He was lying in the corner with a blood-soaked bandage around his head

My dad is 54 years old. An absolutely calm, middle-aged man. He repaired cars. Played sports, went running. He was never a soldier or a politician, never an activist. He lived an ordinary life. When I was little, we even spent 10 years living in central Moscow.

He’s in his second marriage: a wife and my half-brother, who’s seven. [At the start of the full-scale war, ] Dad was in Brovary, while his wife Natasha and their son were in Mariupol — they lived between two cities. When it started, Natasha was saying: “The 'LPR/DPR' is nearby, there’s always some shooting, nothing will happen.” Then hell began.

Dad was terrified — there was no communication with Natasha or anyone he knew in Mariupol. He set off for there, and in the meantime, I searched social media for people from neighboring buildings in Mariupol. I found out that a strike had hit Dad’s building, but nearly everyone survived. Then a neighbor wrote that he’d seen Natasha with my brother in the basement. It wasn’t until March 16 that Natasha managed to call us, and from the 20th she’d occasionally come up from the basement and call Dad — they spoke in snatches.

Until March 21, Dad waited near Zaporizhzhia for a green corridor, but that day Ukrainian soldiers turned him back — they said fighting was underway. Dad texted me that he’d try [again] the next day. And in the morning: “Sweetheart, I’m on my way.”

That same day, he called Natasha. He’d been stopped at a Russian checkpoint in Polohy (a city in Zaporizhzhia Oblast — SP), and said they’d hold him pending verification. At the end [of the call], he joked — said he looked like an Azov fighter.

I found locals in Polohy — wives, mothers of men who’d been detained at the checkpoint. They’d go to the Russian soldiers, asking to bring their sons borscht, and the soldiers would pour it out.

They told me the prisoners were being held in a hospital on the ground floor, and every week or two someone was released. They said: be patient, they’ll release yours too. And we were patient.

A month later, I got a call from the daughter of a man who’d been detained in Polohy and held in the basement there. She asks: “So, did they release him?” I say: “No.” And she says: “Margarita, they released everyone.” I was horrified — what do you mean, everyone? We started sending Dad’s photo to the people who’d gotten out.

That’s how I learned Dad hadn’t been there. And I started screaming in every direction I could. Writing letters to officials, finding lawyers. I was hysterical, sending photos of Dad and his car to every chat and group: “Search Mariupol,” “Search Zaporizhzhia” — maybe his car was standing somewhere, shot up. There was a person — and he simply doesn’t exist.

Those who got out described how they’d been processed at the checkpoint, interrogated. Thrown into a basement for a week with no water or food. People screamed: “I’m just Vasya from such-and-such grain depot” — there are grain facilities nearby. And they’d be told: “You’re undercover soldiers from the Armed Forces of Ukraine.”

On May 18, I once again posted a photo in some group, and a man wrote to me — he’d been in Kursk until May, then was exchanged. He said he’d traveled the same route as Dad. First they were taken to an airfield in Melitopol, where for six days they were beaten and tortured with electricity. Suffocated, forced to crawl until their bones were raw. Told: “Confess that you’re from Azov.” Then they were taken to Olenivka and from there to Kursk.

The Red Cross confirmed that my dad is being held in a pre-trial detention center in Kursk. Through contacts, we found a lawyer in Russia — Dmitry Zakhvatov. I knew he defends political prisoners and wouldn’t refuse us.

The problem is that some people from Kursk were officially exchanged. But when I call the detention center, or my lawyer goes there, they say: “We have no Ukrainian prisoners.” The lawyer says: “How can that be? Ukrainian exchangees came out of your facility — such-and-such people.” “No, they are not held here.” Yet they won’t let in the Red Cross or lawyers, and they provide no medical care.

My half-brother is seven years old. He was told honestly: “Daddy was detained by Russian soldiers and is being held prisoner.” He’s a very calm, kind boy who plays musical instruments. But this child was in Mariupol under the bombing. There was no need to lie to him about where his father is. When green corridors opened, he and Natasha were able to leave — they’re abroad now.

Our grandmother is 87 years old. We didn’t tell her about Dad for a very long time. We told her when it was no longer possible to hide.

I wrote Dad a letter in case they let the lawyer see him. The first line said that Grandma is alive, keeping her chin up, and waiting. And I tell Grandma: “Now you have to hold on until they release him. You have to live.”

I interviewed people who came out through exchanges. One of them said the last time they saw Dad, he was lying in the corner of a room with a blood-soaked bandage around his head.

My dad has psoriasis — I imagine by now he looks like a snake in there. The slightest stress and his elbows, all his skin, starts peeling off. He has weak bronchial tubes; whenever the weather changed, he’d constantly cough. It’s hard for me to imagine what’s left of him.

They clearly didn’t take them for exchanges or for physical labor. I think it was for intimidation. So everyone would know that the slightest resistance — and they’ll take you and lock you up on some fabricated charge.

But they guessed wrong. From everyone I’ve spoken to — people sit in basements or in detention, but nobody crosses to the Russian side. Because everyone understands: over there, it’s even more terrifying.