by Marta Serafini, sent to Mikolajiv
Coming from the west you will pass ten checkpoints. The city collects the dead from the surrounding villages, at least 100 a day. And he doesn’t want strangers around him. Get out
We are used to resisting, we have done nothing else all our lives. Luba’s hands are so big they look like a giant’s. The creases are so deep that tears immediately gather. Mykolaiv, the Tsars’ shipyard, founded by Prince Grigory Aleksandrovič Potmkin. Mykolaiv, the workingclass town, nestled between Soviet highrise buildings and docks, tucked away in the bend of the Bug River. Mykolayiv, who managed to repel the Tsar’s attack and is now struggling to avoid becoming a martyr like Mariupol while protecting Queen Odessa.
The destruction
At least ten checkpoints coming from the west. Then enter the center through the bridges. They’re all undermined, if the Russians get closer again we’ll blow them up, the military says. Luba walks slowly, handkerchief on his head, stick for support. With her a friend who does not want to give her name. I’m scared of this city, but it was like that before the war, here full of drug addicts, don’t say who we are. Behind them are the remains of the supermarket where they do their daily shopping, two weeks ago it was attacked by Russian artillery when the tanks reached the outskirts of town. The window destroyed, the remains of a rocket in front of the front door. We live together, we are both widows. We still have to eat, but who knows for how long. Isa has also just finished shopping. They destroyed a pharmacy and the optician near his home. A broken branch was stuck in the shop shed. dangerous, be careful, says the building’s porter as he sweeps the glass that still lies on the sidewalk. I bought two boxes of hair dye, I did it today because tomorrow who knows. But I won’t die. A truck brings another load of bodies to the city morgue. They come from the villages in the north, from the port where they just dropped two missiles, from the targeted barracks. Inga is crying, she is leaning on her mother’s arm, they have brought her boyfriend here. Put a handkerchief over your mouth so you don’t smell the stench. In his hands the bag with the camouflage, which is still stained with blood. In front of the morgue, the florist Sergiy is preparing the wreaths. In peacetime there were about 20 deaths a day. Then with the pandemic there were 50. Now he says there are at least 100. As he says, a team from the Ukrainian special forces is approaching. They break down a front door. They’re looking for the saboteurs, says Sergiy. Go away, it’s not safe for you journalists to stay here.
The roar of the fighters
There is no peace in Mykolaiv, not even a handshake before parting. Two Ukrainian fighters fly very low over the city. First one, then the other. The roar leaves you breathless. Our people are defending us, everything is fine. Artur, owner of Hotel Inhul, also did well. He was in his office two days ago when a rocket went through the building, a Sovietera building. as if he’d cut it up like a stick of butter, he murmurs as he gazes at the glass and debris strewn about the courtyard and shakes his head in disbelief. I don’t know if I can rebuild everything, it depends if they will rebuild me. But at least I’m alive.
The hook of the tanks
Putin’s tanks are east towards Kherson, 40 kilometers away. Rejected at a loss. We have decided to bury their soldiers as well, regional governor Vitaliy Kim said. But now they are moving north, trying to get around Mykolaiv, trying to hook around him to get to Odessa. On this side of the front, the checkpoints follow each other without a break. The soldiers smoke. Someone threw themselves on a mattress to rest. Egg cartons left in the sun, machine guns loaded and ready to go. On the way to Kalynivka, the Inhul River sparkles in the sunlight. A group of swans stand on the shore, unaware of the chaos that surrounds them. Will this war ever end? In the fields along the roadside, the remains of rockets and missiles are embedded in the earth like crosses in a graveyard. A few more kilometers. Another checkpoint as tank ruts on the asphalt slow the race. The entrance to the villages around Mykolaiv is blocked. Either concrete barriers or piles of flammable tires to confuse the enemy. A little girl in a pink coat salutes with her hand. At 10 kilometers the black smoke columns polluted the blue sky. Dad pulls her arm while the dog growls at the door and the chickens scratch in the yard. Go away, you are the eyes of the enemy. Get out, because anyone could hurt Mykolayiv again.
March 23, 2022 (change March 24, 2022 | 09:48)
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