Aleksandra Krzyżaniak
Artem's Toy
Right after the war broke out, she and her husband went shopping in Poznań, probably to Avenida – a mall near the main train station, right next to the Poznań International Fair (PIF). On a whim, they stopped by PIF to register as volunteer hosts. At that time, the fairgrounds were a whirlwind of chaos – they served as the city’s main reception point, but also as a temporary shelter for up to 800 people. When a Caritas volunteer asked how many they could take, Martyna said two. The next day, they called to ask if she’d accept three instead. She agreed. How could she say no when the extra person was just a two- month-old baby named Artem?
Her eyes light up as she tells me how they managed to find a stroller for him that very evening – it wasn’t new, but she cleaned it so thoroughly no one could tell. Friends pitched in with a crib, bedding, clothes, basic supplies, and a stash of diapers. She’s clearly proud of how quickly it all came together. But her body tenses when she begins to describe the guests who moved in. There were two women from Zaporizhzhia: Artem’s mother, Sasha, and his grandmother, Oksana. Of the first, she says that if it had only been her, they might still be living together. Of the second, she has nothing good to say.
Polish families who spontaneously welcomed Ukrainian refugees into their homes adopted different strategies for household cohabitation. Some wrote informal “contracts” to lay out rules and expectations, including the intended length of stay. Others explained their house rules verbally. Most, however, didn’t set any terms at all. Sometimes things worked out on the fly – especially if personalities matched. But not always. And when they didn’t, it often led to unspoken disappointment and a sense of ingratitude. This is what happened in this case.
Martyna says the first weeks were full of confusion. Ever – shifting legal regulations meant constant trips to various offices. The young mother and her baby needed medical support. Martyna emphasizes that she wanted them to feel safe and cared for. She cooked them lunch, and breakfast on weekends. Took them shopping, even though she gritted her teeth when Oksana picked expensive, brand items. She cleaned their room while they were out for walks with Artem. Despite the efforts, something felt off. The birthday flowers and cake for Oksana only helped temporarily. The women didn’t get along – literally, as they didn’t speak the same language, and more deeply, metaphorically. They just couldn’t connect. Tensions became an everyday routine. Martyna offered Oksana a job to keep her busy, and when she refused – though Martyna herself admits the woman was over sixty – her frustration grew. What annoyed her most was that Sasha wanted to help out – cook, clean – but Oksana wouldn’t let her.
After three months, Martyna had had enough. She contacted Caritas again. All three – Oksana, Sasha, and Artem – left. Martyna remembers one thing: they took all the diapers from the wardrobe, and Oksana didn’t even say goodbye. What she regrets the most is the little one. He’s the only reason it all meant anything, she says. Then she shows me a video of the two of them on a walk. Then another, from a different outing. And one more – Artem wrapped tightly in his tiny jacket, lying in that second-hand but like-new stroller.
When I ask if she kept anything else from their time together, she shakes her head. They even deleted the family’s phone numbers. The rest of the items were given away.Then she smiles, wryly, with a hint of sorrow, and adds that actually, there’s one thing left – Artem’s toys. She shows me a play mat printed with a cityscape, and a box filled with plush blocks.
Now, when their friends come over for coffee, it’s their dog who plays with Artem’s toys.
Out Of Tune
– We can set up the interview, but I’m afraid I have nothing nice to say – Martyna writes when I reach out to ask for a conversation. I reply, truthfully, that we’re collecting all kinds of stories, both positive and not-so-positive. I’m curious what happened. It’s not often someone is willing to talk about a negative hosting experience. People don’t usually like to revisit unpleasant memories – why pick at old wounds?
Martyna sits across from me at the kitchen table. She’s in her mid – forties, lives in a spacious and cozy two-story house, and runs her own business. She offers me coffee from the espresso-machine and homemade doughnuts. Again, she warns me that she has nothing good to say, but after a gentle prompt, she begins her story.