Наталія Запішна Nataliia Zapishna

We had a very large house that my father built, and it had its own signs: for example, on the gable of the roof, we had the letter “З” ["Z"], that is, we knew it was a “З” because it was our last name, and when we sold the house, and I was already talking to [buyers], for some people it was already the number three. Then, on the left or right side of the gable, there was a sun, and the family always said that it was in honor of my mother because he [my father] called her Sunshine- Svitlanka, Svitla, Sunshine. Some of these signs were specific to our family, my father laid them down like that, and I have very fond memories of my parents' house. And when I go to my parent's house in my dreams, these are always very kind, warm dreams for me. No matter what happens there, I wake up with the feeling that I am grateful that I was there, that I could be there again. The windows were very large. It was a two-story building, it stood out against all the other houses because I think that in the east, houses are very similar. Maybe this is just my opinion. But it was like this — with an architectural zest, a peculiarity.

I was very obsessed with psychology because I was always interested in why people are so identical on the outside: two arms, two legs, one head, but we act so differently. I've always been interested in this: what goes on in a person's head, what one does like this, why one becomes, I don't know, world-famous, and why another lives their life somehow differently. I always told my mom that I wanted to be a psychologist. And she said, “What does that mean? Where are you going to work?” It was something so confusing. And this was indeed a period when there were no psychologists in schools, in kindergartens; it was not the norm, as it is now. My mother set this [condition for me]... it sounded something like this: if your father gives you money for school, for university, you go, and if he doesn't, you have to understand that we don't have the money. I don't know why there was no option for me to go on a state-funded scholarship, even though I was a very good student. It was not addressed at all. Somehow it was set up in such a way that university is only for the wealthy. But my sister also told me, “Natalia, why don't you enter a state-funded program?” Well, I already had this idea: if my dad gives me money, I go to university, if he doesn't, that's it. And my dad didn't give me any money for my studies. My mom somehow started working with me, talking to me, saying, “Natalia, think about a seamstress. A seamstress will always sew a curtain or a pair of pants, and you will always have a way to make ends meet.” And by the time I was sixteen, in the eleventh grade, I just wanted to get out from under my mother's care, and I didn't care where I was going to enroll, I knew that everything was out of the question — no money, then I couldn't even take as much as a look at university, so I entered a vocational school — at that time it was called a technical school — to become a sewing production technician in Kramatorsk. Later, many years later, I realized that all my classmates had gone to university, many of them on a state-funded basis, and I know for sure that I could have gone, but I didn't even have that thought. When I realized this, it was such an epiphany for me. Why didn't I even think of trying? I didn't even try. So, I entered Kramatorsk to study to become a sewing production technician, and that was my first education...

I continued to work as I had been working, we did not leave until the last moment. And when the shelling took place, they [the children] were small: my son was four years old, my middle daughter was five, and my eldest daughter was nine, respectively. I remember the moment when I was picking Ulyanka up from kindergarten, and it was the last shelling of Kramatorsk on February 10, when a Tornado [multiple rocket launcher] was used. — Was it already [20]15? — Yes, [20]15, [20]15, that's right. I'm not very good with dates, so don't be surprised. And I remember taking her from the kindergarten and just such a noise, these shells, but they shelled the city center, we were on the outskirts. But the noise was just terrible, the ground was rumbling. It was the first time I felt what shelling was like. I remember taking her by the hand and saying, “Ulka, let's go home”. And somehow, I tried to turn it into a game. I ran into the nearest store with her, and I stood there looking around, and I realized that the shelves around me were glass, and everything was filled with bottles. I realize that this is not the safest place to hide, and I take her out, and we just run home. I didn't want to stay in the store, because a lot of people were running in. So we ran home in a merry little jog. In my own way, I tried to protect the children, that is, I didn't hold them close, didn't cry, didn't say that we were going to die or anything like that. That was my experience.

When you take the children to Kyiv... I was probably more busy with some household things: making sure they didn't throw up in the car, that they had water, that they were comfortable, that we didn't forget some things, that they had something to eat. I was absorbed in it more. Plus, I had a week off, and I realized that we had to leave within that week, I had to get them settled and get back to work. So I was already thinking about how to live my life, relatively speaking. When it was over, we were definitely happy, we were back. But at the moment, I wonder, you ask, “Who said [that the city was liberated]?” I don't remember that day as a separate day in my life, because I think we didn't fully realize at that moment that we had left our home forever. It was something like that, I don't know, like a dream, something incomprehensible.