On the 24th at five in the morning, Rebbetzin Hanna Asman called me: "Get up, pack your belongings, the war has begun.” We didn't quite know what to do. At least, on the first day I was able to move my parents from the Left Bank to Anatevka (a Jewish village near Kyiv, under the patronage of Rabbi Moshe Asman, - ed.). The driver was a very kind man, I think of Tajik heritage. He wrote to me later and asked about my parents’ wellbeing.

I kept thinking I would wake up at any moment and it would all be over

Almost immediately, missiles and military aircraft began flying overhead. On the second day, we moved into the basement, since there was no communal shelter in Anatevka. We heard the explosions, and the windows shook: we were halfway underground, and the space had small windows that we covered up with pillows to prevent the glass from being blown out. We slept and lived there, going out only to use the toilet and to get food.

I kept thinking I would wake up at any moment and it would all be over. Even against the backdrop of explosions, even with tanks rolling through the town, even when a checkpoint had been set up.

What made it especially difficult with the children was that they had just lost their father before the war. My husband died on January 10th. Dad always means protection, and now he wasn’t there…

I didn’t know whether to go or stay. It was my decision to make. My dad is 84 years old; he is blind in one eye, and because of stress he was quickly losing sight in the other. As well, both my parents are deaf and mute. We left on February 28th: an evacuation caravan of 20 cars and buses with elderly and children.

Two days before the war, I bought a car, but did not have time to register it in my name. So we were 8 people riding in my jeep with a driver; most inside and a few of the kids rode in the luggage compartment.

At every checkpoint the soldiers pointed their weapons at us : they were trying to prevent sabotage and provocations. The children were very frightened, so they prayed. I have never heard the prayer ‘Shema, Israel’ recited with such force… The car itself vibrated! The driver said that with such prayers he himself would become a Jew.

We drove past an exploded oil depot, with a mushroom of black smoke rising above it like a towering pillar. All around there were checkpoints, armed people, tanks...

At a later checkpoint, the children waved to the soldiers from the territorial defense forces, and they responded with a smile, which was a little reassuring. As we passed Vasilkov, I received a message in the Telegram group: “Everyone take cover, the city is being bombed,” the same message showed up as we were passing Bila Tserkva. Somehow, we were avoiding bombings, as if someone was guiding and protecting us though the fear did not leave us. I gave nine year old Yosef a diaper at every checkpoint - it was impossible to get out of the car. My youngest son, Elik, is a year and eight months old, so I had a decent supply.

My 10 year old daughter passed out because of the stress

By nightfall we reached the border with Moldova. The bus, which transported my parents, was able to cross the border, while my children and I had to get out of the car and walk across.

Each of the children carried two backpacks, the eldest, Dora, carried the baby, and the little seven-year-old Khaya dragged a bag of diapers. Everyone shlepped something. We found ourselves alone on the pedestrian crossing at Mogilev-Podolsk. As soon as we got onto the bridge, the sirens began to wail and the children immediately burst into tears. I told them: “You can scream and cry as much as you like, just run and don't stop!” So we ran across the bridge: screaming children all dragging things and me at the end with suitcases completing the chain. It was when we reached the Moldovan side at the center for refugees, that my 10 year old daughter, Batel, passed out from stress. Moldovans are amazing people, with big and generous hearts; they calmed the children down; a policeman came up to Batel, hugged her and told her that she was safe and everything would be fine, she was protected.

We were taked into a warming room with food and drinks. A volunteer came up and offered us food, but I explained that we keep kosher. He himself turned out to be a Jew. “I understand the situation,” he said, and showed a photo of his children. He helped us a lot. A lot happened without my asking: someone replaced the SIM card in the phone, someone brought water, someone brought something to calm to nerves, etc. Then we were fed lunch in a synagogue in Kishinev and transported to a hotel outside the city. As there were no flights from Moldova, we traveled by car to Romania, after which, by plane to Israel.

We were met by my son David, who has been living in Israel for eight years, and my niece, who took my parents to stay with her. We spent the night with my son, and my parents. I don’t even remember how I ended up in his apartment. Later, my son told me that I fell asleep in the car, and he carried me in and laid me on the bed. I woke up dressed in the same clothes I wore in Anatevka in the basement. And with a mask half covering my face. It looked quite comical. The next day, the Department of Absorption moved us into a hotel in the same city, in Be’er Sheva.

When making a decision where to live, I focused on schools, so my kids could continue the Jewish upbringing they received in Ukraine. We had friends in Kiryat Malachi, that is where we decided to rent an apartment. The children are going to school and we have been gradually settling.

The son cannot rejoice while there is a war in Ukraine

The trauma is of course has not gone away: every now and again one of the children cries. We had a wonderful Purim celebration here: the whole city celebrated, lots of clowns, entertainment, a special meal, everything was arranged very beautifully. And suddenly my son Yosef dropped everything, ran home and burst into tears: “Mom, how can I celebrate and have fun when children in Ukraine cannot buy a carnival costume, try hamentashen or get ‘mishloach manot’... They don't have Purim there, just explosions!” He was so upset that he dropped all his gifts, saying that he didn’t need anything at all, and that he couldn’t be happy when such things were still happening. He also immediately remembered his dad, saying that we are celebrating without him. When children feel bad, they immediately think about their dad, and this is very painful.

Anatevka is now empty, but the buildings are still standing. One rocket fell near the ohel of the Chernobyl Rebbe. There are no residents, only guards.

Our community turned out to be very close-knit, otherwise I don't know how I would have gone through this. Rabbi Moshe Asman and his sons took care of all the logistical issues along the way. Some from the community moved on, some settled in the town of Nof-Ha-Galil, many went to Cyprus, some to Germany. But the community continues to exist: there is a group on WhatsApp, where one can get information, advice, as well as tips on where to get clothes, shoes, anything.

P.S. September, 2022. The children are gradually adapting. The teachers and the director of the school help a lot. Tutors provide extra lessons in Hebrew, and a psychologist has been assigned. Kiryat Malachi is a small town with a strong Chabad community, and its support is very tangible. But the community in Kyiv hasn’t forgotten about us either. Rav Asman helps us to this day.

The children still do not consider the house in which we now live to be their own. Their thoughts are in Kyiv. They are waiting for the war to end and hope for a return.