MIKA is flying back home after attending their friends’ wedding
PROLOGUE. OCTOBER 2022
EXT. FLIGHT #EJU5684 COPENHAGEN-BERLIN. MORNING
Mika is flying back home after attending their friends’ wedding. Flying home? Home. It feels strange to Mika. Mika studies the city through the cabin window but feels nothing. Today the city looks milky-gray.
CAPTAIN (V/O) Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Berlin. The local time is 10:15. Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened until the aircraft has come to a complete stop and the seatbelt sign has been switched off.
Mika has never been to as many weddings as they have in 2022. He certainly has never been to a Zoom wedding. This one was in person, held at the Copenhagen city hall, and Mika was so overwhelmed they cried. They didn’t catch the bouquet, but they didn’t really try that hard—mostly, they pretended to.
KAPITÄN (V.O.) Meine Damen und Herren, herzlich willkommen in Berlin. Die Ortszeit ist 10:15.
Mika stops listening.
INT. BERLIN. TEMPODROM.LATE EVENING
A dark auditorium. The projectors are on. A stage. Tousled hair and a frown.
CAPTION: MOSCOW. EIGHT MONTHS AGO. FEBRUARY 26, 2022
Mika and N. stand to the right of the sound booth. Both feel as if they were made out of cotton wool. And the sound is muffled, as if transmitted through that same cotton wool. Everything looks a little bit like a movie. There is no smell of popcorn—must be an arthouse film.
The stage is bathed in red light. Huge screens frame the stage; on the screens there are sharp cheekbones and eyes struggling to process what’s happening. The soundtrack is Zemfira’s “Don’t Shoot.” The audience is in silent shock.
The cotton wool feeling dissipates a little bit. Mika looks at N.
MIKA I don’t get how she’s able to deal with all this.
N. What?
MIKA I DON’T GET HOW SHE CAN DEAL WITH ALL THIS.
Both have already made their minds up, but they don’t feel any better. Zemfira stares back from the screen as if she’d made her mind up as well. Mika glances around the room. Who else here has made the same decision?
CAPTION: TEMPODROM. OCTOBER 26, 2022.
Here, the sound is clearer. Mika is now made of fiberglass; the sound passes through it surprisingly well. The stage is bathed in red again.
ZEMFIRA (singing) Don’t remain speechless in this churned silence. Don’t remain speechless!
During the instrumental break, Zemfira keeps repeating, with her lips only: NO TO WAR.
In the midst of the crowd, Mika screams along with everyone else.
MIKA NO TO WAR NO TO WAR NO TO WAR
ZEMFIRA NO TO WAR NO TO WAR NO TO WAR
AUDIENCE NO TO WAR NO TO WAR NO TO WAR
MIKA NO TO WAR NO TO WAR NO TO WAR
THE FIRST WINTER 2022/2023
INT. THE STRANGELY NAMED GROUP CHAT WITH 25 PARTICIPANTS. DECEMBER 31. 18:00 CET
N. Happy New Year! Let this hell be over already. No to war!
N. Chewy, where are you, bro? Is it New Year’s Eve already where you are?
N. It’s only 14:00 here, but Happy New Year, yeah? And no to war.
N. It’s 18:00 already. Happy New Year 🎄
EXT. BERLIN. DECEMBER 31. MORNING The city still looks slate-gray. Later, a milky gunpowder-gray smoke will shroud the city, brightened by red, yellow, green, blue, and white streaks across the sky. Once a year, the city turns violent, shooting fireworks into the sky, at each other, into open windows. Cars burn, apartments burn, emergency rooms overflow, everyone has a blast. But that’s in the evening. For now it is still morning.
EXT. BERLIN. DECEMBER 31. EVENING Since eight o’clock in the evening, shells are exploding in the streets, and the city fills with gunpowder smoke. Mika walks down Kastanienallee, flinching every time a firework goes off, and wonders what life in the war zone must be like.
**INT. A THREE-PERSON GROUP CHAT. DECEMBER 31. 20:30 CET
MIKA** This year has been a total shitshow. Have no clue how we’re supposed to take stock of it.
INT. K’S APARTMENT. BERLIN. DECEMBER 31. 20:45 CET
A few new colleagues and a bunch of strangers are attending K’s New Year’s Eve party. It’s a potluck dinner, and everyone has brought their national New Year’s dish.
The Indians, Ajay and Ria, brought samosas neatly packed in plastic containers. The Indonesian, Arif, brought skewers with peanut sauce. The Brazilian, Marina, brought rabanada. The Germans, Lena and Felix, bought cheese, grapes, and three bottles of tequila at the supermarket. Seryoga brought “herring under the fur coat.”
SERYOGA It's called “Herring Under the Fur Coat,” you know. The Fur Coat is the mayonnaise and the beetroot. Very Berlin color, right? And it covers the herring and some other stuff.
The colleagues look horrified. They avoid the dish. Eventually, there appears a hesitant cut on the sloping side of the dish that reveals the mismatched layers. Gray is the herring, orange—the carrots, and the yellowish one is the potatoes.
INT. A WEIRDLY-NAMED GROUP CHAT WITH 25 PARTICIPANTS. DECEMBER 31. 21:00 CET
N. Gamarjoba, my darlings! Happy New Year!
N. And a “barev” to you too! Happy New Year! No to war! I miss you all.
Echoing: we miss you we miss you we miss you. Echoing: happy new year happy new year happy new year Echoing: no to war no to war no to war
INT. K’S APARTMENT. BERLIN. DECEMBER 31
No one knows how to celebrate in such a company, so everyone just resorts to drinking and taking turns snorting cocaine in the bathroom.
INT. A GROUP CHAT WITH FOUR PARTICIPANTS. 22:00 CET
MIKA Happy New Year! Miss you every day, darlings. And no to war no to war no to war
N. And us too, and you as well!
N. Istanbul says hello! Happy New Year, my darlings!
INT. WHATSAPP. 22:00 CET
MIKA Happy New Year, Dad.
INT. K’S APARTMENT. BERLIN. DECEMBER 31 Mika wanders from room to room, joining one group, then another. People talk about the Berlin real estate market, about the weather, and how different cultures celebrate the New Year. Mika smiles and forces a laugh.
INT. A WEIRDLY NAMED GROUP CHAT WITH 25 PARTICIPANTS. 23:00 CET
N. Shalom, my Orthodox Christian friends! Happy New Year!
INT. K’S APARTMENT. BERLIN. DECEMBER 31. 0:00 CET
There are no familiar chimes of the Kremlin tower clock at midnight, and no one seems to mark the time. Mika glances at the clock, feeling uncomfortable without the traditional countdown. The city erupts in fireworks. It’s midnight. The Telegram chats erupt at the same time. Despite everything, 2023 arrives in the most densely populated time zone.
INT. A THREE-PERSON GROUP CHAT. DECEMBER 31.
YURATA Peace to all of us, around us, inside us, and love to all. And no to war. No to war. No to war.
VASYA Happy New Year, my darlings.
MIKA Happy New Year, kittens. Big hugs.
INT. A GROUP CHAT. BERLINALE TO ETERNITY. DECEMBER 31. 00:00 CET
N. Well, darlings, Happy New Year, yeah?
N. Here's to our first Happy New Year in our new home.
MIKA Happy NYE, my loves!
N. I’m so glad we found each other and so glad we’re here and not back there. Happy New Year!
N. Happy New Year, no to war!
INT. A GROUP CHAT WITH FOUR PARTICIPANTS. 00:00 CET
MIKA Well, Happy New Year Berlin time! Sending love ❤️🔥
INT. K’S APARTMENT. THE BALCONY. BERLIN. DECEMBER 31
Mika has never experienced an actual air strike, but ten months of endless scrolling through news from the frontlines has done its job. Fireworks are not fun—they make him flinch in fear. A yellow tram shoots down the street. The horizon is lit up by multi-colored flashes. The party is in full swing. Mika is smoking on the balcony.