Right up to the very last moment, I refused to believe it was possible – that Russia would attack us. Although my friend Alyona told me back in November that her brother, who lives in the UK, warned her that there were rumours about Russia preparing for a big war in Ukraine. I’d simply brushed the thought away. I went to the Berlinale, and on February 12, just before the screening of the Nick Cave documentary This Much I Know To Be True, I read the news that the Americans were again warning about an imminent Russian invasion. It said the invasion would happen on February 16, the day I was due to travel back home to Sumy from Berlin. Yet, though nothing actually happened on February 16, my anxiety was growing.
I spoke with my mum about it and neither of us could believe that Russia would invade. “What?! A real war? Like during WWII? It’s impossible!”
On February 24, I woke up at half past five in the morning, and lay in bed for a while. Then my husband, who was reading the news on his mobile phone, told me: “Get up and get dressed!” Confused, I asked: “What should I wear?” – “Whatever’s comfortable,” he answered. I put on my jeans and a warm jumper; I made coffee. My husband woke up our son. Then we heard someone knocking at the neighbour’s door. My husband went out on the landing, and saw our neighbour, a policeman, dressed in his uniform and carrying a rifle. “It’s… it’s… war. Are you staying here or are you going to evacuate?” he asked. He was pretty anxious, understandably: he has two young children.
We picked up our rucksacks, which we had packed a few days ago with biscuits, bottles of water, ID documents and warm socks, and left our apartment to go to my mother-in-law’s house. Our cat Marsik meowed in his carrying case all the way to the house. It was 7 am, but the streets were full of people. Many people walked in groups, carrying bags and rucksacks. There were queues to the cash machines. People were withdrawing cash, because the shops stopped accepting bank cards. Bread disappeared from the shelves very fast.
We reached my mother-in-law’s house. The TV was on and we started watching the Ukraine 24 channel, which was broadcasting the first news of the war. They said not only Chernihiv, Kharkiv and Melitopol in the east, but also the city of Ivano-Frankivsk in the west of the country were under attack. They said five Russian planes had been shotdown. I deleted my film chat and subscribed to the local Sumy Telegram channels, which were publishing up-to-date news and info. At around 2 pm we saw three armoured vehicles driving along our street, tucked away deep in the heart of the city. At 5 pm we learnt that Russian tanks were moving along Kharkivskaya Street. My son checked a video broadcast from the city web-cams on his phone and said: “Look – they’re driving past the Sadko fountain and turning towards the train station”. Later in the evening we heard the news that there was heavy fighting for the local cadet school. At night the sky in that district turned red, a church was on fire. This very particular ominous red colour which we, Ukrainians, remember very well from the days of Maidan.
Friday, February 25
We had a very restless night, disturbed by continual gunfire from the cadet school. Since yesterday, we were hearingrumours that Sumy was taken by the Russian troops. This is not true. There is fighting on the streets. My mum called me and said that Russian tanks were approaching Belopolye. She was afraid that they would fire on civilians. However, they drove by with relatively little damage. At the same time, another Russian tank brigade was shooting at everything and everyone in sight on their way from Gloukhov to Kyiv. A taxi driver was shot dead. A taxi driver was also killed in Trostyanets.
Natalia Serebryakova and her son in the cellar
But the gravest tragedy happened in Okhtyrka: Uragan rocket launchers shot at the suburban residential area, a bomb shelter and a kindergarten. Six people were killed, seventeen wounded, including two seriously wounded children. I was reading the news about Okhtyrka tragedy when my son opened a window for some fresh air. “I can hear sirens!” – he said. We put Marsik in his carrier, put on our coats and went down to the cellar. Our cellar is two meters by four meters, with two benches along the walls; there are stacks of tinned food on one side. There is no mobile networkcoverage, the only way one can catch a signal is by climbing a ladder and holding the phone above one’s head, next to the hole in the ceiling (just like in Parasite).
We took turns to climb the ladder for more than two hours, trying to read the Telegram channels to find out whether artillery shelling was still going on. My mum called to say that my cousin Yura was sitting in a bomb shelter in his house. “They have a very good shelter!” – said my mum. “Four exits, ventilation, electricity sockets and benches!” – she informed me. Yura’s mother recently died of Covid. She did not live to see this shame.
It seems my husband has Covid (everyone here has completely forgotten about it by now). Omicron, or an earlier variant. He has chills, a sore throat, a cough and a mild fever. We don’t have any medicines with us except for Ibuprofen and some herbs. We made calendula and eucalyptus tea, we hope it will help him.
I’m receiving messages from my Russian friends all day long. They apologize on Putin’s behalf and ask how they can help us.
I’ve been reading a lot of fake news that the entire police force has run away from Sumy and the city has surrendered to the occupying forces. These lies were even spread by an Orthodox church priest (Moscow Patriarchate) in one of the city churches, where members of congregation were taking refuge. I prefer to read only the official sources. The city mayor confirmed that the city of Sumy is controlled by the Ukrainian authorities. We go to bed early, as the news comes that the fighting over the cadet school has resumed.
Saturday, February 26
I slept for hours. In the morning, it turns out that my husband is feeling better, but Marsik is feeling worse. My husband doesn’t have fever. Marsik, however, has not been eating or drinking for 24 hours, has not gone to the toilet either, and is hiding under the sofa. He must be scared of the cellar. We decide not to take him down there again, especially since so far our district does not seem to be targeted by the shelling. We’ve got to go to the city centre, to the pet shop, to get Marsik a stress relief medicine, but we hear on the news that there’s heavy fighting going on everywhere in the city streets and citizens are advised to remain in their homes.
Terrible news comes from Okhtyrka again. They’re firing on residential districts, three hundred people have been hospitalised with wounds. There are dead too, including a seven-year-old girl. Yesterday night, the Russian troops were attempting to take Kyiv and hit a residential building. My Kyiv friends took refuge at the metro station instead of a bomb shelter. We hear the news that Zelensky is ready to negotiate with Putin, who is demanding that Ukraine remainsneutral and doesn’t join NATO and EU. Knowing the history of the war in Ukraine, which has been going on in the east of the country since 2014, I can’t imagine that Ukraine would agree to neutrality. Especially since Putin cannot betrusted.
All of a sudden, our friends arrive by car. They drove us to the pet shop to buy some stress relief drops for the cat. On the way, when we stopped at a traffic light, a man in civilian clothes with a rifle knocked on our car window and asked to give him a lift to Troitskaya Street. But our car was full. In the pet shop we were served not by a regular shop assistant, but by a vet, who gave us detailed instructions on how to give our cat the drops. Another customer came in to buy some hay for her hamster. The vet’s phone rang and I could hear a loud voice saying “Where are you? We are in theshelter!”
Another artillery fire warning came, so we hurried back to the house and went down to the cellar. We stayed down there for four hours, reading the news. In Belopolskaya Street, a residential house was hit, in Veretenovka there’s a large fire, not yet possible to establish whether there are any casualties. My sister called to say that there were people firing guns and rifles in her courtyard, right under her windows. She saw these young people with rifles from her window. She said they were holding their rifles like bunches of flowers. You could see that they were amateurs.
A former colleague of mine, we used to work for the same local newspaper, has joined the Territorial Army. He wrote about it on Facebook. In Russia, Facebook has been banned as of today.
Sunday, February 27
I wake up determined to cure Marsik. I need to give him water and food from a syringe every hour to avoid dehydration.
Now every new day seems exactly the same as the day before – we can no longer leave the house because of heavy fighting in the streets; every evening a siren signals the beginning of the artillery attack. There is a curfew from 6 pm till 6 am. Alcohol sales are banned. We cannot even drink a glass of wine any longer. We hear about hungry Russian soldiers breaking into local shops and houses in search of food. I saw a video of Russian soldiers looting a Privatbank office. My mum calls to say that she spent five hours in a bread queue. She also says that a house in the neighbourhood was broken into: the thieves put a knife to the neighbour’s throat and wanted to rob the house. By some miracle, nobody got hurt. Now her street will be patrolled by neighbourhood watch members, armed with hunting rifles.
It’s cold in our cellar. We put an electric heater in there and a fire extinguisher.
In the evening, Marsik is feeling better. He is getting livelier, he’s eating from his bowl and purring.
Many friends from Kyiv have left for Lviv and Uzhhorod. We are not able to leave – the trains are not running, the city is besieged, at the checkpoints in the outskirts of the city, civilian vehicles are being shot at. A car carrying a man and a woman and three children was fired at, the woman died on the spot. Near Okhtyrka, a bus full of civilians was fired at, and they wouldn’t let an ambulance through to them. Okhtyrka just breaks my heart. It is under constant artillery fire. Meme of the day: “The Taliban condemns the Russian aggression in Ukraine”. We spend our time in the cellar talking about Putin and geopolitics.
Monday, February 28
Our morning begins with the news that a vacuum bomb, an internationally prohibited weapon, was dropped on the Okhtyrka oil storage facility, which is now on fire.
Kharkiv is under heavy bombardments. The Maria PrymachenkoMuseum was burned down. A woman in Kharkiv lost both legs in an explosion. I cannot bear reading the news anylonger… We drove to my sister’s place, brought her some food. We also popped into our apartment to pick up some toiletries, clothes and medicines. We had to hurry because the news came that a column of Russian tanks is advancing through the city and residents should remain indoors. At the same time, the streets are full of pedestrians and cars; there are queues in front of the shops.
The Association of Ukrainian Film Critics has written a letter to FIPRESCI calling for a ban on Russian films at the international festivals. I signed it and forwarded it to a few acquaintances of mine in the US – to Danny Kasman from MUBI and Adam Cook from Indiewire. I haven’t heard back yet. Ukrainian intellectuals are now saying that the entire “great Russian culture” has to be cancelled. I’m in two minds about it: on the one hand, I agree with this, but on the other hand, I’m against because I’m certain that we have to continue our dialogue with the Russians. However, many Ukrainian curators and editors completely reject the idea of the Russian-Ukrainian dialogue, while sitting in a relatively safe Lviv. I find myself here in Sumy, besieged by the Russian troops, and I still believe that we can influence the Russian liberal community. I don’t know who is right in this situation.
There’s good news too. 90 Russian tanks and 20 Grads were destroyed by the Ukrainian Bayraktars near the town of Lebedyn.
An acquaintance of mine got stuck in Germany – he couldn’t get on a flight from Berlin. Apparently, he has a guardian angel watching over him. We exchange news.
In the evening my throat begins to feel sore. Luckily, we had time to buy some medicines.
Tuesday, March 1
I wake up to the sound of shooting. My throat is sore. The first news I hear is that they’ve destroyed Freedom Square in Kharkiv, the biggest urban square in Ukraine. Ten people killed, twenty wounded. From Russia comes the news that there are more international sanctions imposed in the cultural sphere – Russian audiences won’t get to see TheBatman.What a catastrophe! Zelensky has submitted an application for Ukraine to join the EU. Waiting for a response. In the meantime, we hear that at the outskirts of Sumy, a Russian tank brigade displaying white flags is driving around shooting left, right and centre.
It snowed last night: the entire courtyard and garden turned white. Today is the first day of spring, the snow has melted. A friend from Russia wrote that the war would only last until the end of the week. No one can be sure of anything anymore. We cannot even be sure that Putin won’t start a nuclear war.
Never mind. Sooner or later, we shall win.
Wednesday, March 2
A friend posted on Facebook: “Remember, we used to have “days of the week” before the war?”. Now we no longer know what day and what date it is. One has to be very apt and efficient to be able to wash one’s hair and dry it with a hairdryer while the electricity is still on, and before the time comes to go back to the cellar. Otherwise, if your hair is wet, you are bound to catch a cold in a cold and damp cellar. Today in Sumy they were giving away live chickens, a whole truckload of them. My mother-in-law brought two birds. Then our friends arrived with four more. None of us has ever killed a chicken before. We had never even bought live fish, because none of us could stand chopping fish heads off. We put the chickens in the shed, but they are unlikely to survive there for much longer. They don’t eat or drink, the stronger birds are attacking the weaker ones. Next morning, we find one egg. My mother-in-law heroically kills the birds, one by one. I help to pluck them. The streets are covered with snow. When the fighting in the streets subsides, the artillery attacks or air raids begin. We spend three to six hours a day in the shelter. We sleep in our clothes and use old fur coats as blankets. The TV has stopped working. There’s a problem with the provider. I read Telegram channels. Facebook informs me that President Zelenskiy was the Ukrainian voice of Paddington Bear. Zelenskiy has already become an international hero and the man of the year but this information definitely adds to his credibility in my eyes.
Thursday, March 3
Okhtyrka is no longer livable. However, people still live there.
An acquaintance from Okhtyrka wrote that they don’thave heating (the power plant was bombed) and they are using electric heaters to keep warm. We also have regular power cuts. We made a short trip to our apartment. We saw our neighbours. They wonder why they never see us in the bomb shelter. We tell them we were hiding in the cellar of my mother-in-law’s house. “And how have you been doing?” we ask. “Well, at least they are not razing us to the ground, like they did in Okhtyrka and Trostyanets…” Our apartment stinks. The fridge got defrosted because of the power cuts. Now there is no water, so I cannot clean it; we simply empty out all the spoiled food. We take everything which is still edible: a jar of olives, several jars of jam and an apple. In Trostyanets, not only the Russian soldiers but also local residents loot the shops. First, the invaders rob the places, then come the locals, who pick up everything which has not been stolen already.
Saturday, March 5 It’s sunny today and the snow is melting. Since early morning, everything has been very quiet. So quiet that it makes my blood curdle. We find out from our neighbourhood chat group that there is running water in the apartment again. We drive to the apartment to do the dishes and to clean the fridge. Actually, the dirty dishes have been lying in the sink for 10 days (never leave dirty dishes overnight). I wash everything, up to the last frying pan, which already has fungus flourishing on it.
We empty out the remaining stuff from the fridge. I take the garbage out to the courtyard – there’s not a single car parked there today. It feels like spring has come, and there is no war. We go to the pet shop to get food for Marsik. Hispreferred food is only available in small packages, so we also buy a large bag of another brand. Marsik cannot afford to be so picky at the moment. We also stock up on cat litter.
On the way back we drive through the city centre and stop at the butchers. The shelves are completely empty. The only available item for sale is ice cream, but nobody is buying it. Next stop is the supermarket. It’s also empty. We buy a jar of instant coffee, the bars of chocolate and ground pepper. Cartons of fruit juices and household cleaning substances are also still available. There’s also chewing gum. Nothing else. In a little park, at the edge of a motorway, a truck is parked. They are selling live chickens straight from the truck. We are too late – a man before us picks up the last remaining birds. I cannot help thinking, what is going to happen to us when there is no more food left? It’s good that we have quite a few jars of gherkins and boxes of potatoes in the cellar. At half past three, we hear a siren, informing us that an air raid is about to begin. We hurry down to the cellar. The electric heater keeps switching off and on. My son switches on a lecture on programming on his phone and invites me to listen with him. We listen together. I learn a lot of new stuff about programming. We spend more than three hours in the cellar. No signal that the air attack is over. I start thinking about my son’s birthday, which is approaching. In my worst nightmare I couldn’t have dreamt that my son would be celebrating his birthday in a bomb shelter! At the same time, we know certain people who don’t have cellars in their houses, and who don’t have access to a nearby located bomb shelter. They sit in their corridors during air raids or, having barricaded their windows with pillows, they sleep whilst an artillery attack is still in full progress. At least we have a cellar and it’s full of potatoes. This is already good news.
Sunday, March 6 At 5 am, I awake to a deafening explosion nearby. The Telegram channels are full of air raid warnings. We go down to the cellar, and stay there for at least three hours. We hear the sounds – first air raid sirens, then explosions. I doze off. At half past eight, we go up again. Marsik greets us from the window sill. I lie down on the sofa to get a little sleep. In half an hour, we hear another explosion and another siren goes off. Hiding in the cellar has become our daily routine. My son is watching a lecture on programming on his phone. Another air raid is over. We have tea.
Our close friends ask us if we are ready to evacuate, in case an opportunity presents itself. They persuade us topack our bags. We drive to our apartment to get some things. My husband insists on not taking much stuff – if our car’s overloaded, it won’t get far on an road covered in snow. In the end, I only pack one jumper and a pair of jeans. The rest – my spring coat, shoes, underwear, socks – takes up too much space.
No sooner are we back at the house than we hear another siren. We sit in the cellar till 6 pm. We keep a crowbar down there, in case we need to dig our way out of rubble. In the evening, my mother sends a photo of herself in her cellar with her dog Barsik. Barsik has a very sweet expression on his face, as if he is smiling. He’s afraid of loud noises, especially thunder. Usually, when there is a thunderstorm, my mother hides Barsik inside, in the corridor usually, he lives in his kennel in the yard). Surprisingly, my mother says, Barsik is not afraid of the sirens. He’s a brave dog!
I sit in the living room with the TV on till midnight. “Ukraine 24” is showing an interview with the Chechen leader in exile, Ahmed Zakayev, broadcast live from the UK. Zakayev expresses his solidarity with the Ukrainian people. I’m about to go to bed, but I’m afraid of falling asleep and missing a siren. I don’t want to retreat into a sweet dreamland, where war has not yet begun; I don’t want that false feeling of peace and quiet. I stay awake till 4 am; I listen to the noises outside. Marsik comes in, jumps on top of my duvet, curls up and falls asleep.
Monday, March 7
I get up at 7 am. I haven’t had much sleep. There’s even more snow on the ground. We receive a message that there is street fighting going on somewhere near Khimgorod. I put chicken broth on to boil. I want to make a big pan of bortsch. An acquaintance from Russia messages us saying that Emmanuel Macron has made a deal with Putin allowing for evacuation corridors from several Ukrainian cities to Russia. Sumy is on that list of cities. Our friends call us to say that they have decided to evacuate via Younanovka to Russia. Their plan seems rather crazy. Telegram channels are warning that Russia is preparing provocations in these so-called “green corridors”. A few hours later, in the afternoon, during an air raid, our friends call us again. Their evacuation plan failed, the Russians did not let them through the border. These “green corridors” are a fake.
A relatively quiet day, with only one air raid, ends in tragedy.
At 11 pm, I’m exchanging messages with a friend on Facebook. I write that I’m not scared of anything anymore, I just want to go back to my apartment. Suddenly, I hear a terrible roar of a plane just above our roof and then a loud explosion somewhere nearby. I wake everybody up and we run to the cellar. Once we’re down there, we try to find out what happened. We read that a huge pillar of smoke can be seen in the centre of the city. Later we learn that a bomb hit a house in Romenskaya Street, right next to where we live. A family with children was killed, the house completely destroyed. In total, 21 people were killed in Sumy in tonight’s air raid.
For us, this was the last straw. Next day, together with our friends, we decide it’s time to evacuate. My heart aches as I leave Marsik with my mother; he is a very delicate cat, a long car journey would be too much for him. I hope I will see him and my mother again.
Natalia Serebryakova. Sumy, Ukraine.
(Translated from Russian by Maria Choustova and Jonathan Romney)