My son called me the morning of the 24: dad, the war! I got my retirement money the same day and managed to cash almost the entire amount. On the 27th I talked to my ex-wife for the last son: she was visiting our son in the Kharkiv region and then the connection broke. Slowly we lost power, gas, electricity, phone, Internet: a total blockade, a camera obscura if you will. At first the explosions were far away, but it was also not music to our ears. Then they kept getting closer and closer, until the bombs were exploding practically next to our houses.

Our house was turned into ruins

I lived close to the Oktyabr production plant, where apparently some Ukrainian army soldiers were located. Our house, one of the last Stalin-era apartment buildings, covered the plant with itself. Basically, they turned it into ruins, and Russians simply burned out the apartments. The building had full depth holes. You could stand by one wall and see the next street.

Before they broke all the windows, I stayed in the apartment during the day and went to the shelter at night: it was a little quieter there after all. We lived in darkness, with a candle or a little oil lamp. At first we cooked food on open fires in the shared yard, and then when things got really bad, and the explosions were happening nearby, we moved the fire pit to the building lobby. And we chopped wood, fried, boiled, roasted there… There was a shortage of wood by then: we chopped all the furniture from apartments.

Then we started getting humanitarian aid from Russia. But that was terrible queues, arguing. I personally went to the field kitchen for 2-3 weeks. You need to get up at the break of dawn, get in line, they would give out food twice: buckwheat, rice, potatoes. They would add a few cans of meat to a huge pot, just some jelly-like substance. So mostly we made food ourselves and then wiped the plates with toilet paper to save water.

When all the windows were blown out (and it was a cold March), I basically moved to the basement. Sometimes I’d run outside: to chop some wood, cook something, whatever was necessary. I slept fully clothed for two months, like in a Soviet song: how many months since I took off the shirt; how many months since I unbuckled the belt. I covered myself with multiple blankets.

People adapt quickly; it’s probably impossible without it. You start getting used to things, even children were brought out for walks. There was a girl, about four years old: she wasn’t afraid of explosions, of the noise from planes and helicopters. 20 square meters and 11 people, extremely crowded.

There was a fire pit by every section of the building. We used them to cook food, and used big crates from Russian shells as wood. I saw a bunch of these crates, each one was marked up and indicated the type of shell. I don’t know anything about it, but the date of manufacturing was surprising to see. The most recent ones were from 1984-1986! And many were from the 1970-s…

We counted eight bodies in the yard, including three children
I used to go get water (2-3 kilometers from my house): tie a bottle to the wheelie bag and off I would go. There would be shells above me, bombs falling close by. I would always think of this old song: “if death, then a quick one” (from the song “He was ordered to go west”)/ And by the well there was a white van with a sign “volunteers.” I peeked into it: four bodies inside; there was blood dripping from the door. They were there for a week, then someone took them away. (I saw this van in a documentary about Mariupol six months later). I saw a soldier with the head bashed in, with a bloody brain exposed. I don’t know if he was Russian, or Ukrainian.

The corpses of civilians stayed by the roads for a long time. I was walking down our Artem street downtown and saw two bodies. I asked around, and people said the woman’s body had been there for a month.

The scariest date was March 12th, my birthday. I was stupid enough to stand with my back to the window: we were chatting with the next door neighbor. Then there was an explosion, and the blast threw the entire window on my back. Everyone rushed to the shelter, and there was a bucket with tools by the entrance (spades, brooms, rakes). Anyway, when everyone rushed down, someone tripped over it, and it all fell on the stairs (about 15 steps). It was a miracle we didn’t break bones, only one person was injured and we bandaged him up.

Then it was quiet for approximately ten minutes. I got up to my apartment, and suddenly I heard a woman screaming outside. I ran out and on the front steps there was a small bundle, already covered with a blanket, with some clothes. And the woman’s husband is there: this is what is left of Larissa. And it was her sister screaming: she and Larissa led our HOA. Then I counted eight bodies in the yard, including three children: two 14-year olds and one 10-year old. All dead.

One woman was with us in the basement. We talked a lot about history; she shared books. She was also killed that day. Her knee was shattered: she was lying in the middle of the yard with her leg twisted out. Those were my first tears.

I turned 70 that day. It was my birthday gift that I stayed alive. As they say, lucky me! I should probably be glad.

Over two months my mental health significantly deteriorated
This young man lived with us in the basement; he was about 20. He had a face wound: a bond fragment cut his upper lip, blew out several teeth and wounded his tongue. We called for a doctor, also from our apartment building. He came, but there were no tools and no medications. Anyway, he pulled the teeth out with his bare hands and even managed to sew up the tongue. He used vodka as an antiseptic.

Every yard had a small cemetery. How did we bury people? It’s hard to dig a standard grave, especially given that we didn’t have all that much to eat. So we would dig about half a meter, put the body the best we could, cover it up with earth, and make a little mound. Sometimes you could see extremities sticking out, of course. The relatives would look for a piece of plywood, write the name, the dates. Some people would write down a poem…

There were a few feeble older people in the shelter; they were essentially carried in there. Some died a “natural” death, from the stress. There was this couple, really good people. The woman once brought me a few boiled potatoes, a jar of hot water. I also tried to do something for them. My birthday was March 12th; hers was the 13th, so we exchanged small gifts.

Once I was sitting outside with her husband during a shelling, and she went down to the shelter, maybe, she wasn’t feeling well. She didn’t make it to the morning. She was about 50 years old. And the husband said she never complained there was something wrong with her heart. I don’t know. We tried to help her, but there were no doctors, so…. He dug a small grave, buried her. He was stricken with grief: he kept going to the mound, he would sit down or lie down and cry. When they were getting me out, we waved to each other. If we could hug each other at goodbye, I’d probably start crying.

Altogether, my mental health suffered a lot during those two months. I became sentimental, started crying easily; my memory got worse. I never once washed up, or shaved, didn’t brush my teeth properly. I took an improvised shower maybe three times: washed my hair over a little bucket, and the water was black. You will edit it later; I am just saying what I remember the most…

We lived like half-animals

We saw the Russian soldiers regularly. They would drive straight into the yard in their APCs, tanks, and AIVs. Some of our women threw themselves at them: I don’t think it was sincere, but still.

One day I was walking down the street and a soldier called me over. I tried getting the passport from my pocket, but he waved me off and got a pack of cigarettes. I don’t smoke, so I traded it off later for a can of meat. We used to have a little grocery store in our building. After the shellings it got closed down, and the wonder moved to Kyiv. Russians used it: they would come over often, especially for the free booze. One got a bunch of little vodka bottles, 250 ml each. He went out, looked at me, and gave me one. During Stalin, people called prisoners of war traitors, and people just tried to survive. You could call me a traitor: I took from the hands of these soldiers. We lived as we could, as half animals. Moral humiliations are terrible.

We rarely interacted with the army itself. They occupied our houses and apartments. At first they would stay in the lobbies: they were scared that the Ukrainian army would suddenly appear. I didn’t empathize with them, but I also didn’t hate them. I was born in Russia, in Samara. Among my friends are Greeks, and Jews, and Germans. I am Jewish on my mother’s side, and Ukrainian on my father’s side.

These soldiers also didn’t live such a great life! They would ask for water, for something, and if you brought them a bottle of vodka, they would be ready to kiss you. We had a well in the yard, so we got non-drinking water there. I told the Russians: you must have tablets to clean the water. They said, yes, we had them, but they ran out a month ago. I asked: and what about your canned food? Do you still have any of the vegetable stew? They said, no. They ate the same repulsive porridge from the field kitchen that they gave to us. I noticed that they were all wearing different shoes: maybe they looted it, or found it, or it was in the humanitarian aid packages, but it was different shoes, different hats. Everything was dirty and worn out. Their leadership didn’t really provide for them.

I call the Mariupol tragedy the three A-s

The morning of April 25th a man came to our basement and called out my name. He took me to Bilosarayskaya Kosa. Even though I lost 10 kg, the main thing was not food, but a hot shower. It was the first time I took a proper shower. It’s been so long since I shaved last, that they jokingly called me Hemingway and Karl Marx. And when I shaved and cut my hair, I couldn’t recognize myself, I changed so much.

Then they moved us to Berdyansk. It was all through the Jewish community; I was part of the Hesed programs. Then we were brought to Crimea, to the village of Nikolaevka. I started getting better, although my mental health is messed up, and I don’t know when it will get better. Many of my friends and neighbors died after all.

In Crimea, they put us up in a small hotel with the help of some Jewish sponsors. They treated us well and cared for us. At one point, the woman who was cleaning got me off-balance. She cleaned very well, but one day she came wearing a T-shirt with the letter Z, maybe she just didn’t think about it. And then this family came from Moscow. Unlike us, they came for a vacation and paid quite a lot by Mariupol standards. They were a good family with two children. The woman was very nice. And the son (about 10 years old) was wearing a t-shirt with Putin’s portrait and a sign: if you hurt me, you won’t live more than three days. They seemed like nice people, and they didn’t get that there were refugees there, who had lost everything…

On June 1st, they got us on a plane from Mineralnye Vody to Tel Aviv. They gave us a warm welcome, provided everything: people bring clothes, shoes, even books. I’m crazy about literature and have read quite a bit over 70 years. I live in Netanya, the people here are very kind and offer help. I have not seen any pro-Russian people here. Although my nephew lives in Hadera, and he says that Russians started this whole thing so Americans wouldn’t get to Ukraine. But I haven’t seen any Americans in Mariupol, and I saw Russians every day.

I call what happened with Mariupol the three As: Abyss of hell, Apocalypse, Armageddon. I keep thinking of the historical analogies: when we were isolated it was like the siege of Leningrad; our house that was in the line of fire - the Pavlov House in Stalingrad. And of course Sodom and Gomorra, biblical associations. And Cato the Elder, who kept mumbling Carthago delenda est (Carthage must be destroyed). These are terrifying associations. Someone really wanted to destroy Mariupol and I think that Putin is in line for a new Nurenberg or Hague trial.

Recently I saw a video clip, saying that the city is coming back: the streets are being cleaned, the stores and hospitals are reopening. People got used to things, and it’s understandable. Not excusable, but understandable. If the Ukrainian army decides to get Mariupol back and there will be new shellings, people will start hating Ukraine. They survived so much, finally got back to a semblance of normal life, even though it’s worse than before. People from Donetsk and Lugansk said that their life is poorer than in Ukraine, including in Mariupol.

What else can I say? Honestly, I want to forget a lot: these memories are bad, full of grief and tears.