“He saved a piece of bread and didn’t eat it all himself—he shared it with his cellmates.” In memory of Oleksandr Hrytsiuk, who died in captivity
Source: Memorial
Author: Bohdana Sadomska
“Dad, I have a girlfriend,” Oleksandr’s son told him on New Year’s Eve 2022. When his father learned that Anton wanted to get married, he approved and gave his blessing. Oleksandr would learn about his children’s wedding and the birth of his grandson while in Russian captivity, from a letter from his wife. After reading it, he wept with joy. However, he would never see his grandson Matviyko.
Oleksandr Hrytsyuk was born in Rudnyky, Volyn. Later, he lived with his family in Kivertsi, in his native region. He worked as a construction worker. In March 2022, he voluntarily joined the Armed Forces of Ukraine—serving as a driver-mechanic in the 110th Separate Mechanized Brigade named after General-Horunzhy Mark Bezruchko. In April of that same year, while wounded, he was taken prisoner along with his unit near Novobakhmutivka. He was beaten, in part because of his language. They “treated” him to porridge mixed with dog hair. They took away the letters from his wife, which he had been clinging to after yet another round of abuse. On November 16, 2023, Oleksandr died in captivity. His family was returned a body weighing up to 50 kilograms, covered in bruises, missing the nails on two fingers, and with a broken nose. The cause of death listed on the Ukrainian death certificate was tuberculosis. To learn more about who Oleksandr Hrytsiuk was and how his family is coping, read the memorial article.
He Always Taught Her to Smile
“Tall. Handsome. Polite”—that’s how Oksana saw her future husband 25 years ago. A month after they met, Oleksandr proposed.
She recalls now: her husband was almost always in a good mood himself, and he knew how to cheer her up: “I work in a store. Sometimes someone ruins my mood at work, but when I come home—Sasha starts joking, and I’d cheer up. He was almost always smiling.”
Oleksandr raised his son accordingly. Anton recalls how his father taught him: “If you have a problem, don’t show it—smile and solve it.” His dad, he says, was a cheerful guy. Now Anton tries his best to follow his father’s advice. He finds comfort in his children. He rejoices at every prisoner exchange and always prays to God for the swift return home of those who are still in Russian torture chambers, because he understands: “It’s hard for them there—very hard.” But, he admits, an unhealed wound will remain in his heart forever.
Oleksandr Hrytsiuk loved his profession. He worked in Ukraine and abroad.
“Everything in and around the house is the work of Sasha’s hands. He did the renovations, laid the paving stones, and built the gazebo,” says Oksana.
Their son never heard his father say, “I can’t do that”; instead, Dad would respond to every request with, “I’ll do it.” And he did.
Anton is also a builder. “I had a dream: when I grew up, I would be just like Dad.” Now, together with his wife and children, he lives in his parents’ house. It’s still hard for Oksana to be there—every memory is painful.
Everything in the house is the result of my dad’s hard work, so I try to keep everything tidy, just as my father did when he was alive.
Sasha, his wife recalls, was always happy to help—he’d put off his own work, but he’d never turn anyone down. His cellmates told his wife that he managed to preserve his kindness and selflessness even under the inhumane conditions of captivity.
At first, Oleksandr was held at the Olenivska Colony in the Donetsk region. After his release, his cellmate Mykhailo Kalashnyk told Oksana: “We slept on the floor. We went without food for several days. Sasha had hidden a small piece of bread in his jacket. When he remembered it, he took it out, but didn’t eat it himself—he shared it among the guys. Everyone got a crumb… He shared his very last piece of bread…”
Oksana says Sasha’s hobbies are fishing and watching soccer games. There’s a soccer field not far from their home. Oleksandr used to go there to watch the games.
The Hrytsyuks are a large and close-knit family. Oleksandr loved inviting his loved ones over and gathering everyone around the big table. Now his family gathers for the anniversary of Oleksandr’s passing. Sometimes they come to cheer up Matviyko.
He left no bad impression
behind “That’s it, Oksana, I’m leaving,” his wife heard her husband say over the phone in early March 2022. She was just getting ready for work. Oksana didn’t want to let Oleksandr go, but, she says, it was impossible to hold him back.
“Who else but me? If I don’t go today, they’ll come tomorrow to rape you,” he knew who he was risking his life for, so he resolutely volunteered.
He called his son, who was working abroad at the time, from his training exercises in the Cherkasy region: “I love you so much. Don’t worry—I’ll be back. Everything will be fine.”
On March 27, Oleksandr was already in the east.
Before his third combat mission, he called his wife. He asked for forgiveness. For the first time since they’d been together.
- “Sash, what are you saying?” she asked, taken aback by what she heard.
- “Oksana, anything can happen. I might not come back. I’m sorry if I ever hurt you in any way”—her husband didn’t seem like himself at that moment.
Now she recalls: she sensed fear in her husband’s voice, and he wasn’t the type to be easily frightened.
On April 9, at half past six in the evening, the couple spoke for the last time. Half an hour later, Oksana called her husband again: the phone just kept ringing; Oleksandr didn’t answer. The same thing happened that night. By the morning of April 10, the phone was already out of range.
Prisoner
of War “Why don’t you just say that Sasha is dead?”—friends called Oksana on Sunday, April 17.
“I knew he’d gone into combat. I was waiting for him. And then they call and ask something like that. Where did they get the idea that he’d been killed? Someone must have told someone,” the woman said. Barely able to wait until Monday, she rushed to the military registration and enlistment office. There, they called his unit and reassured Oksana: her husband was fine. They promised to call that evening to tell her more. She believed them and clung to hope. But she couldn’t sit still; she kept scouring the internet. Until she received a message—a video captioned “Is this not your husband?”
“I was shocked. In the video, I saw my wounded husband with a group of fellow soldiers. About ten men. They’d been taken prisoner. Sasha’s head was bandaged,” Oksana said—she hadn’t known before about the Russian Telegram channels that publish footage of prisoners. “About a month later, in May, I found a video myself on pro-Russian websites showing them bandaging his head. He was shown from behind, not turned toward the camera, but I recognized him by his build—it was my husband.”
After that Monday message, Oksana could no longer sleep peacefully at night—after work, she would meticulously scour Russian websites.
I wanted to find at least a single clue. Just one more video.
Anton, who had also received a call telling him, “Your dad is dead,” returned to Ukraine.
Later, Oksana Hrytsiuk received two notifications in quick succession from the military unit. The first stated: Oleksandr Hrytsiuk is missing in action. The second said her husband had been taken prisoner while carrying out a combat mission in the Novobakhmutivka area.
In September, the International Committee of the Red Cross confirmed Oleksandr’s captivity. After that, a letter arrived, written in Oleksandr’s handwriting but not in his own words: “Hello, my wife. I am in the Russian Federation. They feed me, clothe me, and provide me with shoes. My conditions of detention are good. I’m waiting for a prisoner exchange and to return home as soon as possible.”
Oleksandr did not speak Russian. His cellmates told his wife that he, a “Banderite,” was beaten for this. Later, Oksana learned that the families of other prisoners from that detention center had received similar letters.
“I didn’t know where he was until February 2023.”
On February 16, one civilian and 100 military personnel were released from Russian captivity. One of them was Vladislav Arnaut. In September 2022, he was placed in the same cell as Oleksandr. Soon, the men realized they had mutual acquaintances. Oleksandr’s relatives live in Zolochiv, in the Kharkiv region. Vladislav is originally from there. Oleksandr’s family are friends of Vladislav’s. So, after his release, he tracked down Oleksandr’s wife.
He told her that they were being fed reasonably well and weren’t being beaten as much as before—it was possible to survive. I calmed down a bit because I finally knew where he was—in the city of Vyazma in the Smolensk region.
Oksana Hrytsiuk
Later, Vladislav would apologize to Oksana—he hadn’t been able to tell her the whole truth right away. “Oksana, I’m sorry. It was hell there.”
Throughout her husband’s captivity, Oksana wrote letters, made phone calls, and traveled to the Coordination Headquarters for the Treatment of Prisoners of War. She tried to find out as much as possible about her husband. She tried to get him back.
In late December 2023, just before New Year’s, a representative of Dmytro Lubinets, the Commissioner for the Treatment of Prisoners of War, called Oksana: there was an opportunity to send Oleksandr a letter and some personal items. He asked for his clothing and shoe sizes—they would put together the package themselves; all she needed to provide was a letter and photos.
“I wrote it quickly. I sent it via Nova Poshta…” she cries. “I didn’t know he was already dead.”
Oksana had previously written five letters to her husband. They were all sent together in the summer of 2023. In one of them, his wife told him that Oleksandr had become a grandfather.
“He said: ‘Guys, my grandson was born. We all gave him our food that day. It ended up being just a tiny little pot,” Eduard Sova, a Transcarpathian who was released from captivity, told Oksana. He shared a cell with Oleksandr in the summer of 2023. He reassured his wife a little again: “They don’t beat us like that anymore; it’s possible to survive.”
And then there was a Zoom call with the nonprofit organization “Polygon 56.” The husband of the organization’s head, Olena Dobycha, was exchanged in January.
She said that in Vyazma there’s a prison camp from which no one ever returns. The guys there are severely abused. Many have tuberculosis; their legs are rotting. That’s when I got really scared. Because I hadn’t had that constant fear that he wouldn’t survive. I was worried, but I knew: he’s strong; he’ll endure it. But then the fear set in.
Oksana called her husband’s twin brother, Viktor. He, too, was certain: “Sasha will pull through. Don’t worry.”
The Deceased
Anton and Oleksandr were both born in January: the son’s birthday is on the 23rd, and the father’s on the 28th. Instead of feeling festive, the young man was worried. He and his wife, Anya, had agreed to celebrate somewhere between the two dates and talk about his dad. But on the morning of January 23, 2024, his mother called her son—not to offer birthday wishes.
An investigator called Oksana. She asked if her husband had any tattoos. After saying, “You need to come to Kyiv for an identification,” she hung up. She didn’t want to hear that. She didn’t want to believe it. When the investigator called again, Oksana put her through to her husband’s brother.
“Oksana, the investigator sent a photo of the tattoo. It’s Sasha,” Vitya replied.
The woman looked at it and covered her mouth so she wouldn’t scream in public: “It was really scary.”
Oleksandr had a lion tattoo on his forearm and the words “The best.” When Anton was little, he asked his dad why he chose that particular animal. “Because I’m a lion,” his father replied. Back then, his son wanted a tattoo like that too. Now, they identified his father by it.
On January 24, his family arrived for the identification. According to the medical examiner, Oleksandr’s body weighed no more than 50 kilograms. Before his captivity, he had weighed 110. It wasn’t easy to identify Oleksandr.
“He was an old man. Skin and bones. His head was blue, his nose was crooked,” his wife recalls.
His son admits: it was a horrific sight for the family.
“It’s his tattoo, but his face… He looked like a 90-year-old man, but he was only 47. How could they torture a person like that, torment him so much?
”
A “Celebration” in the Torture Chamber
“Sasha is gone. They brought him back dead,”—Oksana called Eduard again. Then he told her the truth. They mocked him. They beat him. They forced him to stand for 16 hours with his arms raised or bent. Sometimes they wouldn’t give him anything to eat for several days, and when they did, it was just water on a cabbage leaf.
Alexander got it especially bad, Eduard said. Because he was from the western part of the country. They said, “You’re a Bandera supporter. You need to be killed and cut into pieces.” Because he didn’t speak Russian. Eduard recalls: “Sasha didn’t want to. He stayed silent. For that, they beat him—they beat him very badly.” And they beat him for his tattoo, too.
Oksana placed a flag in memory of her tortured husband on Maidan in Kyiv. Photo provided by her
Oksana placed a flag in memory of her tortured husband on Maidan in Kyiv.
Photo: courtesy of Oksana
And when Sasha returned—crawling, because he didn’t have the strength to walk—he would pull his wife’s letters from under the mattress and hold them close. They gave him strength. Then the letters were taken away.
On one of the holidays, the prisoners were asked if they wanted a festive meal—they added dog hair to the porridge, from the dogs that had been set upon the captives.
Oksana pieced together the truth about her husband’s captivity and death bit by bit.
She found a released prisoner of war, Yevgeny Syroeshkin, who told her: Oleksandr had been beaten and thrown into solitary confinement.
Later, from the account of another Kremlin prisoner who had been exchanged, Sasha’s wife learned that her husband had been thrown into solitary confinement after his kidneys had been damaged. Oleksandr could no longer walk.
Another soldier released from captivity, Oleksiy Kretsu, said he heard a nurse asking about Sasha’s condition the evening before his death.
Oksana recounts Oleksiy’s words: “They have cameras there. Apparently, they saw that he was dead. One of the inmates who looked after the prisoners opened the door and said, ‘I’m afraid to go in there. He’s dead.’”
They reported that he died in the hospital
The Russians listed pneumonia as the cause of Oleksandr’s death, while our forensic experts cited pulmonary tuberculosis. The location listed was the Vyazemsk District Hospital. However, his released cellmates told his wife that Sasha did not have tuberculosis. And that the prisoners were afraid to ask to see a doctor: if, for example, you complained of a toothache, they would pull it out on the spot without anesthesia.
“What about the physical injuries? He’s all beaten up: his nose is crooked, the nails on his index fingers are gone, and his head is all bruised. And his weight?” Oksana was surprised by the conclusion of the Ukrainian forensic report, which made no mention of signs of torture or captivity. She says she’s not alone in this. Women who knew soldiers who died in captivity face the same problems.
Later, at the wife’s request, the word “captivity” was added in parentheses. Oleksandra was taken away and buried with a death certificate listing tuberculosis as the cause of death. Now the family, along with journalists and lawyers, is fighting for change. The military unit will revise the official investigation report for the third time—this time, the Coordination Headquarters has volunteered to help.
Contra spem spero
Anton married a girl named Anya, whom he had told his father about on New Year’s Eve. He says she is his greatest source of support. He finds comfort in the thought that his father managed to find out: he has a grandson, a continuation of the family line. Matviyko takes after his grandfather Oleksandr—he laughs just as much. Oksana says her grandson is as sturdy as his grandfather and open to people. Anton says: when you compare Matviy to his dad in childhood photos—he’s a carbon copy. And he even has the same way of walking.
The couple recently welcomed a baby girl. They decided to name her Sasha.
Anton visits his father’s final resting place, looks at the photo on the Walk of Fame at the Kivertsi City Cemetery, and thinks: “I’d be the happiest person in the whole world if only Dad were back. We’d have so much to catch up on.”
Oksana found the greatest support and understanding among her relatives and the wives of the fallen and those taken prisoner.
“They understand me, and I understand them. That’s how we support one another.”
She visits her husband’s grave. She brings fresh flowers. She talks about her daily life. And she continues to wait, no matter what.
“After every prisoner exchange, I go over the lists, reach out to those who’ve been released, and ask around. I’m waiting. I can’t come to terms with his loss. Maybe it’s a mistake? I know it’s him… but I’m still waiting.”
She says: she still can’t accept his loss.
I’ve imagined our reunion after the prisoner exchange so many times: I’ll see him and run into his arms. I’ve stocked the freezer with prepared meals: cutlets, stuffed cabbage rolls, lard—everything Sasha loved. I bought him some clothes…
Oksana says she’s now certain of one thing: no other man will take Sasha’s place in her heart, because there’s no one else like him. “I’ll always love him.”
Sasha’s mother hasn’t been told about her son’s death—they’re afraid. The 86-year-old blind woman listens to the news and says every time, “I heard the war is ending, but for some reason Sasha isn’t coming home on leave.”
Author: Bohdana Sadomska
“Dad, I have a girlfriend,” Oleksandr’s son told him on New Year’s Eve 2022. When his father learned that Anton wanted to get married, he approved and gave his blessing. Oleksandr would learn about his children’s wedding and the birth of his grandson while in Russian captivity, from a letter from his wife. After reading it, he wept with joy. However, he would never see his grandson Matviyko.
Oleksandr Hrytsyuk was born in Rudnyky, Volyn. Later, he lived with his family in Kivertsi, in his native region. He worked as a construction worker. In March 2022, he voluntarily joined the Armed Forces of Ukraine—serving as a driver-mechanic in the 110th Separate Mechanized Brigade named after General-Horunzhy Mark Bezruchko. In April of that same year, while wounded, he was taken prisoner along with his unit near Novobakhmutivka. He was beaten, in part because of his language. They “treated” him to porridge mixed with dog hair. They took away the letters from his wife, which he had been clinging to after yet another round of abuse. On November 16, 2023, Oleksandr died in captivity. His family was returned a body weighing up to 50 kilograms, covered in bruises, missing the nails on two fingers, and with a broken nose. The cause of death listed on the Ukrainian death certificate was tuberculosis. To learn more about who Oleksandr Hrytsiuk was and how his family is coping, read the memorial article.
He Always Taught Her to Smile
“Tall. Handsome. Polite”—that’s how Oksana saw her future husband 25 years ago. A month after they met, Oleksandr proposed.
She recalls now: her husband was almost always in a good mood himself, and he knew how to cheer her up: “I work in a store. Sometimes someone ruins my mood at work, but when I come home—Sasha starts joking, and I’d cheer up. He was almost always smiling.”
Oleksandr raised his son accordingly. Anton recalls how his father taught him: “If you have a problem, don’t show it—smile and solve it.” His dad, he says, was a cheerful guy. Now Anton tries his best to follow his father’s advice. He finds comfort in his children. He rejoices at every prisoner exchange and always prays to God for the swift return home of those who are still in Russian torture chambers, because he understands: “It’s hard for them there—very hard.” But, he admits, an unhealed wound will remain in his heart forever.
Oleksandr Hrytsiuk loved his profession. He worked in Ukraine and abroad.
“Everything in and around the house is the work of Sasha’s hands. He did the renovations, laid the paving stones, and built the gazebo,” says Oksana.
Their son never heard his father say, “I can’t do that”; instead, Dad would respond to every request with, “I’ll do it.” And he did.
Anton is also a builder. “I had a dream: when I grew up, I would be just like Dad.” Now, together with his wife and children, he lives in his parents’ house. It’s still hard for Oksana to be there—every memory is painful.
Everything in the house is the result of my dad’s hard work, so I try to keep everything tidy, just as my father did when he was alive.
Sasha, his wife recalls, was always happy to help—he’d put off his own work, but he’d never turn anyone down. His cellmates told his wife that he managed to preserve his kindness and selflessness even under the inhumane conditions of captivity.
At first, Oleksandr was held at the Olenivska Colony in the Donetsk region. After his release, his cellmate Mykhailo Kalashnyk told Oksana: “We slept on the floor. We went without food for several days. Sasha had hidden a small piece of bread in his jacket. When he remembered it, he took it out, but didn’t eat it himself—he shared it among the guys. Everyone got a crumb… He shared his very last piece of bread…”
Oksana says Sasha’s hobbies are fishing and watching soccer games. There’s a soccer field not far from their home. Oleksandr used to go there to watch the games.
The Hrytsyuks are a large and close-knit family. Oleksandr loved inviting his loved ones over and gathering everyone around the big table. Now his family gathers for the anniversary of Oleksandr’s passing. Sometimes they come to cheer up Matviyko.
He left no bad impression
behind “That’s it, Oksana, I’m leaving,” his wife heard her husband say over the phone in early March 2022. She was just getting ready for work. Oksana didn’t want to let Oleksandr go, but, she says, it was impossible to hold him back.
“Who else but me? If I don’t go today, they’ll come tomorrow to rape you,” he knew who he was risking his life for, so he resolutely volunteered.
He called his son, who was working abroad at the time, from his training exercises in the Cherkasy region: “I love you so much. Don’t worry—I’ll be back. Everything will be fine.”
On March 27, Oleksandr was already in the east.
Before his third combat mission, he called his wife. He asked for forgiveness. For the first time since they’d been together.
- “Sash, what are you saying?” she asked, taken aback by what she heard.
- “Oksana, anything can happen. I might not come back. I’m sorry if I ever hurt you in any way”—her husband didn’t seem like himself at that moment.
Now she recalls: she sensed fear in her husband’s voice, and he wasn’t the type to be easily frightened.
On April 9, at half past six in the evening, the couple spoke for the last time. Half an hour later, Oksana called her husband again: the phone just kept ringing; Oleksandr didn’t answer. The same thing happened that night. By the morning of April 10, the phone was already out of range.
Prisoner
of War “Why don’t you just say that Sasha is dead?”—friends called Oksana on Sunday, April 17.
“I knew he’d gone into combat. I was waiting for him. And then they call and ask something like that. Where did they get the idea that he’d been killed? Someone must have told someone,” the woman said. Barely able to wait until Monday, she rushed to the military registration and enlistment office. There, they called his unit and reassured Oksana: her husband was fine. They promised to call that evening to tell her more. She believed them and clung to hope. But she couldn’t sit still; she kept scouring the internet. Until she received a message—a video captioned “Is this not your husband?”
“I was shocked. In the video, I saw my wounded husband with a group of fellow soldiers. About ten men. They’d been taken prisoner. Sasha’s head was bandaged,” Oksana said—she hadn’t known before about the Russian Telegram channels that publish footage of prisoners. “About a month later, in May, I found a video myself on pro-Russian websites showing them bandaging his head. He was shown from behind, not turned toward the camera, but I recognized him by his build—it was my husband.”
After that Monday message, Oksana could no longer sleep peacefully at night—after work, she would meticulously scour Russian websites.
I wanted to find at least a single clue. Just one more video.
Anton, who had also received a call telling him, “Your dad is dead,” returned to Ukraine.
Later, Oksana Hrytsiuk received two notifications in quick succession from the military unit. The first stated: Oleksandr Hrytsiuk is missing in action. The second said her husband had been taken prisoner while carrying out a combat mission in the Novobakhmutivka area.
In September, the International Committee of the Red Cross confirmed Oleksandr’s captivity. After that, a letter arrived, written in Oleksandr’s handwriting but not in his own words: “Hello, my wife. I am in the Russian Federation. They feed me, clothe me, and provide me with shoes. My conditions of detention are good. I’m waiting for a prisoner exchange and to return home as soon as possible.”
Oleksandr did not speak Russian. His cellmates told his wife that he, a “Banderite,” was beaten for this. Later, Oksana learned that the families of other prisoners from that detention center had received similar letters.
“I didn’t know where he was until February 2023.”
On February 16, one civilian and 100 military personnel were released from Russian captivity. One of them was Vladislav Arnaut. In September 2022, he was placed in the same cell as Oleksandr. Soon, the men realized they had mutual acquaintances. Oleksandr’s relatives live in Zolochiv, in the Kharkiv region. Vladislav is originally from there. Oleksandr’s family are friends of Vladislav’s. So, after his release, he tracked down Oleksandr’s wife.
He told her that they were being fed reasonably well and weren’t being beaten as much as before—it was possible to survive. I calmed down a bit because I finally knew where he was—in the city of Vyazma in the Smolensk region.
Oksana Hrytsiuk
Later, Vladislav would apologize to Oksana—he hadn’t been able to tell her the whole truth right away. “Oksana, I’m sorry. It was hell there.”
Throughout her husband’s captivity, Oksana wrote letters, made phone calls, and traveled to the Coordination Headquarters for the Treatment of Prisoners of War. She tried to find out as much as possible about her husband. She tried to get him back.
In late December 2023, just before New Year’s, a representative of Dmytro Lubinets, the Commissioner for the Treatment of Prisoners of War, called Oksana: there was an opportunity to send Oleksandr a letter and some personal items. He asked for his clothing and shoe sizes—they would put together the package themselves; all she needed to provide was a letter and photos.
“I wrote it quickly. I sent it via Nova Poshta…” she cries. “I didn’t know he was already dead.”
Oksana had previously written five letters to her husband. They were all sent together in the summer of 2023. In one of them, his wife told him that Oleksandr had become a grandfather.
“He said: ‘Guys, my grandson was born. We all gave him our food that day. It ended up being just a tiny little pot,” Eduard Sova, a Transcarpathian who was released from captivity, told Oksana. He shared a cell with Oleksandr in the summer of 2023. He reassured his wife a little again: “They don’t beat us like that anymore; it’s possible to survive.”
And then there was a Zoom call with the nonprofit organization “Polygon 56.” The husband of the organization’s head, Olena Dobycha, was exchanged in January.
She said that in Vyazma there’s a prison camp from which no one ever returns. The guys there are severely abused. Many have tuberculosis; their legs are rotting. That’s when I got really scared. Because I hadn’t had that constant fear that he wouldn’t survive. I was worried, but I knew: he’s strong; he’ll endure it. But then the fear set in.
Oksana called her husband’s twin brother, Viktor. He, too, was certain: “Sasha will pull through. Don’t worry.”
The Deceased
Anton and Oleksandr were both born in January: the son’s birthday is on the 23rd, and the father’s on the 28th. Instead of feeling festive, the young man was worried. He and his wife, Anya, had agreed to celebrate somewhere between the two dates and talk about his dad. But on the morning of January 23, 2024, his mother called her son—not to offer birthday wishes.
An investigator called Oksana. She asked if her husband had any tattoos. After saying, “You need to come to Kyiv for an identification,” she hung up. She didn’t want to hear that. She didn’t want to believe it. When the investigator called again, Oksana put her through to her husband’s brother.
“Oksana, the investigator sent a photo of the tattoo. It’s Sasha,” Vitya replied.
The woman looked at it and covered her mouth so she wouldn’t scream in public: “It was really scary.”
Oleksandr had a lion tattoo on his forearm and the words “The best.” When Anton was little, he asked his dad why he chose that particular animal. “Because I’m a lion,” his father replied. Back then, his son wanted a tattoo like that too. Now, they identified his father by it.
On January 24, his family arrived for the identification. According to the medical examiner, Oleksandr’s body weighed no more than 50 kilograms. Before his captivity, he had weighed 110. It wasn’t easy to identify Oleksandr.
“He was an old man. Skin and bones. His head was blue, his nose was crooked,” his wife recalls.
His son admits: it was a horrific sight for the family.
“It’s his tattoo, but his face… He looked like a 90-year-old man, but he was only 47. How could they torture a person like that, torment him so much?
”
A “Celebration” in the Torture Chamber
“Sasha is gone. They brought him back dead,”—Oksana called Eduard again. Then he told her the truth. They mocked him. They beat him. They forced him to stand for 16 hours with his arms raised or bent. Sometimes they wouldn’t give him anything to eat for several days, and when they did, it was just water on a cabbage leaf.
Alexander got it especially bad, Eduard said. Because he was from the western part of the country. They said, “You’re a Bandera supporter. You need to be killed and cut into pieces.” Because he didn’t speak Russian. Eduard recalls: “Sasha didn’t want to. He stayed silent. For that, they beat him—they beat him very badly.” And they beat him for his tattoo, too.
Oksana placed a flag in memory of her tortured husband on Maidan in Kyiv. Photo provided by her
Oksana placed a flag in memory of her tortured husband on Maidan in Kyiv.
Photo: courtesy of Oksana
And when Sasha returned—crawling, because he didn’t have the strength to walk—he would pull his wife’s letters from under the mattress and hold them close. They gave him strength. Then the letters were taken away.
On one of the holidays, the prisoners were asked if they wanted a festive meal—they added dog hair to the porridge, from the dogs that had been set upon the captives.
Oksana pieced together the truth about her husband’s captivity and death bit by bit.
She found a released prisoner of war, Yevgeny Syroeshkin, who told her: Oleksandr had been beaten and thrown into solitary confinement.
Later, from the account of another Kremlin prisoner who had been exchanged, Sasha’s wife learned that her husband had been thrown into solitary confinement after his kidneys had been damaged. Oleksandr could no longer walk.
Another soldier released from captivity, Oleksiy Kretsu, said he heard a nurse asking about Sasha’s condition the evening before his death.
Oksana recounts Oleksiy’s words: “They have cameras there. Apparently, they saw that he was dead. One of the inmates who looked after the prisoners opened the door and said, ‘I’m afraid to go in there. He’s dead.’”
They reported that he died in the hospital
The Russians listed pneumonia as the cause of Oleksandr’s death, while our forensic experts cited pulmonary tuberculosis. The location listed was the Vyazemsk District Hospital. However, his released cellmates told his wife that Sasha did not have tuberculosis. And that the prisoners were afraid to ask to see a doctor: if, for example, you complained of a toothache, they would pull it out on the spot without anesthesia.
“What about the physical injuries? He’s all beaten up: his nose is crooked, the nails on his index fingers are gone, and his head is all bruised. And his weight?” Oksana was surprised by the conclusion of the Ukrainian forensic report, which made no mention of signs of torture or captivity. She says she’s not alone in this. Women who knew soldiers who died in captivity face the same problems.
Later, at the wife’s request, the word “captivity” was added in parentheses. Oleksandra was taken away and buried with a death certificate listing tuberculosis as the cause of death. Now the family, along with journalists and lawyers, is fighting for change. The military unit will revise the official investigation report for the third time—this time, the Coordination Headquarters has volunteered to help.
Contra spem spero
Anton married a girl named Anya, whom he had told his father about on New Year’s Eve. He says she is his greatest source of support. He finds comfort in the thought that his father managed to find out: he has a grandson, a continuation of the family line. Matviyko takes after his grandfather Oleksandr—he laughs just as much. Oksana says her grandson is as sturdy as his grandfather and open to people. Anton says: when you compare Matviy to his dad in childhood photos—he’s a carbon copy. And he even has the same way of walking.
The couple recently welcomed a baby girl. They decided to name her Sasha.
Anton visits his father’s final resting place, looks at the photo on the Walk of Fame at the Kivertsi City Cemetery, and thinks: “I’d be the happiest person in the whole world if only Dad were back. We’d have so much to catch up on.”
Oksana found the greatest support and understanding among her relatives and the wives of the fallen and those taken prisoner.
“They understand me, and I understand them. That’s how we support one another.”
She visits her husband’s grave. She brings fresh flowers. She talks about her daily life. And she continues to wait, no matter what.
“After every prisoner exchange, I go over the lists, reach out to those who’ve been released, and ask around. I’m waiting. I can’t come to terms with his loss. Maybe it’s a mistake? I know it’s him… but I’m still waiting.”
She says: she still can’t accept his loss.
I’ve imagined our reunion after the prisoner exchange so many times: I’ll see him and run into his arms. I’ve stocked the freezer with prepared meals: cutlets, stuffed cabbage rolls, lard—everything Sasha loved. I bought him some clothes…
Oksana says she’s now certain of one thing: no other man will take Sasha’s place in her heart, because there’s no one else like him. “I’ll always love him.”
Sasha’s mother hasn’t been told about her son’s death—they’re afraid. The 86-year-old blind woman listens to the news and says every time, “I heard the war is ending, but for some reason Sasha isn’t coming home on leave.”
This is an automatic translation generated by DeepL.