Communion

We dare not go there. When we go in, we see war; a war that lasts forever; that does not disappear – just as the underground magma does not disappear, but from time to time bursts out as a flood of hellish red lava. We see the evolution of weapons, the metamorphosis of brutality; we see constant struggle, death and pain. And we leave those museums understanding that war has no beginning. So how can we hope for its end?

Peaceful life glides past us, scarcely making contact. We are not drawn to the sound of music in the square. We skip festivals, and exit art galleries as if from a hazy dream.

‘How do you like The Lady with an Ermine?’

‘What lady?’

‘Well, da Vinci...’

‘Where?’

‘Just now, in the Czartoryski...’

‘...’

However, at some point we realize that we are alive. And we have to do something.

Stop crying, without losing sensitivity.

Smile again, without disrespecting those who will not be able to do that for a long time to come.

Begin to see some sort of future… at least for a week… or until the end of the day.

We organize a concert from our own resources, presenting those who are among us. They include an amazing pianist, her violinist sister, poets, novelists, journalists, directors...

Music tries to decode us, sound after sound, beat by beat. Poetry loosens the tight lacing that keeps our emotions in a crude, hastily-sewn bodice. We have no power over our eyes – they release war from our souls – bitter, salty, sticky...

And then we gather at a common table. We pour boiling water into cups, arrange gifts of food on plates, and cut the cake decorated with slices of strawberry. And, for the first time,