July 3, 2025

Half Smiles

I arrive in Düsseldorf wearing a green linen dress that grazes above my knees. I have to make sure to wear matching underwear because the light seeps through the thin fabric.

It's minus 10 degrees.

I forgot to check the weather.

Five hours before, I was standing in line at the airport, watching a cameraman and host walk ahead of us, leading the group while talking about the war. We followed them like sad zombies onto the flight.

They secure us onto a NATO flight, where the only difference between them and a regular commercial flight is that the seats are army green and there's more legroom. The flight attendants wear green military jumpsuits and stand at the entrance at each section of the plane, with their hands behind their back and their legs spread open, blocking the path.

The plane is almost empty. I take a seat next to the window. The flight attendants speak softly and smile at us with, what I would only describe as pity. It's one of those half-mouth smiles — the kind you give when you're at someone's house and you have to pretend whatever you're eating tastes good. They probably think I'm stupid for wearing this dress.

Suddenly, the siren goes off.

Oh great, they're bombing the airport.

Children start screaming around me, hiding in the arms of their mothers. I stare outside looking to catch a glimpse of the missile strike. I remember the story my grandpa told me during World War II. He was outside in a field, wiring a phone line when a bomb landed on his house, killing his girlfriend and newborn baby. He watched the house go up in flames. There's just some things you can't control.

The plane shakes as a missile is intercepted above us. You hear small scraps of metal falling onto the roof of the plane.

The siren stops after a couple minutes and the cloud of prayer and desperation lifts from the air.

"Passengers, sorry for the delay. There was a disturbance. We're going to be taking off shortly, just waiting for approval," the pilot says in a Dutch accent.

I want to get off the plane. The feeling of leaving makes me sick. And at the same time, it's all I want to do. I want to run. Far away. Not having to think of this place is a blessing. But I'm leaving alone with my heart remaining here. And that's my curse. My dad always told me I choose the hard path in life. He was right.

I stare out the window as we ascend, watching the black abyss of the night sky burst with colors of red and orange, missiles exploding amongst the cloud. I watch them until they fade away.

The flight attendants move through the cabin, serving dinner. One opens my tray table and places silver cutlery and a wrapped steak in front of me.

I've never eaten with real cutlery on a plane before. On commercial flights, you get a plastic fork, knife, and spoon, wrapped in a napkin with a salt and pepper packet.

Most people are too drained to eat. Their meals stay sealed on their tray tables. Children lie passed out on their mothers' laps after crying for their fathers. An elderly couple snores behind me. There's even a dog in one seat. And I'm sitting in the window seat, taking a bite of my steak.

I spend the five-hour flight in complete silence, staring through the window. I'm surprised they didn't offer any entertainment — something to numb the mind. But staring out the window seems to be doing the trick. There's something about the dark night sky that leaves you empty.

The tears on my face dried a while ago and now the salty residue is making my skin tight and dry. I try not to make too many facial expressions.

Right before we left, I quickly booked a hotel next to the airport. I'm not there to sightsee.

We land and get escorted to a row of buses. Everyone bumps into each other, all going somewhere different.

"Frankfurt - bus 402."

"Cologne - bus 405 and 406"

Dortmund - bus 603"

I don't know where to go.

"Excuse me, how do I get to the main airport?"

The lady points at the bus in front of us. I say thanks and head towards it.

I throw my empty suitcase into the luggage compartment and grab a seat. Everyone around me is bundled up in long parkas, mittens, and earmuffs. The only thing keeping me warm are my ankle socks.

After customs, I find a payphone and call the hotel for a shuttle. Within minutes, a black minivan arrives and a short, chubby middle-aged German man hops out of the driver's seat.

"Alo!" he says cheerfully with his thick German accent. "We go to the hotel now, ja?"

I hoist myself up to the passenger seat, struggling to pull myself up the step — my feet frozen.

"Are you pregnant?" he asks.

"No," I reply. I hadn't noticed but since the war started, my stomach become bloated and hard from the stress.

"Oh, sorry. You sick?"

"Yeah, you could say"

"Where are you from?"

"I just came from Israel."

"Oh, I am sorry. Terrible, just terrible."

"Thank you," I say, trying to change the subject. I rub my hands together to warm up. "It's so cold here."

He laughs while adjusting the heat, "Ja, ja. It's cold here. You know I am Italian. I am German but my mother is from the south of Italy. My dream is to go there."

"You haven't been?"

"Oh no, I am always working. Work, work, work. But I want to live the Italian way, ja. Relax and no problems."

He pull up into the hotel parking lot and stops the car. "We are here."

It was a 3-star hotel with red carpet and soft yellow walls. The hotel lobby was lit with yellow light — but not that sexy soft yellow that makes your eyes glisten. Just yellow.

"Thank you," I say while opening the passenger door. "I hope you will go to Italy soon."

"Ja thank you. I hope there will be peace soon."

We stare at each other for a moment before giving each other half smiles.

We both know that neither will happen.

*story based on the October 7th, 2024 Massacre