I turn to leave, and I feel someone hugging me

I’m a doctor. For us, a person is a person — they have no gender, no age, no religion. That’s exactly why we stay out of politics. A few days before the trip, I deliberately closed all comments. I knew I’d simply open a portal to hell. There were people, even among my close acquaintances, who started writing judgmental things.

The temporary accommodation center is a huge sports complex — two buildings. One is designed for 600 people, and the second is 15 minutes away by car, smaller. I could work in one in the morning and the other in the evening.

Now, when people ask me about something from that trip, the only thing I can say is that I am made up of these people’s stories. And the little old lady — out of all these stories, all these people — that’s my, I’d say, culmination.

It was my first day working at the second center. I walk up to the little old lady, ask a question — she’s sitting like a tense child and whispers: “I can’t hear you.” She’s sitting in a hat, three sweaters, winter boots. The only thing she kept repeating to me was that it was very cold in the basement. She’d spent two months in a basement. I brought her food; she eats, she has teeth, everything’s fine. I went to tend to other things, running around. Then in the corridor, I see her in her hat and coat, with two bags, heading somewhere with purpose. I’m like: “Hold on.” She’s already past the reception desk, heading briskly toward the exit. Later I find out she’s 83. For 83, she’s a very sprightly old lady.

I race after her, and this is where my active involvement in her life — and hers in mine — begins. After talking to her outside for 10 minutes, I realize she doesn’t understand where she is or what’s happening. She says she needs to catch a train to Saint Petersburg, that she needs to get to the Leningrad Oblast to her biological brother. We sit outside together; she says she won’t go back to the center because she’s afraid of missing the bus that will take her to the train.

[As a result] I’ll spend the whole day chasing her. I’ll bring her back to the center; she’ll pack her things and leave again. At one o’clock there’ll be lunch; I’ll be handing out food, turn my head, and see her marching toward the exit. I drop everything, race after her, and again we sit for half an hour discussing things. I try to explain that we need to wait a bit — I need to figure out: where, which brother, I need contacts — I simply can’t let her go like this. At some point, my desperation reaches the point where I just go to the reception desk and say that if I see this grandmother outside one more time, I’ll tear this whole reception desk apart.

The next day, I arrived in the morning — she’s sitting on the bed in one sweater. The whole time, I’d been asking her to undress; she wouldn’t hear of it. She’s sitting there, combing her wet hair. I realize someone convinced her to undress and wash. I run up to her and say: “Well, my dear, I see someone took a bath?” To which she sits there like an offended child and says: “They made me.” I start giggling and laughing and say: “And who made you?” — and then her bed neighbor tells me that her friend from Mariupol has arrived.

I found her in an instant and said: “My God, tell me about this person. I’ve been struggling with her for two days.” She says: “No, no — she’s had a stroke, this is normal.” I started asking about the brother. She confirmed the brother exists. But still, I can’t send her off until I reach someone. I sit down next to my little old lady and start going through the contacts in her phone. We scroll down to the letter “R,” and when I say the name “Rita,” she perks up a bit and starts muttering under her breath. Eventually, with great effort, I learn that Rita is Boris’s wife.

I call the number. The sweetest old lady picks up. But what I hear — I’d say it’s not what I’d hoped to hear. I say: “Hello, I’m a volunteer. We have your so-and-so here, evacuated from Mariupol, currently in Taganrog; we want to send her to you — she’s desperately trying to get to you. Are you able to take her in?” To which I hear: “Well, yes… we can. Where else would she go?” I ask if they can meet her at the train station. The answer: “Well, yes… we can. We’re disabled, of course, but yes, I think we can.”

At that moment, I realize I don’t want to send her there — she’s not expected. I hang up. I don’t know what to do, because I can’t send her into the general redistribution to the next centers — there’ll be nobody to watch over her and care for her. I can’t leave her at this border-area center either. I start to be overwhelmed with confusion. At one point, I wanted to call my mom in Pskov and say: “Mom, I’m bringing home a grandmother.”

A number calls. In the receiver, I hear crying, a man’s trembling voice. I try to calm him down, to understand what’s happening. The man says he’s my little old lady’s nephew. I heard the reaction that should occur when you haven’t been in contact with someone for two months in a region where a brutal war is raging, and you finally learn they’re alive and well. He says he’s the nephew, they’re waiting for her, he’s ready to come to Taganrog to pick her up. He then explained that he’d seen my number on her phone (Rita’s, his mother’s — I.K.) and called. I knew I could trust this person with my little old lady. I buy her a train ticket to Saint Petersburg. I tell him his job is to meet her at the station. I tell him I’m worried about her 10-hour journey, so I’d like to pay a little money to the train attendant to keep an eye on her, and I want to promise that upon arrival they’ll pay another small amount — just to motivate the person to actually help.

The day comes when I need to take her to the train. I stopped by in the morning and told her I’d come at three in the afternoon and we’d go to the train. Utter confusion on her part about how much she owes me. She started handing out hryvnias to everyone, paying for everything there. I tell her: “My dear, there’s no need, please. Put the money somewhere safe.”

I tell her all this and drive to the larger center. And there in the corridor, a woman grabs me by the arm: “Miss, could you help me, please?” I say: “Sure, that’s what I’m here for.” She says she needs help buying tickets. I say: “Easy. Where to?” She says she needs tickets to Saint Petersburg — she needs to get to Tikhvin, where her husband is. And the most incredible thing happens. I go to the Russian Railways website and see one remaining spot in a sleeping compartment — directly above my little old lady’s berth. I’m in tears. She doesn’t understand anything. I say: “Are you ready to go today?” She says: “Yes.” I buy the ticket and say: “Natalia, I have a very big favor to ask. You’ll be traveling with my grandmother — please watch over her. Her relatives will be meeting her; hand her over to them.”

So I put them on the commuter train, and the moment I turn to leave, I feel someone hugging me. I turn around — she stood up and is hugging me. I just gently hugged her back, gently stroked her back. And that’s it — I step off the train and I’m completely falling apart; I can’t even walk, I’m just sobbing. I started crying when she hugged me, and I know I want to leave quickly — I don’t want her to see this.

I wrote everything down and asked the relatives to help Natalia with her bags, to transfer her to the commuter train to Tikhvin, because it’s her first time at that station. In the end, they arrived at 6 a.m. — I call Natalia, and she tells me they took her with them in their car, drove her to Volkhov, and put her on the commuter train to Tikhvin from there. They decided she’d be more comfortable riding with them. Natalia made it to Tikhvin, all’s well. The whole next day, all their relatives will call me one by one — first I spoke with the nephew, then his brother calls to thank me, then the brother’s wife calls…

People choose for themselves where to go. Very many go to relatives. Some go abroad, some to other parts of Russia; there are people who want to return to Ukraine. That’s absolutely their right — you just need to understand the logistics. You explain it to them.

There’s one story about a family — a husband, wife, and the husband’s sister. I was buying them tickets to Simferopol; they were going to relatives. The husband tells me: “Well, Dashulya, can you imagine — the house was standing and burned to nothing. And you know what? The bathroom door was left standing! It burned, but the door stood. Good paint, turned out to be fireproof. Do you remember the brand?”… They’re sitting there, and I’m like — can I please just sink into the ground right now.