She put her hand on his forearm. “They only want men between the ages of eighteen and sixty. They don’t want any crazy old goats trying to be heroes. Anyway, you had your chance.”

“Some chance. Vietnam, for God’s sake.” Leo peered at the TV. “Look at those people.” He shook his head in admiration. “Just look at them waving their flags in the Ruskies' faces. I bet the French did that when the Nazis invaded.”

I poured a cup of coffee and, on my way to sit, sat at a table in the corner as far from Leo as possible, which in this small room wasn’t far enough.  

“Isn’t war senseless?” I thought it was a rhetorical question.

“You gotta fight,” Leo turned on me. “You can’t just let them take over your country.”

Some of the gray heads nodded.

“What about Gandhi? Non-violent protests.”

Leo came toward me and put his coffee cup on the table. “You think Putin cares about the court of public opinion? That he’s not going to destroy anyone who tries to block him from getting what he wants?”

“I guess not,” I murmured.

“That’s right. He wouldn’t. You can’t just sit by and let them take over.” He swiveled his head, again seeking affirmation.

I put both hands around my coffee cup, holding on, trying to stop my hands from shaking. I was a protester, not a fighter. So, of course, I didn’t tell Leo I’d marched against the war in Vietnam. Burned a flag or two. Over the years, I learned to keep my mouth shut about those activities. To keep a low profile. Today was the first time I’d spoken up about anything, and instead of getting agreement, I got a scolding from Leo.

“Turn off the TV. Let’s put on some music and dance.” Miriam said as she lifted her hands as if playing castanets. People laughed, but the tension remained.

“That’s our Miriam,” Leo chuckled. “Putting on blinders.”

Miriam pulled her walker next to her and stood up. “I see. I’ve seen it all. And I don’t want to see it again. Is there something wrong with that? I’ve seen enough.” She glared at Leo and pushed her way past him into the kitchen, where she started doing the dishes.

“Geesh, someone’s touchy. Sorry,” he said to Miriam’s back. “I meant no harm.”

The room was quiet, that tiny space in time when everyone is figuring out what to do, what to say, to let it go, or to confront, or to laugh. The dilemma of whether to make a fuss and bring negative attention to yourself.  

“I think you did,” I said, trying to keep my voice from quavering. “I think you did try to hurt her.”

“What are you talking about. I did not.”

“You silenced her.”

“You’re crazy. Everyone knows I don’t hurt anything. I don’t even kill mosquitoes.” He searched for support again.

“Come on,” Gloria tugged at his sleeve. “You’ve done enough for today.” I wondered how she’d endured him for so long.

He shook his arm free. “I haven’t done anything except to talk about how brave those people are. Those Ukrainians. They aren’t dancing. They’re fighting. Just saying.”

Gloria drifted away, and the others now formed groups of two or three with their backs to Leo and me. Now, only I was paying attention to Leo.

He rubbed at his chin. “I didn’t know I silenced her. I--I just. It just made me mad. I’m not ready to give up. To not be engaged with this world. I’m just not ready yet. When I see those people fighting so hard for their lives, for their way of life. God, I want that feeling. I want that fight. Do you understand?”

“I do.” I understood he didn’t want to go gently into that dark night. No peaceful protest for him. He’d lob every weapon at his disposal to fight what? Death? Aging? Insignificance?

“I gotta go,” I said. “But before I do, I want you to know you’ve inspired me.”

“I have?” He puffed out his chest again.

I nodded to him and to a couple of people who caught me on the way out. I knew they were trying to tell me they were sorry for Leo’s attack. But they misunderstood.

I left the community room and marched up the slight grade toward the mailboxes. As I got close to Edith’s, I didn’t turn toward the yellow blooms. Instead, I glared at the little flag I’d been perseverating about since I moved into the community. I’d been so busy ignoring it; I’d never examined it before. Like the American flag, it was red, white, and blue, with stars and stripes, but the stripes on this flag made a big X. I thought the Ukrainians waving their simple blue and yellow flags. I sucked in a deep breath. What would Zelensky do?

Before I lost my nerve, I went over and pulled the flag off its hanger. At first, I didn’t know what to do with it. I’d given up smoking fifty years ago, so I didn’t have a lighter. I thought about stuffing it in my pocket, but I decided not to hide what I’d done.

“Anyone seen this flag before?” I asked, holding up the flag as I went back into the community room. Everyone stopped talking, moving, drinking coffee, and munching on doughnuts.  

“Well, you won’t have to see it again.” I tossed the flag into the trash can, then went over to the coffee pot, pulled out the coffee filter, and dropped it on top of the flag, making sure the grounds buried it.

Miriam popped out from the kitchen; her soapy hands pressed together as if in prayer. “Should I make a new pot?” she asked.

At first, her offer was met with more silence, but then Leo said, “I’d love some.”

A few women clasped their hands together and smiled while others held up their coffee cups. I glanced at the TV and saw tanks, bombed buildings, empty streets, people sheltered in subway stations, and more horrors of war. And then, the image of a lone person standing with arms up, trying to stop a tank. One person teaching courage. One person teaching me how to live. How to die.

  I moseyed over to Leo. “How about after our coffee, you help me find a Ukrainian garden flag. There’s a place that needs one.”