People often ask me who Grandpa Saša and Grandma Oľga are. They are a married couple—he’s 73, she’s 71. Saša is Ukrainian, Oľga is Russian. They met at university in Kharkiv, where Saša studied high-voltage electrical engineering, and Oľga trained to become a mathematics and physics teacher. After graduating, they settled in Severodonetsk, a city in the Luhansk region. They raised two daughters there.
Saša inherited a small wooden house in the Donetsk region—an old family home in a picturesque place called Ozernoe, meaning „by the lake.“ When he retired, he poured his energy into the land. He researched what could grow in the sandy soil, wrote to institutions around the world asking for vine varieties suitable for his conditions, learned how to analyze soil, and taught himself agriculture. Over ten years, he transformed that land—he planted five hectares of vineyards, another five hectares of fruit trees, and grew tomatoes and peppers. He even built a drip irrigation system. It gave him purpose and joy in his retirement.
Meanwhile, Oľga dedicated the past eight years to helping raise their granddaughter, who lives with her parents in Kyiv. Each winter, Saša and Oľga would spend a few months in their three-room apartment in Severodonetsk. It was during one of those stays that the war began—on February 24, 2022, during what the Russian government called a „special military operation.“ Severodonetsk was among the first cities hit. For 14 days, they hid in the basement. Ukrainian troops had parked tanks and artillery in their courtyard, making the block a target. Russian shelling destroyed half the building.
To avoid flooding or explosions, they had to shut off the gas and water. Eventually, the electricity was cut too. Temperatures dropped below -10°C. Somehow, they survived. Food and water were running out, but the shelling had stopped. One day, trucks began driving through the streets, announcing that bread and bottled water would be distributed at two nearby squares. Oľga went to one, Saša to the other. Younger neighbors had pushed ahead in the lines, so they ended up near the back, waiting for aid.
But instead of help, unmarked military trucks arrived. Unidentified soldiers jumped out and opened fire, killing everyone standing in line. Oľga dropped to the ground just in time and was buried under the bodies of her neighbors. She survived. Saša, hearing the gunfire, never reached his square. He turned and ran to find her. He was thankful she was alive—but it was clear they could no longer stay in Severodonetsk.
They took their chance. With just a small sports bag, they bribed the driver of a private van, who took them to the nearest train. From there, they traveled to Kyiv, then to Uzhhorod. Their daughter had studied in Slovakia, so they headed west. I met them at the border, together with their daughter. Saša only had an old Soviet passport, but thanks to my experience with Ukrainian bureaucracy, we managed to get him into Slovakia with a temporary certificate. Later, we secured legal documents and temporary asylum through the foreign police. Oľga, ever the organized teacher, had a valid passport.
Anička arranged a place for them to stay in a family home near Košice, but eventually, they came to live with us. Their granddaughter went to school in Slovakia for two years. Now, we’re waiting to see what comes next. Maybe one day, Grandpa will return to his little house and begin pulling out the weeds that have overgrown his vineyard and orchard. But he says he no longer has the strength to start over.
Please, remember this story the next time someone curses all Ukrainians as one group. Every story is personal. Every fate is individual. And I, for one, would never want to go through what Saša and Oľga endured.