Veronika Soloshenko
Children's drawings left behind in the host's home. The photo was taken by the protagonist of the text.
Kasia knew Kyiv. Years ago, they had hosted a girl from there during her daughter’s school exchange. That connection played a big role in her decision to welcome someone in. They were expecting her daughter’s friend, but when it turned out she wouldn’t make it, they decided to keep their offer open. The town of Pobiedziska had set up a special email inbox for people willing to host refugees. Around 200 households signed up. Thanks to this, not a single collective shelter had to be established in the area. The local community organized everything on their own.
But Arina didn’t come to Kasia’s house through the municipality. Kasia had seen a post on one of the local help pages: “Who will take in a mother with a 3-month-old baby?” With help from the kuma’s husband, Arina and her sister-in-law ended up in a shelter set up in a nearby school. It was not a suitable place for such a young child. Kasia, who had grandchildren herself, had everything they might need—and above all, she felt a deep need to care for them. And so, on March 15, their paths became intertwined.
Kasia had her worries. Not financial ones, but those stemming from the trauma her guests might have experienced. She read articles, listened to podcasts, searched for advice on how to behave around people with PTSD. Still, she didn’t feel fully prepared.
“When we went to the town office to sort out the documents, people looked at us with pity. We looked like the very image of war’s toll... Little 3-month-old Sashka was probably the youngest refugee in our town.”
But Kasia quickly adapted to the new reality. Together with Arina, they handled the paperwork, attended community meetings, had dinners together, spent time as a family, celebrated holidays, and got to know each other’s families. Arina’s sister-in-law was always welcome in their home and often spent time there. Still, due to space and comfort, she couldn’t live with them permanently: “It would’ve been too cramped.” She found shelter in Poznań, where she was also hosted—though in a different arrangement. The host gave her full access to a separate apartment.
The journey of Ukrainians seeking safety was often tangled, filled with difficult decisions. One of those was the heart-wrenching choice to leave a child in Poland under the care of another family member. Arina’s sister-in-law decided to return to Ukraine with her son: “Kostia was supposed to start school soon, and they had some personal matters to take care of.” But for 10-year-old Liza, the stress was too much. Her mother still remembered her daughter’s terrified reaction to the explosions during the first days of the war. So the question arose—could Liza stay with Arina and Sashka?
That’s how the “little spark” came to live in Kasia’s home, and Arina became her niece’s guardian. Why “spark”? Kasia smiles. “Because she lit up the house. She brought everyone together. With her presence, she created new rituals. Her smile drew us all to the same table.” But they didn’t live like this for long. In September, Arina also decided to return to Ukraine: “Her husband was still there. And Liza could go back to school.” Arina returned to Kyiv with the children and three suitcases. Kasia drove them to the station and told them to come back if anything went wrong. That goodbye was the hardest moment of it all. There was a lot of sadness, a lot of tears—and the hope that they would see each other again, in a better future.
But by December, Kasia got a phone call. In January, Arina, Sashka, and Liza were back at her house. The bombings hadn’t stopped, and the children were struggling more and more.
Out of longing, many refugees from Ukraine choose to return—even to the most dangerous regions. They want to be home, to live their old lives. But reality quickly strips them of sentimentality and confronts them with the brutality of war. And then, some come back to Poland—often to the very same homes they had once left.
They spent another half a year with Kasia. This time, Sashka was already running around the house. They created a new rhythm of life: playing board games, sharing meals, attending library gatherings.Those meetings were mostly attended by women and children from Ukraine, with only a few Poles present. That’s where their little community took shape.
That’s how they spent their days.
They left again in June, leaving behind a pile of children’s drawings.
“I try not to think about it too much. It hurts…” — Kasia says after a long pause. “We’re not family. We were like family, but we’re not. Arina is an adult woman. She has her life. We have ours. We were close. We went through a really hard moment together. We shared a piece of life. Now we exchange birthday and holiday wishes. And that’s normal. Now, each of us has gone our own way…”
Almost Family
On March 15, 2022, an important chapter began in Kasia’s life. At the doorstep of her and her husband’s home stood a young woman with a bundle in her arms. She had no baby carrier, no backpack, certainly no suitcase. In one hand she held a plastic bag with a few belongings, in the other, she cradled her baby boy.
Arina had left Kyiv just days after the war began. Along with her sister-in-law and her children—10-year-old Liza and 14-year-old Kostia—they spent several days in western Ukraine. But the children’s fear forced them to continue their journey, which eventually led them to Pobiedziska, a small town of 19,000 located 30 km from Poznań.
("Because the husband of her kuma [godmother, or something like that, as they called her] lived here. He couldn't host them himself—he didn’t have the means. But he was supposed to help them find their bearings here," Kasia explains.) It wouldn’t be the last time they took that road.