The war began in the darkest hours before dawn. Strange objects flew over our house with a terrible roar. My father ran in and shouted, “The war has started!”

We argued over who should stay behind with him. First I insisted, then my brother. We both refused to leave our father. But my young nephew overheard us. He ran to me, hugged me tightly, and began to sob, “Please don’t stay, you will die. I don’t want you to die.” To calm him down, I agreed to go. In the end, our father tricked us both into leaving, promising he would catch up.

The escape was filled with obstacles. A tire burst on a road full of potholes, and we had no spare. In the back seat, the children cried, terrified. Later, we waited for a bus from five in the morning until ten at night in the freezing cold. We danced on the pavement to keep from freezing.

I was never a very religious person, but after that, I believe twice as much. I pray now. I pray for my friends who died in the war, and for this to end.

The most powerful moment was when our father finally arrived. I looked at him and couldn’t believe it. Goosebumps ran all over my skin. I hugged him, and the feeling was just incredible. It was happiness. My father always said, “Your home is your fortress.” He didn’t mean the walls. He meant the family. My mother, my brother, my father — that is the fortress.

When we first arrived in Germany, I had a terrible association with the word. Roma and Germany… the first thing you remember is fear. My grandfather told me not to go there; the elders always remembered those times. Who would have thought that we would be fleeing from Russians to Germany, to the very country that our ancestors feared, just to save ourselves because they came to kill us.