I didn’t know what I’d find: a corpse or someone alive

I called Nadiia: “Are you home?” She says: “No, I’m at work.” “Is Rostyk home?” “Yes.”

Rostyk had been training at our club since he was five. Rostyk’s mother Nadiia is a pediatric intensive care doctor. She raises the child on her own. We’d bring her along to competitions as a medic.

I knew where they lived — we’d given them rides home and picked them up for competitions many times. I ran there.

The first thing I saw at the building was a woman’s body. A young woman, completely covered in that damn dust from the panels. It’s a panel building. People were standing over her.

There was a constant din: everyone calling out for their friend, their family member. A hundred people screaming different names all at once.

I had one task: find out what happened to Rostyk. There’s a clinic on the ground floor of the building; its awning was still there. I could see that I’d climb onto the awning, from the awning up the anti-vandal grating to the third floor, and then play it by ear.

When I climbed up, I saw a woman with a child standing in the apartment. The grating couldn’t be opened from the outside or inside — it was solid. I started yanking at it; more guys climbed up. Three of us ripped the grating off.

I asked if anyone else was home; the woman mumbled something. She was in shock. I passed the child to the guys, then the mother.

We made a ladder out of the grating. Someone tossed us some other thing — we propped it up somehow, secured it, and using the grating, I climbed to the third floor.

I didn’t know what I’d find: a body or a living person. I ran into the hallway; on the kitchen side was Rostyk. He was in his outdoor clothes, about to leave for his tutor, when the explosion hit. The kitchen cabinets had fallen one on top of another, forming a triangle. That saved the boy from being buried.

He recognized me instantly. The swear words coming out of me were probably more than any other words. There was no time for hugs, no time for greetings.

I lowered him down to the guys, holding him by his jacket, by the scruff. We moved to a safe location, because the floor slabs between stories were starting to collapse.

After that, there was no way to keep searching for people. Honestly, I didn’t have the desire either, as harsh as that sounds. If it weren’t for the shock and adrenaline, I doubt I would’ve climbed up there in the first place. I grabbed the kid and left.

While we were leading him to safety, Rostyk talked nonstop — his mouth wouldn’t close. He kept saying he’d grabbed his backpack, his Ukrainian language textbook, a power bank, and that it was really upsetting that his tablet, his cat Beliash, and his dog Cola were left behind. He repeated it like a mantra.

About 15 minutes later, his mother arrived. She was in shock. She hugged him: “You’re my best boy, you’re my little man.”

My colleague and I went home, grabbed a bottle of bourbon, drank it, and didn’t even talk to each other. We didn’t understand what had happened.

At 11 p.m., I decided to open Instagram and was stunned by the number of follow requests, likes, and everything else. People started spreading the story that I was a hero. I don’t want to consider myself one — I wouldn’t have done anything there alone.

Many people there did everything they could to minimize the casualties. Groups of five, ten men were lifting cars with their bare hands and moving them out of the way so ambulances could get through.

To this day, I don’t understand that strike. A residential building, kindergartens all around, two schools, and a fishing tackle shop… It’s just insane.