Western Ukraine
Outside a military recruiting centre in Lviv, Egor Grushin, one of Ukraine’s most famous classical pianists, was waiting in line to join up. He was tall and slim with a wispy beard, long delicate fingers and large brown eyes that gazed into the middle distance. In other words, he was – as he would admit – no one’s idea of a soldier. He knew he would not be accepted into a frontline unit because, as he explained, so many people were volunteering that there weren’t enough guns to go round: only those with military experience could join the regular army. Instead, he would be part of Lviv’s civil defence forces, ‘hunting saboteurs’ and waiting for the Russian – or Belorussian – tanks. He spoke matter-of-factly about his willingness to die for Ukraine:
‘We want to live in peace. We want to live in freedom. We won’t give up our land and our freedom for anything.’
We were standing on one of Lviv’s quaint cobbled streets. This is Ukraine’s most beautiful city, full of pastel-coloured neo-classical buildings dating from the Habsburg Empire. Today, the elegant boulevards are still crowded, everyone coming and going almost as if things are normal. The war is not here yet, though there are many signs of its imminent arrival. Sandbags are piled up outside the doorways of official buildings and from time to time the wail of an air raid siren can be heard across the city, sending people to their basements. (So far, these have all been false alarms.) A note from our hotel’s concierge asks for our ‘understanding of certain inconveniences’, including a late start to breakfast because of curfew. The note asks us to notify reception or the police if we see ‘suspicious’ individuals. It’s signed: ‘Slava Ukraini! Heroyam slava!’ Glory to Ukraine! Glory to our heroes!
People say this in Lviv these days instead of ‘hello’ or ‘goodbye’.
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