carries

France has announced its readiness to accept residents of Ukraine fleeing the country engulfed in hostilities. They get to Paris in different ways: through Poland, Moldova, Romania, Slovakia and Hungary. Some remain in France, others seek further, to friends and relatives, to Spain, Portugal, England. A Kommersant correspondent in France came to the huge exhibition pavilion near the Porte de Versailles, the gates of Versailles, turned into a Refugee Reception Center, for several days in a row Alexey Tarkhanov.

“When will we stop?”

The pavilions at the Versailles Gate are an analogue of the Moscow VDNKh – the Exhibition of Achievements of the National Economy. Right now, in one of the pavilions, there are queues for an exhibition of vintage cars. But if you turn right, other pavilions begin, another line. And another exhibition. Where the Refugee Reception Center operates, there is an exhibition of troubles, tears, terrible human misfortune. Not at all the achievements that should be proud of.

The status of “temporary protection” is issued to Ukrainians who lived on the territory of Ukraine until February 24, 2022. For six months so far. This is a work permit, modest, but whatever financial assistance, medical assistance, placement in schools and kindergartens, assistance in obtaining temporary housing. Some of the visitors, having seen enough on TV that refugees live in Europe like Christ in their bosoms, want refugee status instead. They are dissuaded, trying to explain that it is an order of magnitude worse, that the Ukrainians were given unthinkable benefits, they do not believe.

Residents of Ukraine arrive in different ways – through Poland and through Moldova, Romania, Slovakia and Hungary. They spent a week or two on the road. These are not tourists from airplanes, these are people from trains and buses, pedestrians dragging on themselves the simple belongings that they managed to capture.

Teams of the French Red Cross meet them at Paris train stations and send them here, to the main Paris line. There is only a temporary pause here, we have to move on, and many people cannot stand this feeling: “When will we stop? Where will we live?”

There are not so many singles, mostly families, but families without men – old people, women, children. For mothers with children, the first task is to get somewhere, to spend at least one night calmly, not to lose children along the way, not to get lost in the new world. From a farm near Dikanka, one must cross Europe (“they left their things, there was no room on the train, they stood all the way”) and not die in Paris.

They are from Kyiv, Kharkov, Belaya Tserkov, Bucha, Vinnitsa, Poltava, Volnovakha, Irpin, Kalinovka, Kakhovka. Both typical city dwellers and people from small villages all took off running when the explosions began to rumble. “We sat in the cellar for three days, waiting for everything to end, once for several hours everything was quiet, my grandfather said, get ready, leave, don’t wait, they took us to the car on the road.”

Beginning of new tests

On the routes from Ukraine, they say, there is a terrible mess. The same, I think at this moment, as in forty-one and forty-two, only this time they are running to the west, not to the east. People strive for the border, but the transition to another country becomes both a salvation and the beginning of new trials.

Refugees from Ukraine across Eastern Europe are met with different attitudes. In the vast majority of cases – with an open heart, pity and a desire to help: skilled and inept, active and inactive. People are fed, brought up, supplied with tickets. But there are other cases: they rob, rob, rape. For predators, refugees are fair game, not the first time they are seen.

The Ukrainian embassy, ​​Polish and German border guards distribute leaflets “do not get into cars with strangers, hide money, do not show your documents.” Even here in Paris, petty thieves from those who trade on the streets and in the subway are trying to seep into the center to rummage through things brought for refugees, to steal an unattended phone. Curl around, feeling life. For Parisians, their sight is obvious, stay away from such, for newcomers – not yet.

Opened first in the 18th arrondissement of Paris, the reception center lasted only a few days, too many people came. It was transferred here and expanded at times. France is preparing to receive 100,000 people and most of the new arrivals will pass through Paris.

Before my eyes, a huge exhibition hangar was being transformed, it was divided into three parts, furniture was brought in, computers were connected, and toilets were installed. The slow French did everything with amazing speed.

One part now houses the police and the immigration office – this is for those who have already found shelter in Paris or in the neighboring cities of the “big crown” and “small crown”. In the other – a temporary shelter for those who travel further across Europe. The third part is for those who stay in France.

Translators from Ukrainian and Russian were called to help by the association “France, Land of Shelter” (France terre d’asile). Among them are the French, Ukrainians, Russians, everyone has a job. The interpreter here is not just a “translation”, you have to console and persuade, explain the situation to completely exhausted mothers who now, this very second, have to make decisions on which a lot will depend.

People are afraid to go further, it seems to them that they need to gain a foothold in Paris. It also seems to them that if you ask properly, you can get housing in the capital or nearby. But free housing in the city ended in the first days. You can still get Paris documents if a friend, volunteer association or hotel gives them a paper that they are already settled in the city or the surrounding area. But the big question is how many friends are willing to endure them, how much money is enough in the hotel, and then all the required benefits will have to be obtained at the place of new residence, in Parisian city halls and hospital funds. This will not be easy for everyone due to ignorance of the language and French realities. Now they are offered to go to other cities, whose names they do not know. Scary!

Babel

An elderly woman who has just arrived from the station is crying at the entrance, looking for her sister. She managed to tell her the address of the center, nothing more. We are trying to get through and suddenly we hear a call from somewhere nearby – my sister runs out into the street. They hug and cry. An hour later I meet them inside, it’s almost a normal life, the sisters are arguing about something, swearing. Well, yes, everything is about the same: stay or go further.

No one, including the employees of the Terre d’asile, knows where the refugees will go today. Buses are organized depending on applications coming from French cities. In my time people went to beautiful Annecy on the border with Switzerland, to Saint-Malo in Brittany, to Corrèze in New Aquitaine, to Rennes, to Lille, to Lyon. It looks like a travel agency, but one way. I explain to those who come to my table that French cities are better for them than Paris, there are fewer refugees, more opportunities, more attention. All the same minimum: the right to life, shelter, allowance, education for children – it is faster and easier to get there.

“But I don’t want to live in the suburbs with the Arabs,” the fair-haired lady is dissatisfied. “Who needs to say here that I need an apartment with a workshop in Paris. I am an interior designer, everyone in my city knew me.” A mother with two mortally tired children, sitting in an embrace on one small suitcase, is persuaded to go to Corrèze. They were brought in by an elderly couple where they were staying. A beautiful young woman, her jacket sleeve is torn, her nails are broken, on the verge of hysteria and tears: “I can’t decide anything, I have to rest for at least a week, ten days. Can you tell me where to find a cheap hotel here?” “Can you hold her further?” We ask the hosts. No, for a week, ten days, they are not very ready.

– Is this really a center for us, for Ukrainians? they ask me in line.

– Yes.

“Where are these from then?” – they squint their eyes at the Nigerian standing next to them.

There are many people from other countries in the crowd who lived, studied or worked in Ukraine. They have to go to their homeland, but they will also receive a minimum.

– Do you see the stars, lads? the translator at the next table asks two swarthy guys with backpacks. “Yes, we are from Algeria,” the lads answer. In a strange way, they do not speak French. Who will figure it out today. If there is a Ukrainian residence permit, they will be accepted. They will also receive documents, although only for a month, without a work permit.

A man, lean, collected, neat, with a cloth bag over his shoulder, asks for a bunk to spend two or three days. Then he goes to England, he has relatives there. Shows papers from the British Embassy. Excellent Russian, good English. “Where do you come from?” “Afghan, military man,” he tells me.

There are many people from the Caucasus with an always recognizable manner of speech, but with different passports. One explains that his wife is going to him through Georgia, he himself is already here. They lived in Abkhazia, everything was destroyed there, everyone was lost, in Ukraine they were building a new life, everything was destroyed, everyone was lost. “I’m going to bake bread,” he says, pointing to his oven with flatbread on his phone. A young guy in a trendy jacket with a different Caucasian accent says that he can’t go anywhere because he has a car here, the car is broken, it needs to be fixed, where they give money to fix the car and in which hotel you can stay until the car is fixed . The girls from Terre d’asile are sitting at the computers. They come to them with the most difficult cases, with the most fantastic requests and demands. I translate vague speeches for them. “No, we don’t deal with cars,” they are surprised, but they honestly try to help the stubborn.

So many people, so many stories. A very elderly woman explains that her relatives were in white emigration and her grandfather is buried next to Bunin. Her grandfather left her a huge, fabulous inheritance, and if she gets it, she will give most of it to her country. But for this she certainly needs to live in Paris. We persuade the lady to go to a hotel in the province, and only then go to Paris and take care of the inheritance.

Near the tables with food administered by the Red Cross (the inscription in Ukrainian “one lunch set in one hand”), there are bowls of water and food on the floor. People come with animals, cats, dogs. They are being quiet. “Poor people, poor animals,” a French translator tells me. Announcement on the wall: the cat Musya ran away. The owner fell asleep and let Musya out of the carrier, the cat, remembering the way, went to Paris and did not return.

Family after family passes in front of me. Very different, educated and completely wild, smart and stupid, pretty and not, sick and healthy, but most importantly – completely unaware of how this could happen to them.

They lived, whether it was bad or good, but normal, in their home, in their country, with their usual worries, until a horror struck that deprived them of their home, country, husbands. “So you understand how this can be?” No, I don’t understand either.

“We want to go back,” they tell me. “We’re not here for long.” Some people really want to. Others are afraid that they will be mistaken for parasites, it’s a shame, we were all taught that way.

And I very quickly unlearned to tell them “I would be in your place.” “You were not in my place,” they answered.

Alexey Tarkhanov, Paris