What is happening is truly hell, my cousin in Kharkiv texts me via Telegram. Last night was his fifth in succession in a bomb shelter. He has been spending his days and nights underground with his wife and their two young children, while their city suffers heavy bombardment. Kharkiv, Ukraine’s second-largest metropolis and home to 1.4m people, stands up against the Russian border in the east of the country. Many of its residents speak Russian as their first language.

On Sunday it was reported that Russian troops had entered the city. Their attack was repelled, but the bombing resumed. On Monday morning, images of Russian missiles striking residential neighbourhoods travelled across the internet. A reporter posted footage of a missile landing in someone’s apartment: the bomb came straight through the ceiling, blowing out windows and destroying pipes. On Tuesday, a Russian missile exploded in the city’s central square. Images of dead civilians circulated on Telegram. My cousin told me that yesterday a bomb fell on the house next door; today one just missed his building’s garage. A professor from Kharkiv likened the burning city to the deepest circle of Dante’s Inferno.

When the invasion began my cousin had planned to leave the city and take shelter at his family’s dacha in the woods. Then he heard that Russian tanks were already lining the streets nearby. The woods were peaceful, but soldiers were photographing anyone who passed by. So he decided to stay in Kharkiv, and the family descended into their building’s bomb shelter. In addition to his two young children, there are other families – five other children, including a three-month-old. They have food, and are able to send someone out for milk and supplies. But visiting their own apartments is too risky. The sound of bombs echoes underground.

Kyiv’s metro system is famously impressive, elaborately decorated with marble, mosaics and murals. Now it has become a place of refuge. The normally bustling streets of Kyiv are shuttered and deserted. Aside from some cars and a few, bold pedestrians, the city is deathly quiet, but for sounds of bombs falling. Rumoured sightings of Russian tanks increase the sense of trepidation. The military has been distributing weapons to anyone who wants to help defend the city. Outside one metro station in the northern suburb of Obolon, an old woman in a lilac winter coat stood guard, armed with a Kalashnikov.

An old woman in a lilac winter coat stood guard, armed with a Kalashnikov

Arsenalna station is the deepest in the world; the platform lies more than 100 metres below ground. “This is one of the only places right now where you can hide in Kyiv,” says Bogdan Voytenko, hunkered down for the night with two friends. “All of the other places are…terrifying.” The city is under a strict curfew: anyone seen on the streets after a certain hour risks being shot as a saboteur.

Over the past few days some people have started claiming spaces underground in the early afternoon, bracing themselves for yet another tough night ahead. They arrive with food, water, blankets and pillows and prepare to hunker down. Some swaddle themselves in blankets to stay warm.

The scene is reminiscent of the second world war, but this isn’t like the Blitz: everyone has a phone to distract them. On a recent night in Kyiv, two girls sit together covered in a blanket, giggling and somehow managing to have fun, surrounded by their bags. Children play with each other, apparently oblivious to what is going on above them. Yet the anxiety is palpable, and operates on many levels. There is a divide between masked and unmasked people: covid is rife, which adds an extra level of stress.

Anyone seen on the streets from 10pm to 7am may be shot as a saboteur

Many bomb shelters in Kyiv are left over from the Cold War, when the Soviet authorities feared that NATO might attack. Now there are other kinds of makeshift shelters, too. Families hunker down in an underground car park where, despite hours of waiting in the cold under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, everyone looks at ease. After a building across the street was hit, they at least feel safe here. Families keep to themselves and children sit quietly, playing on their phones. Even the dogs are well-behaved.

My friends from Kyiv are taking shelter with their young son, who says he wants to build aeroplanes when he grows up. On February 25th, Russian forces destroyed the Mriya, a Ukrainian cargo aircraft that was the largest in the world. The boy played with Lego models of the plane and drew pictures of it. The name Mriya means “dream”: their son was already hard at work, his parents said, rebuilding the Ukrainian dream. ■

Linda Kinstler is a contributing writer for 1843 magazine in Washington, DC. Additional reporting by Francesca Ebel and Ron Haviv in Kyiv, and Ann Hanna in London

PHOTOGRAPHS: RON HAVIV V11 AGENCY