Children in a Ukrainian orphanage were moved to Berlin. The war followed them.

BERLIN – In a hotel room turned makeshift orphanage, Natasha Dubinskaya, 16, delicately rolls a mascara wand through a 5-year-old girl’s eyelashes.

It’s an hour before Shabbat starts with the sun dipping below the horizon each Friday. Natasha and a handful of other Ukrainian girls have gathered for a “salon,” a new tradition they have created where they dress up in their most beautiful clothing and paint their faces to look like the mothers they long to hold, smell and touch.

The children are strangers in a strange land, concocting moments of joy to pass the time.

Natasha, dressed in a leopard-print dress and black boots, is especially in the mood to celebrate after a month of painful uncertainty. That’s when her 27-year-old sister seemingly disappeared. Hours earlier, they were finally able to communicate. Now, with a grin stretched across her face, Natasha chatters happily as she lightly dusts eyeshadow on her subject’s lid, her shoulders relaxed.

For months, this German hotel has been home to more than 90 Jewish children from Ukraine. Many arrived from an orphanage in the southern port city of Odesa, their final hours spent in a basement, cowering from the wailing of bomb sirens. A handful of others were separated from their families and sent to Berlin for refuge under the care of the Jewish charity that runs the community’s orphanage.

Nearly two-thirds of Ukraine’s 7.5 million children have been displaced by the war, including those who have been forced to flee to other countries, one of the fastest and biggest displacements of children since World War II, according to the United Nations.

For the young people at the hotel in Berlin, their days are filled with activities to distract them from their tenuous future.

There are online lessons completed over phone screens. There are guitar sing-alongs, movie nights and arts and crafts. They play with toys, like a robot, a scooter and a bicycle.

The teenagers spend hours on their cellphones, flicking through TikTok, reading Telegram news messages, watching videos of war that might tell them the fates of the people who stayed and the places they loved.

Once, the children ate lunch with German President Frank-Walter Steinmeier, who clapped along as they sang words to a Hebrew prayer for peace.

At first, the children said, the hotel felt like a grand adventure. Then they became suspicious: Just how long would they have to stay here?

A 52-hour escape from Ukraine to Germany

Before they escaped on a 52-hour bus ride, the children at the Mishpachah Orphanage in Odesa were frightened by the frequent air raid sirens. The sirens wailed during the day while the children attended school. They seemed especially loud at night when the children curled up in bed.

When the blaring began, the children would race from their bunk beds to the basement, crawling into sleeping bags, placing them close to each other on the floor to feel a bit safer.

Hours before their departure, the orphanage staff told the children they needed to pack. They would be going to “winter camp” in Berlin and would get to see other European cities, including Prague, on the way.

Each child was allowed to pack one suitcase, up to 44 pounds. They frantically assessed their possessions. What to leave behind? One girl left her beloved teddy bear. Another, her guitar. Others left books, favorite clothes, a blue and yellow Ukrainian soccer team scarf.

The children, including a six-week-old baby boy named Tuvya, left the orphanage on a chilly, gray day and loaded onto four buses at 7 a.m. The typically 10-hour journey to Berlin meant they would arrive for dinner.

But this was no typical road trip. On the way, the children saw a landscape of war: hours-long military checkpoints at key intersections, roads overtaken by fleeing buses and cars packed with people and suitcases, and soldiers equipped with long guns digging trenches. One child would start to cry from fatigue or stress, then others would join in. Some children vomited, while some soiled themselves.

At the Moldovan border, guards walked down the aisles of the bus, checking each child’s papers. The children were told they must move to two larger buses on the other side of the border. They dragged their heavy bags 100 feet, older kids helping the younger ones, doing as they were told.

A journey funded by donors around the world

The children’s harrowing journey began with a man of faith.

In the first days of the war, Rabbi Avraham Wolff was sick with worry for the children in the Odesa orphanage. Wolff, who is with the Hasidic Jewish organization Chabad, cares for a large congregation of Jews and also oversees the Mishpachah Orphanage – named after the Hebrew word for “family.”

He did what he could to prepare for a possible attack, purchasing stores of canned tuna, pickles and peas, tomato sauce and mayonnaise, and sleeping bags, so the children wouldn’t be cold while hiding in the basement.

But after only several days of bomb sirens, Wolff decided the risk was too great.

We must get the boys and girls out, he told his wife, Chaya Wolff.

Within hours, the rabbi lined up donors and volunteers and reached out to connections in more than seven countries to ensure the children’s escape to Berlin. He got permission from Odesa’s City Council, Germany’s border patrol and authorities in multiple countries to move the children across borders with sometimes sparse documentation.

Chaya Wolff, an Israeli immigrant who lived a childhood punctuated with the reverberations of conflict, said she and her husband never imagined a Russian tank would roll down a Ukrainian street, that war would break out on the European continent in their lifetimes.

“Because of this,” she said, “we stayed here until the last moment.”

The couple tasked their 25-year-old son, Mendy Wolff, with making sure the children arrived in Berlin.

Once safe in Moldova, the bus drivers refused to continue. They demanded $42,000 to drive the buses to Germany.

“What would you say?” said Mendy Wolff, retelling the saga weeks later. “You have 120 kids (and staff) now eating supper in Chisinau. There is no place to sleep. You know it. You have to get to Berlin.”

He told the drivers he would get them their money. He had $5,000 in his pocket and no idea how he’d come up with the rest once they got to Berlin. Within hours, as news spread of the children’s need, a private donation was made to cover the fee.

The Wolffs, whose family had once been terrorized by Nazi Germany, acknowledged this new fate: Russia, a former ally during WWII, was now the aggressor, sending Jews into Germany for protection nearly 80 years later.

“Now the Germans are helping us from the Russians,” said Chaya Wolff. “It’s literally twisted.”

The Wolffs expected that the children would remain in Berlin for a couple of weeks, perhaps just through Purim, a holiday in mid-March this year that celebrates the saving of the Jews of Persia from annihilation. Then it was perhaps through Passover, a holiday beginning in mid-April this year that celebrates the Jews’ freedom from slavery in Egypt.

A donor told the Wolffs their calculations were off: They would need enough funds to care for the children in Berlin for at least three months, if not more.

Passing the time in war: school, toys, field trips

On a recent day, three young boys rush into a packed elevator holding up their nerf guns. They have been running around the hotel aiming at people or objects throughout the morning.

“We’ve got our guns and we’re starting a war!” one says in Russian.

“I have four bullets!” another boy yells.

“I have 16 bullets,” the third boy shouts.

The modern hotel in central Berlin, with clean lines, splashes of purple furniture, a large outdoor courtyard and plenty of meeting rooms, has become a massive living room for the kids, who sprawl out with their toys on the lobby floor and dash through the hallways.

In the hotel’s cavernous basement sit racks of every possible size and style of children’s clothing, as well as shoes, baby formula and diapers, toiletries, toys, books and games. A clothing store donated dresses and suits, ensuring each child had properly fitting formal wear for the Jewish holidays.

Days after their arrival, many of the children came down with COVID-19, then colds, then a stomach virus. For weeks, the hotel echoed with the sounds of clearing mucus and phlegm.

As they recovered, the children and the staff returned to their routine.

On Fridays and Saturdays, they mark Shabbat, a moment of calm amid a fraught and busy week.

The hotel meeting rooms are converted into school rooms, where the children take classes for seven hours a day virtually with their teachers, including those who stayed in Odesa or have fled elsewhere. Once, while a teacher was going over that day’s lesson, the children heard a siren go off through the video call. The class was canceled as the teacher went to the basement for cover.

The children work off of photocopied textbooks, donated notepads and their phones. Berlin police officers stand guard outside the hotel. The children are only allowed to leave for chaperoned activities to the park, the bowling alley, the zoo, the Brandenburg Gate and other sights.

The hotel chef has attempted to win over the children’s palates with fancy German salads made with turnips and apples. His overtures have fallen flat with the young people, who yearn for the potatoes, eggs, tomatoes and cucumbers of home.

The youngest ones with no parents look up to the older ones, calling those who are kind “papa” and “mama.”

But the older children are hurting too.

Yaroslav “Yarrik” Sveshnikov, 16, is one of the teenagers whose parents sent along with the orphanage to Berlin for his safety. His mother and 5-year-old brother, who has special needs, later left for Moldova, while his father stayed behind.

At first, Yarrik guessed he would be home within a week or two. He saw videos online of the Russian massacre in Bucha.

“You understand that your country is being attacked and your city is going to be attacked as well,” Yarrik said. “And you don’t know if you will come back or not.”

One image stayed with him. A man had been riding a bike when bombs struck. The bike ended up tipping over the man’s body.

“He was with the bike, like just dead,” Yarrik said.

He misses his mother, the food she prepared and how she ironed his clothes and cleaned his room. At home, he complained when she made him wake up before sunrise and rushed him to get ready for school.

“Now you understand that we need to appreciate these moments like that,” said Yarrik. “I miss that.”

At the hotel, he burned a hole in his shirt trying to iron it himself. Later, he had an adult teach him how to do it properly. He got on a WhatsApp video call and displayed his new skills to his mother. She watched, wide-eyed.

Yarrik’s new friends include 4-year-old Aaron, a child who has no parents. Yarrik gives him snacks, plenty of hugs and says goodnight to him each evening.

When the boy started calling him papa. Yarrik tried to correct him, saying, “I’m more like your best friend.”

But to Aaron, Yarrik is as close to a papa as he has ever had.

Children struggle with depression, emotions amid war

Many of the children are in shock. They can’t quite express how they are feeling, but you can see it in their body language, as they slump on the sidelines during a field trip, frowning at their phones. Some stay in bed all day. Others simply go through the motions. Their days pass in a haze.

When 16-year-old Nastya Tsishcova has a few moments between courses in one of the hotel meeting rooms, she picks up her phone and scrolls restlessly through TikTok. She hopes for distraction – music, TikTok dance videos, Instagram reels and messages with friends and strangers alike.

As she flicks her phone, a video appears of a Siberian Husky in Bucha being reunited with his owner after the mayhem of Russians massacring innocent Ukrainians. Nastya tries to keep the tears down so the other child in the room can’t see. She flicks over to other, more comedic videos, smiling at a TikTok dance routine. She discreetly wipes an eye.

“I can describe this feeling of mine as foggy. Like I don't realize completely what is going on,” she said. “When I start thinking about the war… I can’t stop crying. That’s why I’m trying to distract myself.”

But this war is inescapable and the algorithms invariably bring her back to memes making fun of Russian President Vladimir Putin or idolizing Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy.

Nastya grew up at the orphanage after her mother fled an abusive boyfriend when she was about 8 years old. She knows her mother left her there for her own good because she couldn’t afford to raise her. Still, Nastya worries constantly for her mother’s safety.

It’s another reason to be tied to her phone. A quick WhatsApp message from her helps Nastya breathe easier.

The nights are the hardest

The Wolffs have been working to get the kids psychological help, but so far only two child psychologists were able to come from Israel for about a week.

That’s why Mendy Wolff packs their days with structures and distractions, hoping that by bedtime both he and the children will be too exhausted to think.

“Because when you’re starting to think, all types of things come to your mind,” he said, “and then I’d need an army of psychologists to work with each kid.”

One night, the kids put on pajamas and settle in for a viewing of the animated film “Inside Out.” They lie on blankets and mats on the floor, lollipops half in their mouths, enraptured by the story of 11-year-old Joy, who is struggling with untangling difficult emotions amid a life-changing move to a new city.

But the children can’t stop thinking about the war they left behind.

One girl had a panic attack, kicking her legs, unable to explain what she was feeling. Another girl told the Jewish camp counselors, who were flown in from New York to help care for them, that she had been experiencing suicidal thoughts.

Weeks earlier, when Natasha had stopped hearing from her sister, she frantically scoured the internet for clues about what might have happened. Her sister lives in Kharkiv, a northeastern city in Ukraine that has borne some of the heaviest fighting against the Russians. One day, after she saw a picture of a bombed apartment building there that looked like her sister’s, she went to the camp counselors in a panic.

Trauma was not new for Natasha. When she was eight, her mother’s heart stopped beating and she died. With no family nearby who could take care of her, she ended up at the Odesa orphanage.

Nights remain the hardest. As darkness falls, some children can’t sleep, others cry or stay up on their phones.

The camp counselors, Esther Golomb, 22, and Raizy Leitner, 24, sing to their wards to calm them. They try to coax them off their phones and help them say their prayers. Both are volunteers through Yeka Girls, a Jewish youth programming organization.

On many nights, their efforts are unsuccessful. One girl told Golomb: “I want to go back home. I miss my old life.”

“We think they have smiles on their faces and we’re like, ‘OK, at least she’s doing OK, at least she’s doing OK,’” Leitner said. “And we realize they’re all crying inside all the time.”

An abandoned orphanage sits empty without children

There are other options besides the hotel. But the hotel is what keeps the children together, linked to their homeland, the Wolffs said.

The family has received an influx of adoption requests from people around the world, but has put adoptions on pause as long as the war is ongoing. It’s for the children’s safety, to ensure everyone is accounted for, and for their stability too, the family said. When the war is over, Chaya Wolff said, they can all return to Odesa together and begin again.

Until then, the orphanage sits about 1,000 miles away in Odesa, the classroom wings locked, the rooms dark. A new playground, completed shortly before war broke out, goes unused.

In the former classrooms, the walls are still decorated to celebrate Purim, it's still the Jewish month of Adar on the calendar. A pink backpack sits hanging on the side of one desk. A kid’s blue jacket is slung over the back of a chair.

For years, the teachers and staff complained about how noisy it always was in the building, said Tatiana Portnaya, the primary school’s headteacher, her eyes tearing up.

“Now we realize, that was happiness,” she said.

Teachers entertained the idea of sending videos of the school to their students so they felt less homesick. They decided it was cruel to show them the emptiness of what they left behind.

On many days, the staff walks around in tears, heartbroken. Teaching the students over Zoom has been a way for them to soldier on.

“It’s our duty to support everyday life and I hope that one day the kids can come back,” Portnaya said

As the war went on, Odesans became inured to the sirens and the booms of anti-aircraft systems; many didn’t even pause while grocery shopping. Chaya Wolff quietly wondered if the family made a mistake, fleeing with the children from the orphanage and upturning their lives again.

The humanitarian aid organization UNICEF has warned that traffickers have been seeking to exploit the chaos of war and displacement. And thousands of children are believed to have been kidnapped since the early days of the war, their circumstances unknown, Zelenskyy said in March.

Then in late April, a missile attack in Odesa killed eight people, including a mother and her three-month-old baby. All of Chaya Wolff’s doubts about whether they had done the right thing were stilled.

Rolling through the unknown together

On a recent Sunday, the children’s caretakers escorted them to a local bowling alley, another gift from a donor, to lighten the mood. Trays with plastic cups of Fanta and Pepsi are placed on tables and the kids eat handfuls of animal crackers from a backpack full of snacks.

The children grab the bowling balls, dropping them, bouncing them and sliding them down the lanes. One boy repeatedly takes a massive swing back with both hands between his legs, before letting the ball drop with a mighty thunk onto the middle of his lane.

The strikes, spares and struck pins are greeted with high fives, fist pumps and shrieks of elation.

Nastya quietly walks up to a lane, bowling two gutter balls in a row. Then she hits all but two pins with a ball straight down the middle. She walks away, plunking herself on the sidelines and back on her phone, her shoulders hunched forward and inward.

Eventually, after dismissing messages from an unknown German boy who saw her social media account and wants to meet – “Trouble,” she said – she abandons the phone entirely. She opts to drown out her sorrows and worries at least for a few minutes with the blasting Israeli pop music emanating from a speaker.

A few other girls join her, and she breaks out some dance steps and a shy smile.

None of them know where they might go next or when they might go home. But together in the now, at least they have each other.

Translation: Kateryna Kovalenko in Berlin and Anna Vasylioglo in Odesa.

Tami Abdollah is a USA TODAY correspondent. Send tips via direct message @latams or email tami(at)usatoday.com

This article originally appeared on USA TODAY: Russian war haunts young Ukrainian refugees now living in Germany