When Russian bombs begin to fall on Mariupol, Mary's only thought is to keep her children safe. But when 9 year old Sasha vanishes amid the chaos, her world collapses. With her daughter, Anastasya, growing dangerously ill, Mariya faces an impossible choice: Stay and search for Sasha in a city under siege-- or get Anastasya the lifesaving care she needs and trust others to find her son.
From the relative safety of a Polish border town, Maria continues her desperate search for Sasha through underground networks of Ukrainian and Russian civic activists working to recover the thousands of children abducted from Ukraine. dMeanwhile, in a so-called "youth rehabilitation camp" in Crimea, Sasha clings to memories of his mother and sister as he navigates a world of forced obedience, silenced identifies, and sudden disappearances. His only hope lies with Peter-- a young Russian man risking everything to defy his government from within.
When Russian bombs begin to fall on Mariupol, Mary's only thought is to keep her children safe. But when 9 year old Sasha vanishes amid the chaos, her world collapses. With her daughter, Anastasya, growing dangerously ill, Mariya faces an impossible choice: Stay and search for Sasha in a city under siege-- or get Anastasya the lifesaving care she needs and trust others to find her son.
From the relative safety of a Polish border town, Maria continues her desperate search for Sasha through underground networks of Ukrainian and Russian civic activists working to recover the thousands of children abducted from Ukraine. dMeanwhile, in a so-called "youth rehabilitation camp" in Crimea, Sasha clings to memories of his mother and sister as he navigates a world of forced obedience, silenced identifies, and sudden disappearances. His only hope lies with Peter-- a young Russian man risking everything to defy his government from within.
6 months, 19 days and 5 hours. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve seen Sasha. Since I’ve held his small hand in mine. Since I told him how much I love him. My mind plays on repeat the last time we were together, the last thing I said to him. If I’d known what was to come, would I have said something different? Maybe one more hug, or another ‘I love you more.’ One thing is for sure. I would not have left him in the first place. Then, at least whatever fate we would meet, we would meet it together.
Someone told me once that the hardest part about having children is the vulnerability that comes with having pieces of yourself out there in the world. As they grow, you have no control over what they say or do, or ultimately what happens to them. When they are lost, in pain, or scared, you feel it even worse than if it’s your own. I feel Sasha’s pain right now, deeply in my bones. But this pain assures me he is alive, and I cling to it.
I shake my head just a bit to reset my mind and focus my eyes and thoughts instead on Anastasya’s face. But her features are so like Sasha’s, it only intensifies the dull ache in my stomach. My mind plays tricks as her face slowly morphs into Sasha’s.
I wonder what he’s doing right now. Is he hungry? Is he cold? Was he able to sleep last night or did he spend the night the same way I did, staring up at the ceiling, counting the seconds and minutes until dawn? Wherever he is, will they let him sleep with the lights on? He’s scared of the dark and won’t be able to sleep otherwise.
The hours between 3am and 5am are the worst. It is so quiet in the apartment and the guard I keep raised during the day dissolves into nothing. My worst fears replace it, trapping me in an endless loop of ‘what if’s’. What if he’s hurt? What if he thinks we’ve forgotten about him or aren’t looking for him? What if the group that contacted me isn’t actually able to get him back to us? What if they’ve mixed up the children by mistake? But they have his picture. Proof of life and presence in the camp.
The worst fear, the one that resurfaces over and over, particularly between the hours of 3am and 5am, is that he’s been gone so long he won’t want to come back to us. That they’ve been able to brainwash him. All the other ‘what if’s’ are nothing compared to this ultimate and all-consuming nightmare.
I started hearing rumors of what goes on in these so called ‘youth rehabilitation camps’ shortly after arriving in Poland. At first, they were too horrible to believe. Children being brainwashed—told that Ukraine no longer exists and that their parents and everyone they love is dead. Children given Russian passports with new names and identities. Children forced to spend hours making supplies for the Russian military, working until their fingers were rubbed raw and bleeding. Children as young as ten being trained in artillery so they would be capable soldiers when they turned of age. That something this heinous could happen in 2022 seemed unthinkable, but as the weeks turned to months, the rumors became incontrovertible facts.
Rolling over to my side, careful to not wake her, I focus again on my beautiful Anastasya- Nastya as she likes to be called. Her pink lips are parted just barely and she’s snoring softly. Her face is relaxed except for a light worrying ‘V’ between her blonde eyebrows. The wrinkle in her otherwise perfectly unlined face tells me her sleep is not as peaceful as it appears. I hope her troubles are from nerves over starting at her new school today and not from dreams recalling our last days in Mariupol. No one should have to experience what Nastya did, let alone a child just shy of her 11th birthday. I saw her age years in less than a week. But when she’s sleeping you can almost forget what she’s been through. I hold my breath and try not to shake our thin mattress. I know once she wakes, she won’t be able to fall back asleep. I dread the moment right after she wakes up, when she’s transitioning from dreams to reality. When she looks at me in that moment, all I can see is unimaginable pain. And I know how deep her grief goes because I see the same look reflected in every mirror.
I pull my gaze away from Nastya’s sleeping face to look out the small bedroom window. The sky shifting from black to grey and a sliver of vibrant pink is just starting to show on the horizon. I say a quick prayer to myself, thanking God for making it through another night and bringing me and Nastya one day closer to reuniting with Sasha.
Inching my way out of bed and trying again to keep the thin coil mattress from squeaking and waking her is a challenge. She doesn’t need to be up for another two hours and I know she needs the sleep. I hold my breath and tiptoe out of our room and into the kitchen we share with one other Ukrainian family, an elderly couple and their toddler grandson, Aleksi. Aleksi’s father was forced to stay behind in Ukraine because of Martial Law. The Law prevents men of fighting age to leave Ukraine and Aleksi’s mother refused to leave without her husband. Fortunately, Aleksi’s grandparents were able to evacuate quickly and took him with them. Housing in Poland is limited, but Nastya and I are happy for the company. Besides, having a baby around, especially a well behaved one like Aleksi, helps keep our spirits up.
The days here are impossibly long and are, in many ways, more difficult than then the first days of the war. When I think back to late February and early March-- the constant text messages and Telegram news updates, tracking which buildings in Mariupol were hit and which city blocks were seeing the most fighting, the all-consuming thoughts of how we would secure basic necessities like food, water and heat-- our lives now are painfully slow. I’m not able to work here and even I could, I doubt I’d be able to focus enough to be productive. And at least back in Mariupol we were all together, me, Nastya, Sasha and Aleksandar. Cold, hungry, miserable, but together.
I keep the lights in the kitchen off and feel my way around in the semi-darkness to the stove and refill the tea kettle. While I wait for the water to boil, I reach for my phone, open my email, and immediately click on a saved message from August 19th. I don’t really need to read it, I have the entire exchange memorized, down to the misspellings of my name and the punctuation typos.
To: Mlukavenko@gmail.com
From: Nata.J@protonmail.com
Date: August 19, 2022
Subject: Sasha
Dear Mariyya Lukavenko,
I hope you are the intended recipient of this email,. Is this Mariya Lukavenka, previously residing on Mytropolytka Street, Mariupol? Currently residing in Rzeszow, Poland? If so, please respond with proof of identity as soon as possible. I have possible information about your son, Sasha..
–Natalia
To: Nata.J@protomail.com
From: Mlukavenko@gmaill.com
Date: August 19th, 2022
Subject: Re: Sasha
Hello!
Yes! This is Mariya Lukavenko and yes, I am from Mariupol and lived in an apartment on Mytropolytka Street and am currently residing in Rzeszow with my daughter. I am attaching a copy of my Polish issued identity card as proof of identity. Please respond soonest with any information you have about Sasha!!
–Mariya
To: Mlukavenko@gmail.com
From: Nata.J@protomail.com
Subject: Re: Sasha
Dear Mariya,
I am part of a group that tracks down missing children who have been forcibly taken from Ukraine and relocated to Russia and Belarus. You met with my colleagues shortly after crossing the border into Poland. We have identified a boy, 9 years of age, that matches the description and photo you provided. According to the paperwork we were able to access, the boy was taken from Mariupol on or around March 13th, 2022 and transferred to a “youth rehabilitation camp” in Yevpatoria, Crimea one week later. His paperwork says he was taken from Solnishko Orphanage, however our volunteer network believes this to be false and that he was in fact abducted off the street. I recently met with a man named Aleksandar in Mariupol who confirmed his identity.
We are committed to re-uniting him with his family and we will be in touch with more information soon. I am attaching a recent image of the child for confirmation that this is indeed your Sasha.
–Natalia
I don’t know how long I sit there, staring at the grainy image. Aleksandar kept his promise to find Sasha. The picture attached to the email is small, no bigger than passport size, and just from the shoulders up. It cannot be enlarged. Sasha is wearing a blue collared shirt I’ve never seen before and his hair looks freshly washed and combed. He is much cleaner than the last time I saw him, but the look on his face haunts me. He is scared and lost and so impossibly young and vulnerable.
The scream of the boiling tea kettle and the loud squeak of the mattress as Nastya gets up breaks me free from my trance. I close my email, set my phone on the table and walk to the stove to turn off the kettle. I haven’t told Nastya that they have found Sasha. I can’t bear to get her hopes up if it turns out to be wrong somehow. I say another prayer to God that Sasha is safe and that Natalia can indeed get him back to us, before going back to the bedroom to meet Nastya.
They’ve been through a lot and have made it to Poland, leaving behind the war-torn Ukraine. It’s time to begin anew, and while they’re trying to, they can’t. No family could ever move forward when their loved one is missing and caught up in the war. Especially when this missing loved one is a mere child. As such, Mariya and her daughter, Anastasya (Nastya), hold their breath as the search for Sasha continues in Ukraine.
E.A. McCarthy’s Before They’re Gone is a heart-wrenching story about a widow with her children, the man who stands by her no matter the circumstances. It's a reminder of the lives lost, the destruction, the families torn apart, and the brave men and women who risked their lives to save others as the Ukraine-Russia war intensified. It's written from multiple points of view, capturing the voices of children, mothers, fathers, humanitarians and even the lovely innocent creatures we have in our homes—the dogs.
Mariya’s predicament comes to the surface because the narration is vivid in its portrayal of a mother’s love for her children. Nastya is a good, well-behaved girl, but her brother's absence troubles her. She’s hopeful, though, closely following the Sasha-rescue mission. She hears adults use the phrase jump the line and that fascinates hers, causing her to wonder which line she and her mother jumped. Aleksander’s love for Mariya is patient, affectionate, and expressed through actions and sacrifices. Caught in the war he knows nothing about, Sasha longs to reunite with his family, surrounded by bad Russians and only finding hope in his friendship with Peter.
I highly recommend this book for all readers. It leaves out the politics of the war and instead focuses on the people affected by the war, the people who lost their homes, country, and loved ones. The rescue mission is spearheaded by ordinary people driven by the need to help those affected and not to gain anything in return. And it's interesting that they keep data, committed to telling the entire world the Ukraine story and to hold the people responsible accountable someday. What of the Russians? Are they all evil, fruits of the poisonous tree? Or in their midst, some are compassionate? Before They’re Gone tells it all, poignantly.