Terrifying night in the center of Kyiv, followed by a day of roaring shocks from distant suburbs.
And the psychological effect on the defenseless civilian population can be found deep underground, on the “red line” platform of the metro station Vokzalna.
A young family had just taken refuge there after thunderous Russian missile strikes in the early hours of yesterday morning.
After days at home, they had reached the end of their endurance.
Data analyst Alexander and his wife, journalist Lisa, have landed unhappily on a bench with their 13-year-old daughters, Arina, and six-year-old Polina.
Next to them is the already familiar small pile of hand luggage and a plastic bag carrying sweets and biscuits for the girls on their long journey west.
Data analyst Alexander and his wife, journalist Lisa, landed unhappily on a bench with their 13-year-old daughters, Arina, and six-year-old Polina.
The story they tell will resonate with all parents in every country. “Last night was the end for us,” says Alexander.
“We spent the last six days in a house next to the Babi Yar TV mast and we felt the explosion when the Russians hit it on Tuesday night.” Five civilians were killed.
“Four or five days ago there was an attack on a car and a girl who goes to the same kindergarten with my Arina was killed. Another acquaintance of the family died on Monday.
“Yesterday we refused to go to the West with a colleague and his family because we had no clear idea of the road situation. Then early this morning, after the latest attacks, my mother-in-law called my wife and persuaded her to leave. I’ll take them on a train to Poland later tonight.
He will stay in Kyiv, he said. “I want to join the Territorial Defense Squads. I tried to buy an AK [Kalashnikov] but it was not possible. I have to stay here and fight.
He staggered and his eyes filled with tears.
“I’m sorry, it’s a very difficult decision to say goodbye to your family in these circumstances. I never expected to be in such a situation.
Alexander, his wife Lisa and daughters Arina (13) and Polina (6), pictured underground at Kyiv’s Vokzalnaya metro station, where the platform and train have been set aside to house refugees
He says his girls are doing well, but Arina is increasingly worried about her friend Masha, who has been in a bombed-out area and has been off social media for two days.
Alexander has nothing but contempt for Vladimir Putin and his invasion. “The only thing we’re really afraid of is nuclear weapons,” he said.
“Three days ago, the initial shock began to subside and I saw that they would not be able to defeat us with conventional weapons.
“Most of these Russian soldiers look as rotten as homeless people – by the way, without disrespect for the homeless.
“But you see how bad some of their equipment is – they’re in the military and they’re provided with scripts and they’re supplied with food that has run out for years. This shows that Russian leaders are not interested in their own people and will not be interested in us.
“We Ukrainians are nothing more than dirt to them.”
There is a stationary train next to the platform where the family is waiting.
Before the invasion, he would stop for no more than 30 seconds before continuing on his way to the end of the Akademistechko station line.
He’s been here for a few days instead.
A woman cries while saying goodbye to her husband before boarding a train going to Lviv at Kyiv station
There are no lights in the carriages, but by opening the graffiti-covered sliding doors, one can enter and find that the train is now a bomb shelter and a hostel for more of Kyiv’s frightened citizens.
Svetlana and Tatiana, two middle-aged friends from Kiev’s Lukianovska district, spent several days in a carriage.
Svetlana is accompanied by her 17-year-old son, who is lying asleep on a seat under a blanket. “First we tried the subway, which is closest to our homes, but it was very hot in this neighborhood, a lot of missile strikes,” she said.
“So instead we walked here. It was a very scary trip. As we passed the Ministry of Infrastructure, a woman was lying dead on the sidewalk, covered with a sheet. Now I don’t want to leave the shelter at all.
Tatiana said she had come home earlier in the day to wash, but otherwise there was no reason to move. Food and water are provided by volunteer organizations.
Indeed, at the entrance to the metro station we pass a mountain of boxes of fresh bread intended for the shelters below.
Gift from Rivne [a town in western Ukraine] to Kyiv “is written on one. Someone has built a shrine of the Virgin Mary nearby. Next to it is a handwritten cardboard inscription with the inscription “Mother Putin ******”.
Another subway shelter refuses us to enter from a security guard who tells us that some people have been there for seven days and the conditions are not good.
“It will be a shame to see them like that,” he said. If Kyiv’s underground network begins to resemble that of London during the Blitz – and locals want to make the comparison – then on the surface they are preparing for a Stalingrad-style defense.
A couple says goodbye on a train going to Lviv at Kyiv station. Ukrainian men must stay to fight in the war while women and children leave the country to seek refuge in a neighboring country
Tank traps have been thrown across the road in Independence Square, the epicenter of the 2014 Maidan revolution against Russian influence in Ukraine, and six large mounds at the bottom of Khreshchatyk Street, which leads to major government buildings, including the presidency. the sand is poured on the road.
Volunteers are busy throwing sand in sacks to make a new defense in the event of a street fight.
As I watch, a passerby stops, puts his bike aside, and turns on. Roman said he works for a transport company.
He brought bread to relatives locked in the basements of his homes, “but I had to stop to help these boys.”
Such is the defiant mood here. The nearby underground supermarket still has a healthy supply of some goods – ice cream and soft drinks – but lacks basic items such as milk, bread and fruit.
An elderly woman carries her purchases — a salad and a kitchen roll — in a plastic bag labeled “English Home.”
She shakes her head and says, “Don’t ask me about last night. It was awful. This is a disaster.
From time to time there is another alarming disaster from the outskirts of the city.
In the center, the streets remain largely deserted, with the exception of military and occasionally phlegmatic retirees.
One named Olga stops me in a side street where a red London Routemaster bus is parked. “I was born here, I live here and I will die here,” she said.
We walk to the top of the panoramic Vladimir Hill overlooking the Dnieper River to the beach, where four summers ago I swam and drank beer in an outdoor bar.
Children watch from an evacuation train going from Kyiv to Lviv as they say goodbye to their father at Kyiv Central Station
It’s snowing now, and when a dump truck carrying more sand crashes along an uneven cobblestone road, we all jump.
The concert hall, where the Kiev Chamber Orchestra was to play, is closed.
At the entrance to the Post metro station at the foot of the hill, a comfort-seeking cat rubs at my feet and then runs down the stairs, while more blows are heard from the north of the city.
A metal explosive door is fixed at the entrance, leaving passengers and asylum seekers to sneak in.
Another stationary train provides dormitories.
Pillows and blankets are arranged on the seats, and a pair of slippers are neatly waiting for their owner to return.
Notes in English warn you not to forget Covid’s regulations and not to lean on the carriage doors.
One longs for the days when these issues were priorities here.
We catch taxis outside again. The driver’s name is Eugene, and he complains about rising fuel prices and the growing difficulty of finding them.
“My brother was killed in Afghanistan in 1981 while fighting for the Soviets,” he said. “This is another senseless Russian war.”