May 28, 2015
By Yevdokia Sheremetyeva (littlehirosima)
Translated from Russian by J.Hawk
–“Lyuba, Andryusha, Lyuba, Andryusha!” I yell, on the floor, with my legs broken. Then the neighbors came running and said: “They have already died.”
Only Raisa Ivanovna Strelkovaya’s second grandson survived.
Half the house is destroyed.
She cries every day.
As soon as we got out of our car in Georgiyevka to deliver aid, the first thing we heard was:
–Did you bring the children?
Then the woman realized what she just said.
And she started to cry right in her home’s entrance.
–They were killed right here.
She’s pointing at a spot right next to me. While tears are pouring and pouring.
Only then did I understand why she asked about children.
The bodies of the 40-year-old daughter and 21-year-old grandson lay by the entrance for three days while Raisa Ivanovna was in the Lutuginsk hospital with her injuries. Then they were buried in the garden, since the cemetery was inaccessible.
They were reburied later.
Half the house is destroyed, though the neighbors rebuilt the wall…You can see the new construction on the first photograph.
You know, I stopped crying a long time ago, or even getting upset.
Sometimes I think that I turned into an impenetrable block of reinforced concrete. Stories like that are now part of life. How many of them have we heard while delivering aid door to door, town to town, on the Donbass?
But that’s self-deception.
Even as I write, I feel as if I am next to Raisa Ivanovna, during the summer, during the bombardment. And I hear:
-Lyuba, Andryusha, Lyuba, Andryusha!