«У країні війна. А ми досі не навчилися говорити про смерть»

At around four o’clock in the morning, the first whistle of a missile echoed over Fedorivka. It flew so low that Oleksandra’s small dacha trembled. The dogs sprang to their feet, and she immediately understood - it had begun.

The first days of the Russian invasion in this small town in the Kyiv region were shrouded in a fog of chaos. The Russians advanced, seizing more and more territory with every passing hour. They moved forward from the Belarusian border, through Chornobyl, directly towards Kyiv. People fled their homes in panic, seeking safety, though no one truly knew where safety could be found. Shops emptied of food and anything that could provide warmth.

But Sasha had only one thought - there were over three thousand dogs in the shelter that needed feeding.

- I quickly ran out of petrol, so I walked through the nearby villages in search of food. I was away for a long time. When I returned, one of the shelter workers told me in horror that the Russians had entered. They were walking between the enclosures with automatic rifles, digging in. They set up a checkpoint on the road. He forbade me from going there. But I knew that our colleague, who had recently suffered a second heart attack, was still inside the shelter. My beloved pets were there. The adrenaline hit me so hard that I simply rushed towards the Russian checkpoint.

Dogs of war

Animals had always surrounded Oleksandra Mezinova. It was her parents who taught her respect and love for «our lesser brethren». Not only local strays but also wild, wounded animals seeking refuge would come to her family home near Kyiv. They treated them and returned them to the forest. They helped all creatures, regardless of condition or origin. They raised puppies and kittens before finding them homes. Oleksandra clearly remembers that receiving a puppy or kitten as a gift from her mother, a respected and beloved teacher at the school, was considered an honour.

When Oleksandra grew up, she realised she wanted to create a place that could provide shelter for a greater number of animals. A systematic solution - a real shelter, one that had not yet existed in Ukraine. At the time, she did not even know what it should be called, as such places had not existed in the Soviet Union.

The long road to its creation was filled with mistakes and successes. But finally, in October 2000, «Sirius» was founded

- I really like this star - it is bright and beautiful. I love astronomy. Along with history, it was my favourite subject in school. And my mother, a history teacher, told me a beautiful legend about Sirius, Orion’s dog. His master was fatally bitten by a scorpion, and he turned into a star along with him. Today, the bright Sirius shines in the sky in the constellation of the Great Dog.

The first to arrive was Nika, a dog with a broken leg. Although everything starts with just one dog, «Sirius» grows very quickly. For the first three years, everything is funded from the family budget, with a young son also in the picture. The beginning was difficult, but Oleksandra’s persistence - inherited from her mother - carried her through. More and more animals arrived at the shelter, more volunteers joined, and the work multiplied. The first sponsors appeared, helping to build her dream - a real shelter.

At the end of 2013, the Revolution of Dignity erupted. Quite unexpectedly, in a single night, Oleksandra’s son decided to switch to the Ukrainian language, and when Maidan began, he travelled to Kyiv with his father to stand on the barricades. Sasha could not leave the shelter but tried to be an active participant by bringing food to the protesters. At that time, Oleksandra did not yet know that the events on Independence Square would have such a profound impact on her shelter for homeless animals.

When the war in Donbas began a few months later, many of Oleksandra’s friends volunteered for the army and went to the ATO zone. They turned out to be highly sensitive to the unfair situation of animals, whose numbers grew daily along the front line. The first person they turned to was Oleksandra. This marked the beginning of a chain of aid created by volunteers working in Donbas, «Sirius» shelter staff and soldiers transporting animals from frontline villages to their new, safe home in Fedorivka.

None of us believed there would be a full-scale war

Oleksandra recalls that by December 2021, there was increasing talk that war was inevitable. A real, full-scale war. But no one believed that in the 21st century, in Europe, a neighbour could be attacked with such force. On December 5th, on the occasion of International Volunteer Day, President Zelensky presented awards. Although Oleksandra received the «Order of Princess Olga», what stood out most from that evening was his tense and stressed expression.

- He said that if it happened, we would all stand together, side by side. I remember it felt dissonant. Although I did not want to believe it, it worried me, and I could not stop thinking about it. I even considered stockpiling food just in case... But people reassured me, saying that nothing would happen. And when I heard the first whistle of missiles overhead, I realised I had made a terrible mistake in trusting them and not taking precautions.

First, she heard the war. At dawn, there was the whistle of missiles flying towards Kyiv. It woke her and her ten animals - dogs and cats. Everything around them trembled, the windowpanes vibrated, and her small dacha shook. Frightened dogs huddled together, and Oleksandra had only one thought: the war had begun. Thousands of thoughts swarmed in her mind, merging with images from the Second World War. She thought of bomb shelters, of the panic that was about to begin, of missiles soon to fall on Fedorivka, of chaos, of fleeing crowds, of kilometre-long traffic jams on the roads.

- I sat on the sofa, the dogs trembled, and I thought about how to evacuate 3500 animals. And suddenly, I told myself: «Sasha, stop. Wrap up. Start making a plan immediately. Point one: food»

Early in the morning, she set out in her car to visit the nearest villages. She entered shops, asked neighbours, and loaded her car with anything the dogs could eat. But after a day and a half, powerful explosions echoed - the bridges were blown up, the Russians surrounded the village, making escape impossible for those who remained. Complete isolation began. The explosions grew louder and louder, and Oleksandra began to pray that the missiles would not strike the village or the shelter. She knew that nineteen people had remained - staff members and volunteers who had come from distant regions and had nowhere to flee. She also did not know how much time they had left or how the Russians would approach them. People said the Russians would enter the village and shoot them all on sight. She found out only hours later when a shelter worker pulled her out of her panicked thoughts - the soldiers had just entered the shelter's territory.

- All I heard was that under no circumstances should I go there, that I had to hide. Military equipment had arrived, they were digging in, and there were many of them. They were running around the shelter with automatic rifles, while people had been herded into a tiny room guarded by a soldier with a gun. I immediately said that there was no other way, that I was running to the shelter - what about the people, what about my dogs? I heard that the Russians were aggressive and would kill me.

Sasha, together with the daughter of the manager who had recently suffered a second heart attack, set off running through the village. Adrenaline pounded in Sasha’s temples. From afar, it was already clear that the soldiers had quickly built trenches, and a camouflaged tank stood inside a dugout. There was also a checkpoint, flanked by soldiers with rifles, their barrels aimed directly at them. They slowed their pace and started walking towards them. When, twenty metres from the checkpoint, a soldier reloaded his weapon, they stopped and took their hands out of their pockets to show they were unarmed.

- I started shouting that my name was Oleksandra, that I was the director of the shelter located just beyond them, and that I needed to get there. They replied that no one was going anywhere and that we had to go home. I shouted that my people and my animals were there, but they only shook their heads in refusal. I demanded to be taken to their commander.

Something akin to madness took over her mind - she no longer cared whether or not they would start shooting. She saw her goal before her, oblivious to any obstacles. The Russians must have noticed it - her eyes burned with determination, she was furious, she was not backing down. With a nod of a gun barrel, they signalled her to follow them.

The commander was aggressive, but Sasha ignored it. She started talking about the shelter, about the people, about the shortage of food. She stated outright that she intended to drive through their checkpoint several times a day as she searched the surrounding areas for food for the animals.

- At the end of my speech, he burst into laughter. He asked if I really thought I had come here to set conditions. Had I really come to an armed position, stood before him, counted on my fingers what I needed, and expected him to give it to me? He had never seen anything like it before. And perhaps, that is exactly what worked.

He agreed but noted that any vehicle passing through would be inspected each time and that he would personally visit the shelter to check whether she was telling the truth. As we left him and walked towards the shelter, I felt a tingling sensation in my spine - I was almost certain that I would be shot in the back.

When they reached the shelter, they saw terrified staff. The Russians had lined them up and ordered them to surrender their phones so that no one could contact the outside world or relay any information to the Ukrainian army. Not everyone obeyed. When they found a hidden phone, they threw the previously confiscated ones onto the ground and demonstratively shot at them, nearly hitting the workers’ feet.

The vanishing voices

When someone enters the shelter and walks along the rows of enclosures, whether they come to adopt a pet or bring food, the residents erupt in noise. Dogs bark, howl and exchange signals. One can only imagine the racket caused by more than three thousand dogs all at once. Oleksandra always warns visitors not to run between the rows, as it only agitates them further, and the canine uproar carries for kilometres.

- The Russian soldiers entered the shelter armed, aggressive, ready to kill. They ran between the rows and among the dogs... and the dogs fell silent. They simply froze and stared at them. To this day, I do not understand what happened, not even cynologists can explain this phenomenon. When I left the shelter and walked through the village, someone asked me: so, Sasha, did they shoot all your dogs?

At that moment, a deathly silence, unlike anything she had ever experienced before, settled into her consciousness. It was only after liberation that it became clear this reaction had saved the dogs’ lives. After de-occupation, dog owners who had lost their pets - once adopted from «Sirius» - came to the shelter searching for them. There were cases where Russian soldiers, upon hearing a dog bark, would throw a grenade over the fence. They might not have even seen the dog, but they fired blindly to silence it. Many animals were killed this way near Kyiv. But inside the shelter, the silence lasted until the occupation ended.

Sometimes, the dogs howled when they heard a missile or an aircraft flying overhead, but then they would hide in their kennels, curling up - hungry and frightened

- I had a habit with the dogs where I would extend my hand through the fence, and they would push their nose or paw through, and that is how we greeted each other. During the occupation, I also had to walk around the shelter often, checking if everything was all right. I did not want to do it - I could not bear to look at the dogs. Then I learned not to look them in the eyes because, a few times, I extended my hand as always, but they did not understand. They were so hungry, and I was offering them an empty hand... I saw the question in their eyes: where is the food? Why are you treating us like this? The pain tore my heart apart. Today, I think that was the most terrifying and difficult task for me. Even speaking with the Russians was not such a nightmare.

But encounters with Russian army soldiers were far from pleasant. What did it matter that, thanks to the commander, they were allowed to cross the checkpoints daily if the soldiers emerged with raised guns and fury in their eyes? The moment the car window rolled down was a daily test of psychological endurance. One never knew what might set them off that day. Over time, the Russians became increasingly bitter, as their «three-day special military operation» was not going as planned. The soldiers started drinking, taking drugs, and often tormenting people without reason-causing both moral and physical harm.

A particularly difficult moment came when He stood at the checkpoint. Always masked, mysterious, and often reeking of alcohol. Someone in the village had told him that Oleksandra sang beautifully, and since then, he would not leave her alone. He liked her as a woman, making checkpoint crossings a psychological nightmare for her.

- He started calling me Prima Donna. Today, I laugh about it, but it was horrifying. Whenever he saw me in the car, he would bow deeply and say: «Prima Donna, please, please, you are most welcome». Then he decided they would organise a concert where I would sing.

Sasha was to sing for the Russian soldiers. A concert for them in the occupied territory. She immediately understood that ultimately, she could not refuse him because if she did, it might be the last decision she ever made. Though she had struggled with sleep since the invasion began, by then, she was no longer sleeping at all. She constantly had headaches, a racing heartbeat, and dark spots before her eyes. She started thinking about escaping through the forest, knowing that the «boys from the ATO» were there. But if she ran, she would never return here, the animals would starve to death, and everything she had done so far would be lost and wasted. And in that moment, too, she heard growling. Her voice became low, her throat tightened so much that she could barely speak.

She was like a sleepwalker in a nightmare that refused to end. Sasha tried to explain to the masked soldier that her voice was hoarse, that the stress had robbed her of it entirely, and that she could not sing

- One day, I told him: you are not a fool. I am Ukrainian - how can I possibly give you a concert? And in response, he once again invited me for champagne. He insisted that I was so understanding and that he could talk to me about interesting things. That champagne of theirs had likely been stolen from some shop. They were drinking expensive French champagne while occupying my city. I was afraid that one day, this could end very badly for me - when he got drunk, and I refused him again. I started avoiding confrontation in the evenings, hiding in the darkness in the back seat of the car.

In isolation

Information from the outside world rarely reached Fedorivka. Sometimes, text messages came through - even strangers would ask Oleksandra if she was still alive. The local residents knew little about what was happening in the country, about what was happening on the frontline. To contact relatives meant taking a deadly risk. There were only a few places in the village where a radio signal could be found. Sometimes, just sending a simple «I am alive» message was enough, but occasionally, it was even possible to make a brief phone call. The Russians must have received information from someone in the village because they quickly found these locations and began setting up ambushes. They would arrive in civilian cars when no one expected them, jumping out with weapons. One time, even Sasha was caught.

- I was standing with a friend, and there was another woman talking to her son on the phone. When I saw them approaching, I hid mine in my shoe. But one of them noticed. He knew who I was, of course. I was incredibly lucky because he pretended not to see anything. The woman, on the other hand, had her phone confiscated, and she fell into hysterics. She began shouting that it was her only way to contact her son, who... was serving in our army.

One of the soldiers immediately reloaded his weapon, convinced that she was passing on secret information to the Ukrainian Armed Forces. The woman's hysteria irritated them even more. Oleksandra sensed that a tragedy was about to unfold. She decided to approach them and, in a calm voice, said: «Look at her. She is just a simple village woman. What could she possibly know? She is only talking to her child. Does a mother not worry about you?» Then, by some miracle, her life was spared, but Oleksandra never saw her again.

Nor did she ever see the soldier who had lied, pretending he had not seen her hide the phone in her shoe. One morning, at dawn, she drove up to the checkpoint and saw the Russians hurriedly loading all their belongings into vehicles. They were clearly racing against time.

- I stopped, rolled down the window, and asked: «Where are you going, boys? Finally heading home?» I said it mockingly, as I always liked to provoke them a little. But they replied that they were going to Donbas. They were furious.

When the Russians fled and the occupation ended, volunteers from all over the world, including Poland, arrived in Fedorivka and the surrounding villages. Although Oleksandra welcomed them, gave interviews, and showed many people the shelter, something strange was happening in her mind. She understood that the occupation was over, but her body, her thoughts, her behaviour were still trapped there. Sasha even stopped at the checkpoints that no longer existed. She lived in this tension for another three months while the world's attention was still focused on this region - after all, Bucha and Irpin, less than fifty kilometres away, were making headlines in newspapers around the world. Volunteers and journalists were already on-site, and local residents were returning.

One morning, Oleksandra woke up and realised that today she had nowhere to go. No interviews, no need to run for food for the animals. And suddenly - all the commotion disappeared. In one second, she realised that she was finally free. Only one thing did not return to its place. Oleksandra cleared her throat loudly.

- I do not know, maybe one day my voice will come back to me. Maybe one day I will sing again, because I love singing. Maybe that will happen when the occupation ends - but across my entire country.

During the Second World War, Ukrainian Anastasia Huley fled from forced labour for the Nazis, but they captured her and sent her to concentration camps. She miraculously survived and returned to Kyiv. Now, 80 years later, as an elderly grandmother, she is again seeking refuge, this time from Russian aggression. And she finds shelter... in Germany.

«I stopped being a human and became number 61369»

- During the mobilisation of young people for forced labour in Germany in 1943, I was told: if you do not go, we will take your mother instead and burn the house, - recalls Anastasia Huley. - I was 17 then, we lived in Pyriatyn, Poltava region. It was May, everything was blooming... I could not imagine working for the occupiers. Especially as my three brothers were fighting against them. So I decided to pretend to comply, then escape.

The youth were gathered at the central square, and I studied the situation, step by step retreating into the crowd on the pavement and quietly blending in. I hid with acquaintances for a few weeks and then decided to flee to another region. But first, I stopped at home for supplies... Before dawn, they came for me. And it was not strangers - it was the husband of my second cousin, who was the secretary of the village council at the time. He betrayed me. Later, he forged some documents about assisting Ukrainian partisans, and when our authorities wanted to punish him after the war, the court released him thanks to those papers.

Tetyana Pastushenko: How did you end up in Auschwitz?

Anastasia Huley: At first, they took us to Katowice to unload wagons of slag, and I had only one thought in my head: «How do I escape?» A map of Poland hung at the station, and I traced the quickest route to Lviv. Then, one day, a downpour began. The guards brought us inside to wait out the rain in a building where we kept shovels. Along with us were some Frenchmen, including a young man my age - handsome, like an angel from a painting. It was impossible not to stare, so even the guards were captivated. Meanwhile, I quietly slipped out, crawled under trains, and escaped. I fled with four other girls.

On the way, we encountered different people. Some offered us shelter and a place to stay, while others grabbed pitchforks, shouting that Ukrainians should be killed for Volyn. In Rzeszów, we were eventually caught by a gendarme and ended up in a local prison.

The worst part was witnessing the fates of Polish women who had hidden Jews. Once, they brought Helena to our cell - beaten to within an inch of her life. She could not move, was covered in blood, but whispered that she had secretly hidden Jews without her family knowing. The Germans found out and arrested her husband instead. She went to the prison, begging him to forgive her. Then they arrested and beat her as well. Later, they executed both of them...

One day, they loaded us into a cattle wagon and took us somewhere. It turned out that as punishment for escaping, we were sent to the Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camp.

They immediately sat me on a chair, cut off my long braids, and tattooed a number on my arm. I did not understand where I was, was in shock, and from this, I did not even feel pain. From that moment, my life changed forever: I stopped being a human and became number 61369.

It takes very little time in Auschwitz to lose your sense of the world. Thousands of people in striped uniforms, all frightened, depressed, and constantly tense. The most horrifying thing, which makes you almost forget yourself, is the streams of people led to the crematorium daily. There were few Jews in the barracks, as they were mostly destroyed immediately. Between the men’s and women’s sections of the camp, a road led from the gates to the forest where the crematoria operated. Day after day, you would see Jews being taken off the train and sent there in transit. They walked submissively, and among them were children - some with dolls, others with balls...

TP: What did you do in the concentration camp?

‍AG: Every day, from morning until six in the evening, we were forced to work. We were given various tasks: digging, building. Sundays were our only day off. This meant we would not be fed all day and had to remain hungry.

Once, we were sent to scatter fertiliser across a field. I reached into a sack with my hand and found ash containing bone fragments. It was crematorium ash. My hands instantly went numb...

TP: Did the Nazis manage to crush your will or your internal resistance to the situation?

AG: At the beginning, we made one attempt. They ordered us to dig a trench around the camp as tall as a person. Later, they filled it with water and electrified it to prevent escapes. Mud, clay, rain, and above our heads - «Schnell, arbeiten!». So we rebelled. We agreed at night that we would not go to work.

In the morning, we stayed in the barracks. The female overseer came running, followed by Commandant Rudolf Höss. He yelled and shot at the ceiling. In the yard, we were lined up, ordered to kneel with our hands behind our heads. Commandant Höss walked along the row, striking every fifth girl (there were about a hundred of us) with all his strength in the chest. That was the end of our resistance...

TP: Presently, hundreds of Ukrainians are in Russian captivity, and each prisoner searches for something to hold onto to keep from giving up or losing their mind. What kept you going and gave you strength in Auschwitz?

AG: Dreams. There was no news, no relationships. Only dreams. While working, we shared with one another what we had dreamt. We also often thought about food - such dreams saved us too. There in the camp, we swore to one another that when we were free, we would be satisfied with a single outfit, as long as there was always bread on the table.

As for dreams, I once dreamt that I was walking through the camp and saw the sun rising to my left. But as soon as it appeared, it immediately set again. I found myself in terrifying darkness. After some time, I saw the sun rise again, but this time from the other side. It was strange, but it became warm - very warm. That dream turned out to be prophetic.

In the winter of 1944-1945, we waited for our forces to liberate us. Battles for Krakow were already underway when suddenly the Germans took us somewhere... It turned out to be the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp. In Auschwitz, I thought nothing could be worse than that camp. It turned out there was.

TP: Do you remember how you were liberated?

AG: The English freed us on 15 April 1945. But I no longer had the strength to rejoice...

After a few months in Bergen-Belsen, I became a living corpse. They threw us into a barrack without window panes or mattresses on the bunks. The windows and doors were boarded up. When the barrack was opened after four days, they were very surprised that we had not died without food or warmth. They had intended to kill us, as they did not know what to do with us.

Later, a typhus epidemic broke out in the camp. The dead lay everywhere, and no one even bothered to remove them. In the barracks, you could hear: «Marusya, move over! Oh, you are already dead»… Those you befriended yesterday died today... and there was no strength left to mourn them.

One day, I too fell ill. I collapsed onto the floor of the barrack. But a kind soul, Maria, dragged me out of the barrack. Whispering: «You must keep walking with whatever strength you have left; if you lie down, they will think you are dead and throw you onto the pile of corpses.» What saved me was that one of the girls had somehow stolen a piece of bread from the Germans and shared it with me.

When the liberators entered the camp, I just waved my hand. No reaction at all. Commandant Kramer was tasked with loading the dead bodies onto trucks, but I did not even have the strength to approach him and tell him what I thought of him.

Afterwards, the English took care of us for several weeks, feeding us back to health. But when I returned to my homeland, I was called a traitor. My classmates refused to befriend me because of the number tattooed on my arm. It was only when I enrolled at an institute in Kyiv that true student life began - with exams, falling in love, and a wedding. My husband was a soldier and had been wounded. Later, we had children, and life spun on.

The only thing I could never regain was dancing. Before the war, I danced a lot, but afterwards, I could not. It became too difficult...

When history reversed

After the war, Anastasia Huley returned home «grey-haired, shaven, a skeleton» but with a determined mind to continue her education. For more than 50 years, she has been an active participant in the movement of former prisoners of Nazi concentration camps. For the past 10 years, she has led the Ukrainian Organisation of Anti-Fascist Resistance Fighters, defending their interests in the political sphere, organising additional medical and social aid, and working to overcome social isolation.

Could she ever have imagined that she would have to endure another war, hiding from missile strikes in the basement of her house, now from the Russians?

In March 2022, 96-year-old Anastasia Huley, along with her children, found refuge in Germany, in the village of Bad Kösen - a country where she had once experienced so much grief and suffering in her youth.

TP: Anastasia Vasylivna, how did you decide to go to Germany?

AG: This was not my first trip to Germany. After 1995, I visited frequently - to Bergen-Belsen, Berlin, Munich, and Dachau. I repeatedly visited Magdeburg and the city of Merseburg in Saxony-Anhalt, where our German partners live and work. Together, we held many meetings for young people in schools. I was not going into the unknown. And most importantly, I was not afraid of the Germans.

During numerous meetings and my speeches, people ask me what I feel towards the Germans now.

I remember specific individuals who did evil. But I, like other former prisoners, do not seek revenge. Examine us with any X-ray - you will not find it. Those who survived the camps feel as though they were blessed

We understand that the people then were driven and deluded by «-isms»: fascism, communism.

TP: Do the Germans feel any guilt or responsibility for what the Nazis did in Ukraine?

AG: It is evident that many older people feel a sense of repentance. In this village, where we lived, Bad Kösen, everyone treated us very kindly. When I went out for walks, each person would try to offer something from their garden - grapes, plums. It felt as though the entire community was looking after us.

Young people, to whom I told my story, were simply amazed. I always remember how, in 2013, an eighth-grader from a German school gave me a pair of warm socks. «My grandmother knitted these for you,» she said, her eyes filled with tears. And I cried too, and all the girls around us were sniffing quietly.

These were students from Mücheln, with whom I visited the memorial at the former Bergen-Belsen concentration camp. This school earned the honorary title of «School Without Racism - School of Civil Courage», and I became their mentor. We have maintained a friendly relationship ever since. In my honour, they planted an apple tree in the schoolyard and recently sent me a photo of the red apples it bore.

TP: Did you believe that Russia would attack Ukraine? Were there any premonitions?

AG: I did not hear, did not think, did not even dream of it. I could not imagine that Russia would attack so savagely, just take and start destroying everything. Ukraine is in its way.

I remember my whole life, at various political meetings, America was criticised - it always was in their way. They forgot that the famous Soviet pilots of the 1930s set records flying American planes. What were they flying on - our plywood? Such hatred in those Russians, such disdain for human life.

TP: Anastasia Vasylivna, in the pandemic year of 2020, you organised the fundraising, production, and unveiling of a monument to the residents of Zhuliany, killed in bombings on June 22nd 1941. And now, in February 2022, your Zhuliany is getting bombed again…

‍AG: Yes. My children and I sat in the cellar for a while. We have a large basement in the garage. We put three beds there, took the cat, and sat for a couple of nights. No electricity, the phone did not work - we knew and heard nothing. It was frightening to sit locked up. So, we came out.

My daughter and son started persuading me to leave. I did not want to be a burden. But then I thought, if something happened, who would be to blame? So, I agreed. First to Lviv, then to Poland, and from there to Germany. They welcomed us very warmly there. They gave us separate rooms on the ground floor of a house where a family with a three-year-old boy lived. We became so close to them, like family. Now that I am back in Ukraine, we sometimes call each other.

A diary entry from 1 March 2022: «Anastasia Huley, a 96-year-old former Auschwitz prisoner, has spent five days in the basement of her own house in Kyiv. But yesterday, the electricity went out, and she agreed to her children's and grandchildren’s pleas to leave the city by car and reach the western border. I do not know how they will manage. It is dangerous to stay, but a long journey during wartime is no better, especially at her age.»

TP: How was life in Germany during all that time?

‍AG: Even before the coronavirus pandemic, Mike Reichel (Director of the Centre for Political Education of Saxony-Anhalt - Edit.) began working on a book about me. And in July 2022, this book was published in German. I was constantly giving speeches at the book’s presentations, and my schedule was very tight. Over the year, I probably had about 50 meetings.

TP: Did many people come to your meetings?

AG: Many - both Germans and Ukrainians. When we held meetings in churches, entire communities would come. I was pleased to learn that there are communities in Germany where Ukrainian songs are sung, and Ukrainian culture is being developed.

I remember one meeting coincided with the Shevchenko Days. I recited Shevchenko’s «Testament» from memory, while Lyuba Danilenko read the German translation. We were applauded for a long time afterwards. «Rise up, break your chains, and with the enemy’s evil blood, sprinkle the freedom you have gained!»

Once, at a congress of the German Federation of Trade Unions, I even met German Chancellor Olaf Scholz. I managed to tell him to provide more weapons for Ukraine. At every meeting, I prefer not to talk about myself. I appeal for help and support for Ukraine.

TP: Why did you decide to return to Ukraine?

AG: You know, I was having problems with my blood pressure. Every day brought a new challenge, and my blood pressure would rise to 240. The ambulance came for me, and I was hospitalised. Things got better in Kyiv. But now my legs cannot carry me anywhere. I can get to the table in my room because there is something to hold onto, but that is all. I do not even remember the last time I went outside. I am afraid of falling. Who would lift me out of the yard, and with what bulldozer (laughs)?

TP: How do you deal with these alarms and shellings? Are you hiding in your basement again? How do you cope?

AG: No, I no longer hide. When we returned, we thought there would be no more shelling. But, alas, it continues.

Everyone is struggling now, but there is no point in whining. It is fine to grieve, but whining helps no one. Once in Magdeburg, a German woman asked me how we, witnesses of the Second World War, continue living now that war has returned to Europe. Everything we fought against is happening again. I told her that we survived Hitler, we survived Stalin, so we must survive Putin as well.