LEFT: Unidentified woman holds a flag signed by 14 members of a Ukrainian army battalion. At the time this photo was taken, the woman said 
three had survived. RIGHT: Irina and her daughter, Anastasia, head into the Warsaw train station to an uncertain future.

continued from page 15

16 | MARCH 31 • 2022 

A smaller refugee center was 
opened in a school across the 
street from my hotel. I pick up 
Yaroslava and her 13-year-old 
daughter along with another 
mother and her 13-year-old son 
and transfer them to the Warsaw 
train station which, due to 
crowds, takes nearly two hours to 
enter and exit. On the way, while 
on her phone, a couple of tears 
escape from Yaroslava’s eyes. As 
she hangs up, I reach out to hold 
her hand. “My house is gone,
” 
she says. 
“Bomb?” I ask.
“Bomb.
”
In between, I take a day off 
from driving here and there 
to spend time answering the 
pleas for help I’m receiving 
through various messaging apps. 
Coordinating with the team in 
Ukraine I’m now working with, 
we try to help a mother whose 
baby is to be born via surrogacy 
in two days. The clinic with the 
paperwork is closed and she has 
valid concerns about getting her 
baby out. I try to help a woman 
in France whose 83-year-old 
mother is the only person left in 
her apartment building in Kyiv. 
She’s too afraid to leave, but also 
too afraid to stay. The mother 
refuses our help and her daugh-
ter is heartbroken. 
I arrange housing for an old 
friend who contacts me about a 

Ukrainian ice dancer who trains 
in Michigan. His mother and a 
skating coach are at the Warsaw 
train station with no place to 
go. Like other older people, his 
mother is afraid to go very far 
from Ukraine. She doesn’t want 
to leave Warsaw, but I’ve found a 
family to host them a few hours 
away by train and, working by 
phone with a volunteer at the 
train station, we convince them 
to go.
While using the hotel’s small 
restaurant as an office, I meet 
100-year-old Tamara Butencae 
who was an army nurse in World 
War II and is now fleeing to 
Germany to escape the Russians. 
Irony abounds in a war zone. 

THERE WERE NO TREES
I also meet 29-year-old Marie, 
mother of a seemingly happy 
and energetic 3-year-old named 
Alissa. I ask my usual questions: 
“What did you bring? What did 
you tell her?”
“I brought one bag, mainly 
her things. I brought nothing of 
my own.
” Pointing to the sweater 
she wears, “These are my only 
clothes. 
“She woke up when the bombs 
started to fall one night. She 
asked if it was thunder. I was 
honest; I told her, no, those are 
the bombs. The war is here. We 
went to an underground parking 

garage. We spent every night for 
five nights there. In the morning 
we would go back to our apart-
ment. One morning I came out 
and there were no trees.
”
No trees; the bombs had 
destroyed them.
“When we decided to leave, I 
explained that we were a team, 
and we had to help each other to 
be brave. I told her it was time 
only for us to leave. It wasn’t time 
for daddy to leave.
”
Soon I’ll be a stranger in a 
strange new place,
Searching for an old familiar face

MY TIME TO LEAVE
On my final day, I collect Steve, 
the translator, at the border, 
along with an EMT from Malta. 
He’s leaving our little group of 
volunteer misfits and joining 
a larger NGO to re-enter the 
country. They can provide life 
insurance. These are the things 
you consider when going into a 
war zone.
Steve’s flight departs from 
Warsaw the following day, so we 
stop at the refugee center to offer 
a ride. That’s how we meet Irina 
and her daughter Anastasia. Irina 
is a doctor and her husband is a 
stay-at-home dad. She stayed in 
the country as long as possible, 
knowing her medical skills were 
needed. Finally, they made the 
tough decision for Irina and 

Anastasia to leave. As healthy 
men between 18-60 with less 
than five children aren’t allowed 
to leave, it’s up to Irina to get 
their daughter to safety. We say 
a muted, tearful goodbye at the 
train station where they board a 
train to Germany and an uncer-
tain future.
I drop Steve at the airport the 
following day before heading 
back to Budapest.
From Anatevka.
I belong in Anatevka,
Tumble-down, work-a-day 
Anatevka.
Dear little village, little town of 
mine
This, a synopsis of my week-
long experience at the border, 
tells some of the stories of the 
people I met. There are many 
more. After a short visit to the 
U.S., I will return to the border to 
assist. In the meantime, I contin-
ue to receive messages requesting 
help getting out of Ukraine and 
work with my new friends in the 
country to try to facilitate escape 
methods and routes. Friends and 
strangers have been kind enough 
to donate money to assist my 
efforts. 

Detroit’s Federation has provided 
a link to aid Ukrainian refugees: 
jewishdetroit.org/ukraine.
 

ON THE COVER

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