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consciously or unconsciously made, reexamined, discarded or cemented over long periods of time. The fact that we were three rare Martas in a world full of Oksanas and Marikas and Olyas is totally coincidental, though if did make for a good conversation starter with A1 Gore and Hillary Clinton. Initially, we all chose different career paths: journalism, environmental studies and political science. We had varying degrees of involvement in the Ukrainian diaspora communities. We were all very migratory, living and working in different cities of the world. And yet, despite distances in time and geography, despite our hectic lifestyles, despite marriages, transatlantic moves and many other unexpected twists and turns in our lives, we have remained friends. As I write this, I can hear my mother saying to me, "So ... I still have friendships with people from the DP tabory from fifty years ago." True enough. But I feel, that in a way, it is perhaps easier to maintain friendships with those with whom you have shared life's wrenching experiences: a war, displacement, a traumatic uprooting, a second beginning. These events naturally tie people together. I am convinced that for my generation -- living the comfortable, prosperous life, not knowing tragedy on the massive scale our parents knew — it is much easier to become so involved in our own material lives that we begin to lose sight of the importance of that which nourishes the soul. So, with all due respect to my mother and her wonderful friends, I feel that I couldn't have picked better friends if I had ordered them custom made from a catalog. Rather than growing apart as the physical distances between us grew, we have learned to appreciate each rare encounter and store it away as a treasured memory. Rather than allowing life's inevitable changes to divide us, we have used those changes to make our friendships richer and more complex. My "girlfriends" reflect me, but through their friendship, a better version of me. And when I say "a better version of me", I mean not only metaphysically, but quite literally. After all, it was one of the Martas who saved me from a very uncomfortable predicament during a recent business trip to Kyiv. As the Ukrainian interpreter for the US State Department, I was to work with a delegation headed by Deputy Secretary of State Strobe Talbot, which was to arrive in Kyiv one snowy winter day last year. The delegation was arriving from Moscow on Monday morning and going straight into meetings with Ukrainian government officials. I was to fly in on Sunday, recuperate from the flight and be ready to work on Monday. Well, it snowed the day of my departure from Washington, DC. And it snowed even harder at New York's JFK airport. And by the time I crossed the Atlantic, the snow had turned into a blizzard and Ukraine was covered with ice. And so, I arrived at my destination 28 hours after starting out, after one cancelled flight, two serious delays, and a diverted landing. It was two o'clock in the morning, a mere five hours before our first meeting was to start. Naturally, all hope that my luggage would be able to keep up with me was lost somewhere over Germany. As we were forced to make a weather-related emergency landing in Berlin instead of Vienna, I panicked. The wrinkled jeans and heavy snow boots in which I had travelled, were hardly appropriate for an official meeting with Ukraine's Foreign Minister. I hesitated just a second and then called one of the Martas from the airport. "No problem," she said, unnaturally cheerful for that hour of the morning. "Come to my apartment before going to the hotel." Half an hour later, a cup of hot tea and a fashion show were waiting for me. Marta had laid out a choice of three dresses, two jackets, shoes and even stockings for me and with no trouble at all, I was able to put together an outfit that was sure to get me through a day of meetings, press conferences, an official luncheon and a dinner. The punchline of the story cam the following morning when I joined the entire Talbot delegation for a pre-meeting breakfast at the residence of the US Ambassador to Ukraine. There I was, dressed from head to toe in borrowed clothes, when the wife of the Ambassador greeted me with "Marta! I have never seen you look so elegant!" I managed to stammer out a weak "Thank you" and decided right then and there that I would definitely have to rethink my concept of fashion sense! I consider both Martas' homes in Kyiv my personal "command central". If someone from the US needs to reach me while I am on business in Kyiv, they don't call my employer, the State Department, nor do they contact the American Embassy in Kyiv. They call one or both of the Martas. In April of 1995, after a particularly hectic few days with Strobe Talbot, who was in Kyiv to prepare for the first ever state visit of a US President to Ukraine, I dropped in on one of the Martas way past midnight for some much needed R & R. I was greeted at the door with the news, which had come through an elaborate series of telephone messages, that my youngest sister had given birth to her first child, Kalyna. Marta and I were so thrilled by the news that our squeals of delight had her Ukrainian Babushka neighbors poking their heads into the corridor to see what those "amerykanky" were up to at this hour of the morning. By a strange coincidence, two years later, it was also at Marta's home that I learned of the birth of my godson Luca, my sister’s second child. We celebrated with liberal amounts of "Ukrainskoye shampanskoye" and the fact that Marta's refrigerator always seems to be stocked with champagne is another reason (shallow, but true) I consider her such a soul mate! It was at the other Marta's house, during a fairly recent working trip to Kyiv, that I got the sad news about a medical emergency involving one of my Siamese cats. My catsitter managed to track me down by calling my parents who called Marta Yanevska who called Marta Holder just as I was sitting down to dinner at the latter's home. The “НАШЕ ЖИТТЯ”, БЕРЕЗЕНЬ 1999 21
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