Sergey Vladimirovich Kutsenko.
His house was totally destroyed by artillery back in August. No family, he lives alone in a barrack…
The girls from Khryashchevatoye village council helped us distribute aid.
–He’s been ill for a long time, something with his legs. It’s like they are rotting. I don’t know.
We drive up to a single-story building, but he’s not there.
–He can’t have gone far.
Sergey Vladimirovich was walking with a single crutch, broken and held together by tape. He was barely walking–rocks, holes, his legs can’t hold him up. The crutch is also barely supporting him.
He has no water or electricity.
I don’t know why, but he really touched my soul for some reason.
When I was little, very little, I loved men with mustaches.
My dad never had one. But I really loved mustaches. I always wanted him to have one. I remember my girlfriend had a young dad with mustache, and I adored him. Everyone was laughing at me.
When I saw Sergey Vladimirovich, everything inside turned upside down. It was something from there, from my memories, from childhood. These distant sansations.
He was the last person we visited, after many other elderly, disabled, and no shortage of terrifying personal stories. But I remembered him particularly well.
And, you know, he has an unbelievable gaze. Strong, unbending. He does not evoke pity. Even though the heart breaks.
A tiny room. Bed, two chairs, a table…
–Pardon for the mess, bachelor’s life is like that.
Then he smiles endearingly. He barely walks, his legs shake. But he’s worried about the mess.
He lives alone, cooks alone. Neighbors help him, bring him water.
But he stays mostly in bed, due to terrible pain.
The room is clean, nothing scattered on the floor. There is a stove next to the bed, with a tea pot…
–May we take a photo?
Sergey Vladimirovich takes out a comb that’s tied to a stick. Apparently it’s more convenient that way…
–What’s with the legs?
–Progressive polyarthritis. I let it get out of hand. It started in the ’90s.
He looks at us.
–You see, you have to take care of yourself when you are young. Guys, where did you come from?
–I served with a tank regiment there. As a tank commander. Ahh, Moscow.
And he smiles.
You know what? He has pride. Some old ladies begin to cry, often on purpose in order to evoke pity.
Sergey Vladimirovich is cut from an entirely different cloth. He has a different sort of gratitude, it’s so sincere and genuine that it touches the heart.
He rushed to accompany us, wanted to walk with us. In spite of his unbearable pain and suffering.
In spite of his damned crutch.
–Sergey Vladimirovich, we’ll be back.
When we returned home, I told everyone about him. We were at Zhenya’s with Galya Sozanchuk, a hero and a reporter who, like me, also collects aid through the internet, specifically through facebook, and delivers it herself. One might say she’s a colleague.
Galya reacted immediately.
–I have crutches from someone in Moscow.
The next day, we arrived at Sergey Vladimirovich’s place with new crutches and two bags of food.
–Oi, my adrenalin is racing now, daughter…I don’t know what to say…
In reality, he lives in very rough conditions, he needs serious treatment and a pile of drugs. We’ll definitely visit him again and try to help him, not only with food but also by improving his living conditions.
After all, he’s lost everything and lives completely alone.
If you want to help the people of the Donbass, write me in person through LiveJournal, facebook, or email: firstname.lastname@example.org.