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.


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