Olenivka. The worst night of my life
I have experienced death many times: the death of my loved one, friends, brothers-in-arms, and my own.
Every time you hear aircraft hitting your building, you realise that death is getting closer to you, floor by floor.
A second before each injury, I had the same thought: this is it. But then I was in battle, with a weapon, I was working and I had a choice, the possibility to hide, run away, leave everything or accept the fate of a warrior. But while in captivity... in captivity, it was scary, because your fate, even though you were strong and invincible in battle, depends on rotten bastards now.
You are an unbreakable rock, you are not afraid of death. But there... you constantly feel like you are in danger, as if your body is in the flames of hell and burning, burning alive all the time.
That night showed me the hell in which the righteous burn. A hell where demons have staged a coup in paradise. A hell where the last circle of punishment is reserved for the best, purest sons of their country.
I was going to sleep. Since I had given my sleeping place to the girls, I took turns sleeping with the "bakers" [the female prisoners who worked in a bakery there, in captivity – ed.]. This time, it was my turn to sleep on the floor in the right corner, on the concrete covered with Nadia's thin sleeping bag. I took off my shoes, took a sip of water and finished reading a book in Russian. It was very hot. And judging by the chattering radio, it was about 23:00. The shift of the most brutal guards did not change at the usual time. It was the first time in months.
Two days before, they had been quickly hauling beds to the newly created barracks for the Azov soldiers. For some reason, they decided to accommodate them separately. They were relocated on the same day. 200 people. In the suffocating reek of the toilet and sweaty bodies, there was a subtle smell of anxiety. And silence. Dead silence.
An explosion. Another explosion. No whistle. No noise. A scream. Smoke. A blaze of fire. Another scream. An awful lot of screaming.
They locked us up and wished us to burn like the guys were burning then. And if we had run away, they would have shot us immediately.
We were locked up and abandoned. For many hours.
Someone was screaming. Tearing the remains of their heart, someone was screaming all night long. No, that person was crying out. Others were screaming. I saw lots and lots of fire and screaming through the metal bars and barbed wire of the small 30-by-30 window, standing on tiptoe on a wooden bench.
The girls were crying, hugging each other. We were terrified. Thoughts raced through our minds: was it our strike? Or were the Russians just going to kill us all quietly now when they had this chance?
I hoped it was our strike. I put on the boots Yaryk had given me, without laces, and tied them with a short piece of my T-shirt to keep them from flying off. I hoped that I would have to leave, that tall and strong soldiers in Ukrainian pixelated camouflage uniforms would come in, and we would all get in a big armoured vehicle and go to hug and kiss Ukrainian land, but before that, we would kill everyone who had tortured us, caused us pain every day and destroyed us, our land and our dignity.
The guys there were begging for help. Machine gun bursts were heard. Burning wood was crackling, and destroyed bars were falling with a roar.
Someone was being wished a happy birthday behind the wall. Hadn't they heard all this?
The girls were crying and wailing. Everything made me angry. Where were our men? Where were they? I wanted to go back into battle, set me free, I could help!
Everything quietened down in a few hours, which lasted longer than my young 21 years of life.
The smell of burning metal and flesh was everywhere. The guards came back, laughing loudly, joking and asking us: "Well, did you see that? That's what you deserve. You're all going to die like this. You didn't expect it, did you? One hundred nits less." They drank and celebrated for a long time. Loudly. With music. They were very fond of music. The kind of music I will never listen to again.
Acrid smoke filled all my thoughts. The girls were going through the options of what could have happened. I just laid down in the corner with my legs tucked under me, thought about it for a long time and tried to sleep.
The next day we were told that our Armed Forces were to blame. As usual, nothing new. Only the drunken guards were laughing happily and congratulating each other on such a successful night.
But I knew. How – I’ll reveal after the victory. But I knew... The next day, our tiny portion of porridge was twice as big. I was very hungry. But the realisation that we were not the ones who had to eat this food gave me a lump in my throat. And the guards said to eat, as these were the portions of those who died during the night.
I will not forget the smell and taste of helplessness, fear, despair and pain. I will not forget what death is. I will not forgive and I will not calm down as long as I am breathing.
They come to me at night, through the crack in the door, burnt and confused about why I am not saving them. They should not have died like this. For many people, this is just another date for some other day of commemoration of some soldiers. For me, it is a reason to live. To live and take revenge.
Ptashka (Kateryna Polishchuk), Azovstal paramedic, former prisoner of war
Translation: Myroslava Zavadska
Editing: Susan McDonald
