The Cat Named Morphine

http://www.nytimes.com/2017/02/17/magazine/the-cat-named-morphine.html

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Several months ago, my editor sent me to the Ukrainian front lines to write an article about the volunteer medics working there. I have covered the Ukrainian conflict since the Maidan uprising in Kiev in 2013. I was in Crimea when the little green men appeared there, and I took photographs during the siege in Debaltseve. Over time, I heard a lot about the organizations that send doctors, medics and medicine to the eastern provinces to tend to the wounded in the war with Russian-backed separatists. I had lobbied to do photo reportage on these brave civilians, so when I finally got permission, I didn’t delay in flying from Budapest to Kiev. My plan was to travel to Kostyantynivka by train and meet the volunteers at the rail station.

“They are a little bit paranoid,” my fixer told me as he put me on the train, but he said it wouldn’t be a problem. It took six hours to get to Kostyantynivka. With its concrete buildings and World War II monuments, the city looks as though you have returned to the 1950s. But the soldiers and armored carriers remind you that war is being waged only 25 miles away.

I got off the train carrying my green military duffel bag and my blue helmet. A woman named Katya was waiting for me, along with a 40-something Ukrainian brute by the name of Anatoly who was nearly 6-foot-6. Anatoly got behind the wheel of their jeep and immediately asked for my military press credentials. They both studied them carefully, then handed them back to me. Anatoly stared at me suspiciously as he started the engine.

“No photo,” he said when he saw me taking out my camera. I did my best to explain that I was a photographer, but he did not understand a word. Katya was fluent in English, but she shared Anatoly’s worries and told me not to take photographs, especially at the checkpoints.

“Vata,” Anatoly said to Katya. I know only about 100 Russian-Ukrainian words, but I understood. It comes from the word for the cotton batting of old Soviet jackets. That’s what the Ukrainians call the locals who support the separatists in Donetsk province. Some are even thought to be spies who give vital information to the enemy. Traitors. My press credentials were good, but the country’s headlines had been full of journalist-related spying. I had no doubt that tall and heavy Anatoly thought I was a Russian spy.

We traveled in silence for half an hour before arriving at the camp. It was pretty much like every military camp I have seen in this conflict, except there was no artillery anywhere. In general, the volunteers are teamed with field medics from the Ukrainian military. Armed soldiers escort them because they are frequently attacked by separatists.

Katya brought me to the back of the encampment, where the mess hall stood, and introduced me to the leader of the volunteers, a woman of about 60, the oldest among the volunteers. She didn’t like me, either. Not a single volunteer allowed me to take pictures. They gave me looks that burned into my skin. Mistrust was everywhere. I had planned to stay with these people for three days, so I began to feel very uncomfortable.

But as a sign of hospitality, they offered me food, and I accepted. It was a bowl of soup, and I sat on a wooden bench in the middle of the tent and began eating. Everyone was looking at me, waiting for me to do something suspicious.

I tried to focus on my soup, so I did not notice the young kitten that climbed up and was crawling toward me. My first thought was that it was hungry, but that wasn’t the case. She pushed herself against my hand and started to purr.

The Ukrainians laughed. Even Anatoly smiled when he saw this. “Her name is Morphine,” Katya said. “She spots the good ones.”

The approval of the cat washed away all their concerns. They relaxed and offered me cigarettes. Katya showed me around so I could take pictures. Anatoly invited me to drive a “Ukrainian Hummer,” a Russian-style military jeep from the ’70s, a real monster from the past.

In the evening, they took me to Avdiivka to take photos of the shelling and to ride with them in the ambulance. The job of the volunteer medics is to take the wounded soldiers or civilians to the hospital and to keep them alive on the way. It’s dangerous work: Their vehicles are sometimes shot at as they drive.

That was last summer. A few weeks ago, the war in Ukraine started up again. The shelling was so intensive in Avdiivka that many had to be evacuated. I was able to reach Katya. She is in Kiev now. She said some of the group are still on the front. But she couldn’t tell me about Anatoly, or what had become of Morphine the cat.