"The main thing is that our child does not see that we are scared"

I moved to the suburbs of Kyiv (village of Vorzel) in autumn, together with my family. A new residential block, three seven-storey buildings. A place where I could finally breathe out. Gather some strength. When it all started, I lost track of the calendar, lost track of time. I distinctly remember several episodes.

A horse game

Days and nights under shelling, two weeks without electricity, almost without telephone connection, without water, and then without gas supply. My husband and I set up a temporary place for sleeping in the three-square-meter corridor of our apartment. Away from windows. We were just unable to go down to the basement from the sixth floor every time.

Sometimes the shelling could pause for some forty minutes. Our house was shaking; the neighbouring residential block was hit by Grad multiple rocket launcher, while my daughter (who is younger than two years old) and I are playing a horse game. We “laugh” through the tears. THE MAIN THING IS THAT THE CHILD DOES NOT SEE THAT WE ARE SCARED.

We have a lot of “fun”! The baby is jumping on her dad’s lap, and there is just thunder and lightning outside the window.

One night I grabbed my husband by the hand... explosions were all around. It was the moment when the sky falls to the ground. I told him that I love him, that he and Nika are the best I have in my life.

And I thought to myself, ‘If my fate is to pass away like this, then I ask God, that we go all together.’

Orphanage

There are an orphanage and a maternity hospital half a kilometre from my place. They were not evacuated, although the community was ready to help in this. I am not going to judge. Just the fact. I know that there are more than fifty children there and staff who were on shift when the war began.

First, I swear and then I sob into the pillow so as not to wake my daughter.

I think about what these children are going through now, the children who have no one nearby who could cover them with their body.

During the day, I got through to a child carer from the orphanage. She told me how her colleagues hid the children under the beds during the shelling. THIS IS THE ONLY SHELTER AVAILABLE TO THEM! The staff’s age is 50+. There are very few of them, but they do their best. I love all these women!

Then I found out that some farmer by the name Gennadiy from neighbouring Borodianka village brought half a ton of milk for the orphanage and maternity hospital under shelling. And residents of our residential block brought a vehicle of meat, and somebody collected diapers and clothes... I love all these people. And I even told Gennadiy, the farmer, about it when talking to him on the phone. And feeling happy, I fell asleep amidst this hell.

Masha from the seventh floor

Masha is over forty. She has a 14-year-old daughter with autism and a whole bunch of medical diagnoses. Moreover, Masha is pregnant! One-month pregnant. Last chance, the doctors said. Masha needs certain medicines to support her pregnancy. Otherwise…

She is crying and she says she needs to break through away [from this place]. I scream at her, ‘Masha, you are crazy! A convoy of tanks moves back and forth in front of our windows. There are skirmishes and military aircrafts are in the sky every day!’

I have known Masha only for four days. Before that, we just said hello to each other. I tell her that our men will come up with something, and we will get the medicines. While I myself think, ‘Well, where the hell can we get them?’ Even the hospital did not have them! Masha was given just “a drop in the ocean”.

By that time, almost all chemist’s shops and food stores in Vorzel were “swept and clear”. In some of them the goods were distributed by their owners for free. Local activists managed to bake some bread and distribute it to locals. Once they even brought some milk...

In the morning, it is reported by word of mouth that ‘in a certain place you can get some food. Shops are open!’ Mostly men procure the food. They bring it [by foot], they carry it... We bring food up to our buildings and to our entrance doors. We collect it for a common stock. We go and visit the disabled. We share food with those who, like Masha, cannot go out.

The food store in my residential block stayed intact for quite a long time. Then its time came too. People from neighbouring bomb shelters are coming up to us. They say that there are 70 people in the school building and they have almost no food. They are trying to get everyone lined up. In vain. There are too many of us.

The shelling is increasing, but no one is leaving! Packages of biscuits, sweets, apples and juice are tossed into the crowd like wedding bouquets. With Nika in my arms, I wait until I get at least something. I get it.

Then some men instruct, ‘Women, children and the elderly come inside! Take some food from the shelves. Men, alcoholic beverages not to be touched!’ Men from our house and from the neighbouring one are coming up. We take the prey and share it between families. We do not know how many days, or maybe months, we will have to spend in the blockade. It seems to be the last food store.

A couple of days later, one of the neighbours brings a package of medicines to our house. Some homeopathy drugs and drugs that enhance male potency. What remained available. But we are happy with that too. Old women sigh in disappointment, ‘Nothing against hypertension, nothing against diabetes.’ There are some medicines for children though...

At the very bottom of the bag, I grope for a separate package... with medicines for Masha!

I re-read the name and cannot believe this miracle first. One more neighbour cannot believe it either. She is also aware of Masha’s problem. There is exactly as much as needed. PRECISELY THE MEDICINES SHE REQUIRED. I rush to the seventh floor and bang on the door. Masha and I hug each other. For the first time, she starts crying for joy.

People from Hostomel broke through

We cooked food on open fire. Somehow, the residents even managed to weld a gas pipe pierced by shell fragments and we had gas supply resumed. Not for long though. Very soon, gas disappears in Vorzel, Irpin and Bucha.

The temperature in the apartment is 11 degrees Celsius. We all smelled of smoke. Well, it is still better than the smell of unwashed bodies.

In the afternoon, two cars drove into our yard. Two families broke through from neighbouring Hostomel. They were shot at on the bridge. My neighbours and I are bandaging the man. His name is Ihor. We are yelling like mad, ‘Medical assistant, we need a medical assistant!’ We have only one medical worker and the whole yard was looking for her.

Ihor is sitting with a half-naked torso; his finger is almost torn off. I can see the joints and the bone. A thin bandage roll spreads in my hands as we bandage Ihor’s chest. It looks like he has a bullet wound in there. Lord, and his whole head... Well, why am I a journalist, why not a doctor!? I promise myself, ‘I will study to be a nurse, I will take a course.’

Finally, a medical attendant appears.

Ihor's shepherd dog is bleeding near him. He says, ‘Guys, I have a cat in the carrier. Don’t leave him, let him go! Help the dog.’

A huge shepherd dog of unseen beauty lies on pieces of glass and fragments of bricks. Yesterday Grad rockets landed here, and by some miracle, no one died. And today Ihor parked his car on the same place hit by shell fragments. And now we are ripping some bed sheets to make bondages.

I panic. I try to recall everything that I learned at the courses. Something works and something does not. It is good that there are many of us. We don’t have a damn thing to help Ihor survive after an injury like that. But we have a maternity hospital, and there is a doctor there!!! We put bandaged Ihor behind the steering wheel, and the dog is in the back seat. The neighbour shows the way and Ihor keeps driving. He was operated on. He survived. The dog did not. The people from Hostomel were given shelter in our section of the building.

15 March 2022. Kyiv. I don’t know how to finish this war story. In how many days, months, years? I am in touch with Donetsk – there is hell there. I have no connection with Mariupol – there is hell there too.

I think of those who took off their trousers and jacket and gave them to me on our first night after Vorzel. About those who took Nika and me in a car and drove us to a safe place under shelling. About those who gave us shelter...

About a retired woman from Bucha on the bus who gave my child her yogurt, saying that she no longer had a house. About a family that I know from Mariupol, which was razed to the ground. About my friends from Donetsk, crying together with me realizing the horror of what is happening.

Kharkiv, Lisichansk, Rubizhne, Kyiv. I am scared to open messages in my messengers. There are death notices coming in there. Peace for my Nika. What will it be like? This is the most important question in my life now.