For me, the war began early in the morning of the 24th with shell explosions. I understood that the Russians would attack with all their might, but they knew all too well that it is extremely difficult to conquer Ukraine: this is not Chechnya, so they fired anywhere and everywhere.

Even in my wildest dreams, I couldn't have imagined what was happening. There was never any difference for me between Russians and Ukrainians. It is incomprehensible to me that Russia would make such a crazy move. As far as I am concerned, for me now, they don’t exist as a people.

My mother was Russian, and my father was Jewish. She is rolling over in her grave. When the Russians hit a school building across the street, and my house was blown to pieces, I told the boys from the Armed Forces of Ukraine: do not take prisoners. These are not people, they’re sub-human; all they know is how to kill. One fool leads them, and they let themselves be led by the nose.

How are these people my compatriots?

I have lived and worked in Donetsk for many years, and since 2007 I oversaw regional departments in a number of industries: fisheries, water resources, etc. After the events of 2014, I abandoned my apartment there and returned to my father's house in Konstantinovka. I did not want to live under the occupation, although their leadership offered me the position of some lousy minister. I said, “No guys, let's go our separate ways, I'm leaving.” My deputy remained and became the minister.

Today, I not only have nothing to talk about with my former Donetsk friends, they simply don’t exist for me. They used to call me: “Yuri Vladimirovich, don't worry, we'll meet soon, we'll share a few drinks together.” I told them: “What drinks, you bastards?”

My father went through the entire WWII from 1941, had medals to show for it; loved to read the memoirs of Rokossovsky and Chernyakhovsky. He would have died if he were to witness what is happening now. We did not threaten Russia. I am a Russian-speaking person, but our country’s official language is Ukrainian, and I speak it.

The Kremlin has now recognized all Russian speakers in the world as compatriots. How are these people my compatriots? They are destroying the Russian-speaking region. My house was bombed at three in the morning, my daughter and I miraculously survived. Two Iskander missiles fell within 15 meters: everything was destroyed.

Starting with the first day of this war, we lived under shelling. While we were in the middle of all the destruction, there were no fierce battles in Konstantinovka: the Russians went to the South, Mariupol and Volnovakha, and to the North, Severodonetsk, Popasnoye, Rubizhnoye. And we were in the center.

I have cousins who live in Mangush, 12 km from Mariupol, I still don't know what is happening with them, and no one answers the phones.

It is not so much an evacuation as an escape from death.

Our house was bombed on March 22: this was the first hit to a residential building in Konstantinovka. Buildings around were also impacted with roofs blown off and doors knocked out.

My house was simply smashed to bits and no one believes that I survived that.

It's just God's providence that I walked away without a scratch. My soul was in that house. My father built it, I was born there, grew up ... When I buried my parents, I returned there. And now it's just gone.

The school across the road housed the National Guard. There was no equipment, they just patrolled the area. A direct hit killed so many. And all around are residential buildings.

I remember that in 2014 the evacuation from Donetsk was more or less peaceful, but today it is not so much an evacuation, as an escape from death. We drove out in my daughter’s company car, because my car was shattered into pieces. We made it to Ternopil. My brother called from Israel: come to stay with us. I buried my wife last fall: she died of Covid. I have no home, no car, but the children, thank God, are alive and well.

Konstantinovka is a working-class city where pro-Russian sentiments were strong. But after seeing what has been happening in the region since the beginning of this war, many reconsidered their views.

We were three brothers. Now there is only me and Boris, who he lives in Israel. Grandmother Gisya, grandfather Borukh and aunt Anya were all shot in 1942 in the Konstantinovka ghetto; they did not want to be evacuated.

We take care of a monument, commemorating more than five thousand Holocaust victims who lie there. I spoke every year at a gathering on Holocaust Remembrance Day.

My two daughters are doctors; they did not want me to leave. However, they need to arrange their own lives, and I'm going to try. If I manage to make my new home and live in the Promised Land, so be it. Even though, at 61, it's hard to start over...