Victoria Tolstaja
Victoria Tolstaja, 45 years old, a mother from Novosibirsk. She has lived her entire life in Novosibirsk – she worked as a nurse in the neurology department of one of the city hospitals, raised two sons, the elder is now in the army reserve, and the younger, Andrej (“Andrjusha”), was a professional soldier. Andrej fell in October 2023 during the attacks on Avdiivka – only a brief notice arrived, and the urn with his ashes was brought by train; since then, Maria has worn his military dog tag around her neck and walks to the Zaeltsovsky cemetery, where she places fresh pinecones on his grave and talks to him about everyday things, as if he were sitting next to her.
My Andryusha Will Never Come Back
February 18, 2026
My name is Victoria Tolstaya, I am 45 years old, and I have lived my entire life in Novosibirsk. I worked as a nurse in the neurology department, taking care of strangers so they could get back on their feet. At home, I raised two sons. The older one is now in the army reserve; the younger one, Andrey — my Andryusha — was a professional soldier.When he left for the front in March 2022, I packed every parcel with love: potato dumplings, Alyonka chocolate that he had loved since childhood, and long letters. I wrote to him about how the lilacs bloomed in Novosibirsk, how the birds returned to the Ob River in spring, how everything turns green again. “Hold on, son, and write when you can,” I ended every letter.It came in October 2023. A short notice: he fell during the assault on Avdiivka. No details, no explanation. They just brought the urn with his ashes by train across the whole of Siberia. Since then I have worn his military dog tag around my neck. Every week I go to Zaeltsovsky Cemetery, place fresh pine cones on his grave, and talk to him as if he were sitting next to me on the bench. I tell him about the weather, about the neighbors, about how people at the hospital still ask about him.And I keep asking myself the same question: Why?Why did my nineteen-year-old boy have to die? Why did thousands of other Russian sons have to die? War is pointless. It only takes lives. It takes our children, our boys who were supposed to live, love, have children of their own. Nothing good has come from it, and nothing good ever will. Only empty beds in apartments, black headscarves on mothers’ heads, and endless silence that no heroic story can ever fill.Now I work part-time at the hospital, cook soup just for myself, and look at his photograph in uniform hanging on the wall. In the apartment in the Oktyabrsky district there is the greatest silence in the world — the silence after a son who will never come home again.The war took Andryusha from us. And for what?For nothing.Just for nothing.