presents
@stanislav.krupar
Eastern Ukraine, autumn 2025.
I wander around the countryside, take photos in a bombed-out school, strike up a conversation with 89-year-old Nina Grigorievna, who stands in the middle of the road wearing a red scarf and crying. She remembers how the Wehrmacht arrived in their village, how a German soldier entered their house. She was little, hiding behind her mother and older sister. "The German said 'Zwei Kindern' and disappeared. My mother was terribly afraid of what would happen, but after a while he reappeared with bread, canned food, and chocolate, which he split in half for us, for children. Then he showed my mother a photo of his own two children somewhere far away in Germany. But my mother didn't live to see the end of the war.
It happened in 1943, someone brought some explosives to a meeting, maybe it was a grenade, and handled it so clumsily that it exploded, killing six people. My mother didn't die right away, she suffered for a week. She was badly torn apart. She's buried over there..." Nina waves her hand across the pond. In the neighboring village. "And I, I can't get there at all because of the war. My father returned shortly before the end of the war, after being seriously wounded in battle. He came home and found only the two of us, my sister and me. He didn't find my mother alive. He eventually remarried, but what can I say, a stepmother is not a mother." And Nina cries and cries and cries and cries.
Date May 15, 2026
Selected by
@diselpower_gallery |
@fieldeye.notes 
