TA的每日心情 | 开心
2023-3-1 00:08 |
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Kommersant（俄国商报，又名“生意人报”）是私人拥有的俄罗斯全国性报纸，创刊于1909年，内容多偏向经济与时政新闻。记者Alexander Chernykh和摄影师Anatoly Zhdanov最近去了一趟Mariupol，做了这篇战地采访。因为谈话内容中提到莫斯科号沉没，所以应该就是这两天的事情。原文是俄语，靠着Google Translate也可以看个大概其。把机器翻译的英文内容拷贝一下，以防万一链接打不开。原文中有大量照片和录像。
读后感：乱世人命如草芥，出门打水、干活，无缘无故飞来一颗子弹或者炮弹，好端端的一个人就没了。谁打的？不知道。绝大部分老百姓根本区分不了乌军和俄军，都穿一样的军装。俄军对老百姓挺好，乌军也并不是中文媒体中的“纳粹杀人狂”。老百姓痛恨俄军吗？并不见得；痛恨乌军吗？更是没影的事儿。就像采访的那两个劈柴的乌克兰老妇人讲，
“You know, we were not happy with everything. The pension is small, yes. Utilities are expensive. We were dissatisfied with our mayor, it's true. So what? You probably scold yours too?
“It happens,” I confess.
- “Well, you see. But these are common problems. It was not worth demolishing our entire city because of such problems.”
当记者跟一个老头解释俄国人管这个叫“特别军事行动”，为了把俄族人从纳粹手中“解放”出来，老头说
That is, they decided to cut our hair, but at the same time they took off our shoes and stripped us and left us without a home.
老太太们忍饥挨饿，无医无药的心脏病患者半夜死在家里。。。 记者镜头所见，Mariupol现在仍然是尸横遍野 （见录像）- 乌军不见踪影，俄军无暇顾及，百姓战战兢兢不敢上街，大量平民卧尸街头，无人收敛。人间地狱莫过于此。
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Military operation in Ukraine 18.04.2022, 17:31
“Here you learn quickly, otherwise you die quickly”
Correspondents of "Kommersant" transmit from Mariupol
Over the weekend in Mariupol, the battles between the Russian army and the Ukrainian military, who had settled on the territory of the Azovstal plant, continued. In other parts of the city, there seems to be no more shooting - but civilians lack food and communication with lost relatives. Kommersant journalist Alexander Chernykh and photographer Anatoly Zhdanov listened to the story of a military man from the DPR, talked with the townspeople about their problems and attended a "yard" funeral.
Soldiers of the volunteer battalion "Akhmat" on the territory of the Mariupol Ilyich Iron and Steel Works
Photo: Anatoly Zhdanov, Kommersant
We leave Donetsk early in the morning, when a high-rise building with a huge inscription: “Russian Donbass” is still hidden by thick fog. We quickly skip the first roadblocks. On the road we overtake an armored personnel carrier; it’s damn cold, but a girl in camouflage sits right on the armor, her long blond hair ruffled by the wind. On the sleeve there is a bandage of certain colors, a distinctive sign of the Russian and pro-Russian military. Our driver clicks his tongue admiringly: “Oh, good! In the fourteenth year, we also had a lot of fighting girls ... "
I have known him for the second day, but I already know: he was one of those residents of Slavyansk who “were the first to join Strelkov then” (meaning the entrance to the city of Igor Strelkov’s detachment in the spring of 2014; it is believed that from that moment the conflict in the south -East of Ukraine went into the armed plane . - "Kommersant" ). Wound, two shell shocks, retreat; since then he has been living in Donetsk and has not seen his home and family for eight years. But to the question: “Was it worth it?” replies: "Sure." But the current Strelkov disappoints him, and Russia "came very late."
We pass an empty border post, solidly fortified with tires and reinforced with trenches. “For eight years they dug up, well done,” the driver grunts through his teeth. Further - the territory, which until recently was controlled by Ukraine. We rush along the track along the fields, turning green with spring grass; sometimes there are black bald spots in it - funnels from shells. There are signs stuck on the roadsides: a skull with crossbones and one word in Russian: “Mina”. Similar warnings are also found in Ukrainian, only in the format of a large billboard and with a clarification: you can’t drive off the road. Finally, before us are the ruins of a small mining town. Houses and shops are broken and empty. I take a picture of them through the window, but the driver laughs: “This is not a war yet. This is history. As the Union collapsed, here everything gradually began to close and crumble. And you ask why all this began.
By the way, I didn't ask anything.
There is a hitch at the "Donetsk" checkpoint. Where journalists were allowed to pass without problems for the past three days, now the passage is prohibited - without explanation. You have to go around for a long time, past small identical villages - no longer seem to be Ukrainian, but it is still unclear whose. Pastoral pictures of rural life flash by - people are planting potatoes in a vegetable garden, sweeping the area near a small church ... And a couple of minutes later - a burned-out roadside cafe; a little further towards us, a small group of military vehicles with the letters Z on their armor is driving towards us. Sometimes the mangled skeletons of cars turn black outside the window.
In front of Mariupol is another checkpoint. Here, a long column of civilian cars stands at the exit; almost all of them have white rags tied on their antennas and door handles, many of them have the inscription on the glass and sides: "Children". A poster is lying on the side of the road: "Take me to Gorlovka, Donetsk." Another couple of kilometers - and begins what was once a city.
Multi-storey residential buildings damaged by shelling
Photo: Kommersant / Anatoly Zhdanov / buy photo
The situation in Mariupol
Photo: Kommersant / Alexander Chernykh / buy a photo
The inscription on the door of a residential building in Mariupol
Photo: Kommersant / Alexander Chernykh / buy a photo
High-rise buildings stick out like charred matches: the first floors seem to be intact, but everything is black above - the apartments are burned out or destroyed. The low houses seem to have been gnawed from different sides - the shells tore whole pieces out of them. Road signs are like a sieve. Under the sign “Flowers” is a door on which “People” is written from a spray can.
The diabolical selectivity is striking: a bus burnt to the ground is standing near an intact stop. The ruins of a small shopping center - and next to it is a red billboard "VIP furniture second floor". At the destroyed five-story building there is an untouched kiosk; everything around is black, but here a football fan with a bottle of beer smiles from a bright advertising poster. At the remnants of the gas station is a snow-white tank with the inscription: "Fireless". On a pole, the yellow-blue Ukrainian flag is fluttering in the wind; next to it, the Russian tricolor flutters over an auto parts store; both of them seem like foreign details against the background of a five-story black-out daughter building.
The most terrible thing is that the streets of Mariupol are indistinguishable from dozens of Russian cities. On the first floors there are exactly the same pharmacies, flower shops, beer pourers and bank branches. Only the brands are different - but now this difference has been erased. Or rather, it burned down.
This part of Mariupol is relatively crowded - here you can get humanitarian aid. Residents of other neighborhoods get on bicycles, some take away rations in shopping carts or baby carriages.
Queue for humanitarian aid
Photo: Anatoly Zhdanov, Kommersant
We're driving on; journalistic accreditation allows you to quickly cross city checkpoints. We stop at random at the destroyed "children's cafe"; on the lawn there is a sign “Entrance to the store strictly in a mask”, next to it is a matte metal cylinder with the inscription: “RDG-P”. This is how 2020 meets 2022.
I go into the yard of another "bitten" house. I shoot bright woolen socks with my phone, which are dried on the window grate. And I hear behind my back:
“Don’t take pictures here, please. It makes me sad that people see this.
Ilona* looks about 60 years old, she is wearing a sports fleece jacket (once light) and greasy ski trousers; hands with peeling manicure clutch a dirty board. She catches my eye: “You young man, tell me, is it possible for a woman to look like that?”
- Can a woman cut wood? comes from the other end of the yard. Ilona's friend - in a sweatshirt, a scarf and soiled ugg boots - is sawing a similar board with a hacksaw right on a concrete flower bed. - By the way, I have a higher education.
- And I have two, - says Ilona. - I was an economist until retirement. It doesn't look like it, does it? You don’t look at how we look now - we haven’t washed since February, today for the first time we managed to wash our socks. And so - we are the same as you in Russia.
Carrying out a special military operation in Mariupol
Photo: Alexander Chernykh, Kommersant
The women agree to talk, but strictly forbid turning on the recorder: “Who knows what kind of power there will be. And she won't like it."
“We lived just like you,” Ilona repeats. “We drank coffee in coffee houses, went to the cinema, to the Philharmonic. We know what the Philharmonic was! And what a theatre!
Yes I know. Now the whole world knows about the Mariupol theater.
- Although I am a pensioner, I am active, I went skiing every winter. I had a pension, I had a contribution, albeit small, but mine, honestly earned. I knew what would happen to me tomorrow. And what will happen to my life now? Nothing left.
— Are you from Russia? her friend says. — And what do you say about us in Russia?
- They say on TV that our military has released you.
- Released? Ilona raises her voice. And what did you free us from? From our Philharmonic? From our pension? From our city? Well thank you. You know, on February 23, we called and wrote all day, congratulating our familiar men. Yes, there is no such holiday in Ukraine. But we do remember him. They called and congratulated. And a day later - it began ... And with whom! With people who celebrated the same holiday the day before.
— So you had a good life in Ukraine?
- This is a provocative question, - Ilona abruptly cuts off the conversation and even takes a step back. - I know what you want. I will not answer such a question.
“And I will answer,” the second woman says calmly. “You know, we were not happy with everything. The pension is small, yes. Utilities are expensive. We were dissatisfied with our mayor, it's true. So what? You probably scold yours too?
“It happens,” I confess.
- Well, you see. But these are common problems. It was not worth demolishing our entire city because of such problems.
Gradually, Ilona thaws and begins to tell me how wonderful Mariupol was two months ago:
— We had such a clean city, the cleanest in Ukraine. And now such dirt... It's so unpleasant for me... We'll clean the yard ourselves, but what should we do with the city? Where is our mayor?
And who is our mayor now? her friend adds.
Finally, Ilona invites me to come and see the real Mariupol, "when everything is over." When I leave the yard, she calls out to me:
- And in a good way - come and help yourself to clean it all up.
Wait at the gate
An elderly man rides a bicycle on one of the streets in the Pravoberezhny district of Mariupol
Photo: Anatoly Zhdanov, Kommersant
The next stop is at a barricade made of burnt utility vehicles. From it I go out to the shot car, broken glass crunches under my feet. There's a dead man in the driver's seat. Head on the steering wheel, face no longer even white, but ash gray. I know that it is impossible to approach the bodies, they can be mined. Therefore, I turn around and leave without even knowing whether it is a man or a woman. White shreds hang dejectedly on the door handles of the car. They didn't help.
A few meters later, another body; a dead person lies on his stomach, someone covered his head with a jacket. He smells noticeably, you want to plug your nose and turn away. Suddenly, a sound like a shot is heard from above; my heart makes a dozen beats per second at once, my face is on fire, my jaws clench themselves to a crunch. I freeze and raise my head. On the surviving balcony of one of the upper floors stands a girl with a towel in her hands. She looks into my eyes and shakes the rag once more loudly. I look away first.
A little further * - the "location" of the DPR detachment. The Russian military (with the exception of the Chechens) refuse to talk to journalists without the permission of their superiors; "Donetsk" have no such restrictions. Fighter Ivan * - very young, a little over twenty - easily agrees to take us "where it is interesting." He seems to be just bored right now. He offers to show the place of recent battles, the complex of buildings of the Azovmash plant.
“Here is their house of culture,” he nods to the side in relation to the whole building with broken windows. “A week ago I was still under dill. I was then just here trehsotil a little (army slang, "three hundredth" means "wounded" - "Kommersant" ). But then they rolled them all out, completely.
- Where did you get to?
- Yes, it didn’t hit, it’s different here ... Look, this alley was then completely shot through. Either a machine gun or snipers. And in order to enter the Palace of Culture, we had to run from the yard right here, where we are standing.
Feeling cold in the stomach.
- Well, we ran in zigzags ... The commander ran first, the sniper fired - past. I'm second, he's past again. But there, farther, near the corner, there is such a hole - and I flew into it. Because he went with another armor, he was about twenty kilograms. He lost his balance and crashed with all his might, turning his hand on the broken glass.
Another “Donetsk” comes up - a plump young guy with glasses, not at all like a soldier.
“Listen, we were just talking to civilians…” he begins.
“But they didn’t say they would take their blind man’s buffaloes?” Ivan interrupts him. “They have been lying there, the poor ones, for a week and a half. Will start falling apart soon.
- Yes, I know ... well, they seem to have found people there, they will already figure it out.
Who cleans up the bodies here? I ask.
— Local, — says Ivan. — On the sly, who knows whom. And if no one knows ... well, these two lie, I know for sure, for a week. It was also lucky that it was cold here. Only now it starts to warm up, and the aromas are already starting ... not lavender at all. The locals are also already crazy about life like this: “The earth is frozen, we can’t dig.” They think it's our responsibility, right? Okay, let's go to hell. Danila*, stand by, I'll give a tour for the press.
Why Vladimir Zelensky does not trust anyone
In the post-Soviet space, such places are called abandoned. Usually these are the ruins of Soviet factories or military units - empty workshops and abandoned buildings where schoolchildren play stalkers. And here, too, it seems to be a typical abandoned place - charred iron, broken glass, some documents, a crumpled honors board, a standard alley of stunted Christmas trees, which ends with a bust of a Soviet man important for the plant. But what to tell, you already know if you were born at the turn of the 80s and 90s.
Only burnt tanks usually do not stand in the abandoned. And melted shells do not roll around. And under the spruce paws are cones, not bulletproof vests.
Damaged military equipment on the street in the Kalmiussky district of Mariupol
Photo: Anatoly Zhdanov, Kommersant
But right now, apricots are blooming here.
Ivan leads us to the entrance of the plant. The collapsed visor filled up half of the car; everything burned to the ground. A skinny dachshund runs out of the bushes and follows us. Photographer Tolya Zhdanov throws her a piece of sausage, specially reserved for such an occasion; The dog sniffs but does not eat. The day before, a familiar Donetsk journalist told me: “At the beginning of the week I saw such a beautiful dog in the ruins of Mariupol. Just like my parents, thoroughbred. I started stroking her, she licked ... and then I thought: she probably ate corpses, otherwise how did she survive here? I look at the dachshund, my stomach feels bad again. She looks at me and runs back into the bushes.
There are several helmets lying around the factory entrance; on a blue plastic stool - cardboard boxes with automatic cartridges; below it is a small pyramid of fuses from anti-tank mines. Ivan points to a plastic pallet - they usually bring beer to stores in such. Now there are bottles stuffed with rags.
Have you ever seen a Molotov Cocktail? It was prepared for us. Did not have time.
"Molotov cocktails"
Photo: Alexander Chernykh, Kommersant
It's dark on the first floor of the plant, you have to illuminate it with phones. A dim beam picks up shell casings and scraps of bandages. Two steps further - the watchman's chair, on which the bulletproof vest hangs. Behind the turnstiles is a long corridor; there, in the darkness, one can guess the geometry of metal cabinets, and behind them something completely bad. Like the location of a computer shooter, which Ivan probably played a couple of years ago, and the soldiers of the Armed Forces of Ukraine standing on the other side, and all the boys who were born at the turn of the 80s and 90s. Only here it really smells of burning and, it seems, dead. I stand in the dark and try not to throw up in fear and disgust. Then I go out, keeping away from the pyramid of fuses. Ivan indifferently passes very close to them.
As we walk back, he talks a little about himself. From Donetsk, 24 years old, graduated from school, worked as a car mechanic, was mobilized. “They prepared me for the main course, and then... Well, what can I say, no one will teach you combat experience,” he says. “We learned everything here. You learn quickly here. Otherwise, you die quickly."
Consequences of shelling in the Kalmiussky district of Mariupol
Photo: Anatoly Zhdanov, Kommersant
"It's nice to meet a fellow countryman"
We say goodbye to Ivan and Danila. “Take care of yourself guys,” they (!) tell us. "And you". The fighters assure that “everything is clean nearby,” so I go at random from the “localities” of the DPR. Artillery cannonade is heard; far, but in the open space of the road is still very uncomfortable. Therefore, I try to huddle closer to the destroyed houses - as if they can give protection. After a couple of blocks*, a measured rattle is heard from the yard; I carefully peek in and see a white van with "Children" written in big red letters. The windshield is not even broken, but crushed - like thin ice that has been stepped on by a boot. On the side in the triangle of the letter "D" there is a large hole gaping, around a scattering of smaller holes.
Nearby stands a grandfather with a gray beard. He scratches loudly on the pavement with a heavy garden shovel, slowly raking the debris into a heap.
- I'm from Russia. Can I talk to you?
- Yes, why not. You are the same person as me.
Consequences of shelling in the Kalmiussky district of Mariupol
Photo: Anatoly Zhdanov, Kommersant
Grandfather Vasya lived in Kamensk, a village near Mariupol. In the first days of the war, a shell fell nearby; Windows of all the houses on Kamenskaya Street were blown out. Then the military drove through the village: “I don’t know what kind, now everyone has the same uniform.” He didn't know what to do or where to hide.
Thank God they took me away. Young guys, I don't even know their names. They said: "Evacuation, grandfather, we must go." They brought them to Mariupol to the square and left them there. Find shelter somewhere, they say. And how to look for it? But people came up, completely strangers, called to their basement. Thank them. So I've been living in the basement ever since. I am 82 years old - and neither wash nor shave ... I really want to go home, but how to get there? And do I even have a home? Yesterday I talked with the guys, - he waves in the direction of "sweeping", - normal guys. To be honest, I don’t understand, whose are they, Russian or Ukrainian?
- Donetsk.
- Donetsk? Wow, I once worked in Donetsk. Well, they are normal boys. They say: "Uncle Vasya, we ourselves want to go home." So I ask them: “Guys, can you take me to Kamensk? I have a dog and a cat there. I love them ... but they are probably no longer alive ... "
Hunched over, grandfather Vasya leans on a shovel and begins to cry. I awkwardly hug him; it is very, very light.
“I want to go home,” he sobs. “There are rumors that they completely destroyed my street. So I don't have a home anymore. But these guys, the military, told me: "Don't worry ahead of time, don't trust anyone, you have to see with your own eyes." But they can't take me...
To calm my grandfather, I ask him about a peaceful life.
- I have a Ukrainian passport, which means I am Ukrainian. But I tell everyone that I have three nationalities.
- What is it like?
- But like this. I was born in Moldova. Then he lived in Ukraine, his family was from the Chernivtsi region. And then he went to Siberia, lived in Tomsk for a long time.
- And I was born in Tomsk.
- Seriously?! - gasps grandfather. He straightens up, solemnly holds out his hand to me, and shakes his hand firmly. I know Tomsk well. City of students, that's what they called it. When I lived there, Ligachev was the first secretary of the regional party committee. Reformer of booze and alcoholism...
View of the territory of the metallurgical plant "Azovstal"
Photo: Anatoly Zhdanov, Kommersant
- And how did you get here?
- This open-hearth was built here. Well, factory. There was an all-Union Komsomol construction site, young people were invited here. I arrived, learned to be a driver, drove concrete, sand, mortar. He married and stayed here. And before, as it was, each production should offer one or two people to the police. And in 1972 I got from open-hearth into this group. I liked the police. At first he was a district police officer, then he was sent to a special regiment for the protection of drinking water reservoirs in the Donetsk region. We made sure that there was no explosion, sabotage. I liked the job, it's good. Married, son, daughter, everything is like everyone else. In 1993 he finished his service. They gave a meager pension, of course, then they added ... well, it was possible to live. If you have a home...
He starts sobbing again, and I try to change the subject:
- Where are your children?
- And you, in Russia, in the Krasnodar Territory. The son was also a policeman, that is, a policeman. Previously, he often came, but after 2014 it is rare, you know, it is difficult for a law enforcement officer to go to Ukraine.
I try to ask more about the children, but he answers out of place: either old man's forgetfulness, or some kind of unhappy family history. He does not remember the phone numbers of his relatives by heart - he was in such a hurry to evacuate that he forgot the piece of paper with the numbers. Saying goodbye, we shake hands again. Grandfather Vasya takes up a shovel.
- You know, in Soviet times they called us garbage, I was so offended. And now this is what I came to in my old age: I really dig in the garbage.
Garbage dump
Photo: Anatoly Zhdanov, Kommersant
"That's the thing - food"
In the neighboring yard * at the entrance there is a whole collection. Several women cook food on a grill converted into a stove. Stick-branches are burning, a frying pan with a very thin layer of roasted carrots is sizzling. Women ask not to take them off - “Otherwise they will bomb us to the end”, but they willingly tell how they have been living here since February:
- We had immigrants from the Donbass in our house, from the age of 14, who did not like the new government. So, as it began, they immediately broke down, left everything and left. They knew what it was. But we did not know - now we live in the basement.
- How many of you are here?
- 35 people with us and 50 in a neighboring house. We sit on each other's heads. We have a grandmother, she is 98 years old, can you imagine? She is already deeply lying ... But we take care of her, of course.
Women tell how they lived in the first weeks of the war:
- There were such fights! Either a shell will fly in, then a plane will fly to bomb the plant and hook our garages, then the military will pass through the yard.
Residents in the courtyard of a residential building in the Pravoberezhny district of the city. teenagers playing cards
Photo: Anatoly Zhdanov, Kommersant
- Why the plane, we have a tank at home three times fired point-blank.
“We have burned down so many apartments. As soon as the shelling is over, we run and extinguish with a shovel and sand... There Zhenya*, a mother of two children, is with me... And what is especially dangerous here is that the roof is on fire, sparks are pouring, and the windows have long been broken. And in every room there are either curtains, or curtains, or oilcloths on the table by the window. So from the sparks of the apartment and lit up. Look: all around are ruins, ruins...
Multi-storey residential buildings damaged by shelling in Pravoberezhny district of Mariupol
Photo: Anatoly Zhdanov, Kommersant
- Neighbors, when they left, left us a key - to feed the parrot. There a spark flew to them, everything ignited in a second. And burned to the end.
A middle-aged man comes into the yard - and next to him, that very thin dachshund from the factory scurries merrily. I feel ashamed that I thought badly of her.
- What is the dog's name?
“Filimon,” the man replies sedately.
Filimon! With such a name, the dachshund immediately begins to look more solid and even seems to be larger.
Dachshund in Mariupol
Photo: Alexander Chernykh, Kommersant
Gradually, the women return to the stove, Ekaterina* remains with me. She asks carefully:
- Will the authorities read you? Can you tell them something very important? Just don't name who we are and what we're complaining about, God forbid. We have enough problems. But here's the deal: food. I know that food is being given out now. In the Metro area, somewhere else. You come with a passport, they give you rations - and cereals, and sugar, and even pastes. But someone simply does not have a passport - burned down, lost. And someone can not reach for health reasons. Here I am a pensioner, a disabled person of the second group. Ten kilometers on foot is a long way for me, you understand? Therefore, it is necessary that rations be distributed centrally to the yards. You don't need a lot - just cereals, canned food, bread ... cigarettes, otherwise there are a lot of smokers. We will share already. At least something, at least a little bit, but everyone will get it. After all, not everyone has food.
— What do you eat here?
It turned out to be the wrong question. Catherine's voice immediately begins to tremble.
- That's what was bought at home on February 24, then I eat it. I have not been to the stores since then, because there are no more stores. What were the cereals, pasta, then I ate. Now you know what my pan looks like? There's oatmeal. A little oatmeal, three liters of water ... And that's it. Sometimes I will ask my neighbors for a couple of potatoes, I’ll grind pasta, I’ll make brews ... Oh, it’s better not to ask, for me this is a very painful topic. So humiliating...
Distribution of humanitarian aid to residents of Mariupol
Photo: Anatoly Zhdanov, Kommersant
"But what's so humiliating about that?"
“You won't understand me. I'm sorry, but you won't understand. Look, the neighbors are frying pancakes there. There, you see, on the corner of the house, closer to the graves. Of course they know I'm hungry. Of course, they always offer me two or three pancakes. But what are these pancakes, they are tiny. And after all, they themselves also need it, they themselves have little food. Therefore, I look at the pancakes and always refuse, I say: "Thank you, I'm full." Although, of course, I'm not full, and they know it too. And everyone is uncomfortable and painful. So write: we do not grumble, we do not complain. The most important thing is that now there is the simplest help. Something from food. If they had brought rations to the yard, we would have held out for another week. And they lasted another week. And then everything will be fine. I think it will definitely get better.
I write down her words in a notebook and in the most businesslike tone I ask what else needs to be handed over to the authorities, although I don’t know which one. It helps - Ekaterina speaks more calmly:
Still need a connection. Same situation with her. It seems that they give Phoenix cards (a mobile operator that operates on the territory of the DPR. - Kommersant ), but again, you have to go far for them and stand in line for a long time. And communication is very important. Here I have a daughter and a granddaughter of ten years old - they live on the other side of the city. It seems not so far, but it is in ordinary life. And on February 24, the connection disappeared, the transport did not go, they were constantly shooting ... and all this time I did not know anything about my daughter and granddaughter. I thought about them every day, every hour. You just put yourself in my place.
The queue of residents of Mariupol for water
Photo: Anatoly Zhdanov, Kommersant
I understand with horror that in Moscow, without a map in my phone, I simply could not walk from Polezhaevskaya to, say, Baumanskaya. What can we say about shelling and snipers.
- ... Only this week volunteers came with lists. It turned out that the daughter and granddaughter are alive! It turned out that they fled through the villages on foot, without things, without anything. As a result, we got to Rostov, now they are looking for me there. They gave me their new phone, but I can't even call them because I don't have a card.
— Let me call them, when I get back to Donetsk?
- And can you? gasps the woman. “Thank you very much!” Come on, I'll just find a piece of paper with their number.
“Our Mariupol is a demonstration performance”
I am waiting for Ekaterina at the entrance to the basement and asking people how the military behaved. After that, they demand not only to turn off the recorder, but also to remove the notepad. And then they start arguing with each other.
“These APUs, they were right in our yard,” Evgenia* begins. “My husband comes out in the morning, and they drink coffee on the hood of the car. Then behind the same machines they exchanged fire with the Russians.
“So it’s military time,” retorts a peppy grandfather in a sweatshirt and a knitted hat. “We need to fight somewhere. So they fought where they need to.
- Yeah, and they also wanted to sit in our basement. Together with civilians!
- After all, everyone wants to live, - the grandfather shrugs. - If they started shooting at you, you would also run into the basement. And don't care who's there.
— Do you remember, the Armed Forces of Ukraine sat down in that house on the fourth floor? Therefore, they shot at him from a tank.
- Do you remember how the Russians then settled in our house? - the grandfather taunts. - They also sorted out apartments, not every one suited them. And in the one that was necessary, the door was knocked out.
“Well, it’s because the owners left,” another woman intercedes. “The Russians then asked for the keys to the apartments. And they only knocked out the door for which there were no keys.
- And who took the car in the yard? We went in and asked whose car it was. And come on, they say, the keys to the needs of the army.
And I don't know who took it. The military - and whose, I did not even look.
“In general, guys and girls, both of them shoot, and we are between them,” concludes the grandfather.
“That’s what I don’t understand,” Yevgenia boils over. “Well, if you, Commander-in-Chief, know that you can’t hold Mariupol, then why fight? Withdraw troops. Why did so many people die? Why destroy the city?
“So it’s not just Mariupol,” the grandfather explains calmly. “The Russians are stuck here – it was easier for Ukrainians in other places.
He turns to me:
"Can you tell me what's going on right now?" How is Kyiv? Kherson? Kharkov? Odessa?
How are the negotiations? - adds an important woman.
Photo gallery
Consequences of fighting in Mariupol
Look
I am talking about the withdrawal of Russian troops from the Kiev region and the fact that Russia calls it a gesture of goodwill, and Ukraine calls the retreat of the enemy. I tell you that they are shooting hard near Kharkov, but Odessa, it seems, has not yet been stormed. That negotiations are ongoing, but what they are about is unknown. That the cruiser Moskva sank, and no one knows exactly what happened to it. Grandfather listens and nods measuredly.
“In short, it was all started for us,” he concludes. “Our Mariupol is a demonstration performance. And what do you say about it in Russia?
- That this is a special operation to free the Russian people from the Nazis.
Grandfather chuckles, takes off his hat and smoothes his gray hair, which has grown a lot in two months of basement life.
- That is, they decided to cut our hair, but at the same time they took off our shoes and stripped us and left us without a home.
“It’s good that it’s not without a head,” the woman adds.
“It turns out that we are relatives”
Ekaterina has not yet returned with a phone number, I ask Evgenia to take me to the graves. Nearby, a man collects garbage from the lawn. A black mound, a cross made of pieces of plinth, a frame with a note is nailed to it: first name, last name, years of life, “Remember, love, mourn.” Neat female handwriting. Mom.
- Only 24 years old ... How did he die?
- My husband was standing at the entrance, he saw everything. The guy walked away from the house to the courtyard - to this playground. There was such a sound - fluff! — and he fell. We thought he stumbled, and then we see a pool of blood from his head. How many rains there were, but the red spot is still visible ... In general, the sniper took it off. Whose, we don't know. For three or four days he lay on the playground. We were even afraid to approach. Such attacks were going on - we did not leave the basement.
The man bends down and takes out some kind of military piece of iron from the grass. Hands me:
“Here’s a present for you, the press.”
“No, no, I don’t need that.
- No need? And we did not ask for such gifts either!
He takes her away, to the garages stitched like a sieve.
- There is another neighbor of ours lying there, - shows Yevgenia. - He was killed by shrapnel. There was the first explosion, and he says, they say, I'll go get some water. He came out of the basement - and then it slammed again. One fragment in the neck, one somewhere else.
Somewhere very close there is a strong explosion. I startle reflexively, but the woman pays no attention to the sound.
By the way, you might be interested. When the Russians drove through our yard, they seemed to drive onto the lawn, and then they saw a cross - and drove past so as not to catch on.
Indeed, the rut on the grass goes around the graves.
- Evgenia, you know, I noticed how you argued with a neighbor ... And I want to ask you separately - and who are you for?
The woman looks at the graves, not at me.
The situation in Mariupol. Graves on one of the streets of the city
Photo: Anatoly Zhdanov, Kommersant
- My husband and I lived here, we gave birth to children so that we could have a family. We strived to give children an education, shoes, clothes, and food. We lived in Mariupol. Ukrainian, Russian... we lived in our city. You asked for whom I am - here I answered you. We are for no one, we are every man for himself. Each for their children.
- But still, you are a citizen of Ukraine - in theory, you should be for your army ...
- Here after all what attitude. My husband used to lock the basement door from the inside when the fighting started. And a man from the Armed Forces of Ukraine runs up and pulls the door - don't close it, he says. Like, if something goes wrong there, they would run up the stairs to us. To our children. Cover up, it turns out. And when the Russians arrived, their senior went into the basement - hello, tra-ta-ta, how are you, is everything okay. Passed, looked, how many people, whether there are children. They had the opportunity, they brought bread, some canned food, butter.
There is another explosion.
- They brought something to the little ones ... "Children," they say, "this is for you, take it."
— What do you think to do next?
- Live. The husband is slowly fixing the roof. Although our house is full of holes. Well, then, we will help the neighbors. And think about what to do next.
We return to the basement. Ekaterina brings a piece of paper with her daughter's number, another woman asks to call her sister - and adds: "She lives with me in the Lipetsk region."
- Wow! So my parents are from the Lipetsk region. Where is she?
- In Yelets.
- Quite near.
- Well, it’s necessary, - a woman from the Mariupol basement rejoices. - It turns out that we are relatives.
"I could still live!"
Consequences of shelling in the Kalmiussky district. Local residents bury relatives in the courtyard of a residential building
Photo: Anatoly Zhdanov, Kommersant
In a nearby yard, two middle-aged men are digging a grave, cursing irritably over rocks. They discuss the same problems - there is a humanitarian aid, but far away, at least a bicycle is needed. And he is not.
- Guys, share a smoke, huh? Since February, there are no cigarettes.
We pour out cigarettes; I ask who the grave is for.
“My grandfather, Nikolai Vladimirovich,” the man in the torn jacket replies, taking a puff. “He always had a bad heart. When the dill was still standing, I wanted to rattle it to the city by car. Dill seemed to have promised to let them in, and then they started shooting, they hooked the car, and that's all. Then the Russians entered. I asked him to take him to the hospital, the boys seemed to promise, and then they left the plant to beat. Then I was not in the basement at night, and then he died.
Local residents on one of the streets of Mariupol
Photo: Anatoly Zhdanov, Kommersant
- Do you know if they are going to rebury them from the yards at all? - asks his senior comrade. - So we went to the recreation center "Iskra" for water, and there along the road - crosses, crosses ... What will happen now in the spring? After all, people were buried shallowly, without coffins. They will start to stink. What are the sanitary standards?
Why are you asking them, they are not lawyers.
Cursing, they finish off a shallow hole. A young strong man in overalls comes up. Together they bring the body, using a rusty ladder as a stretcher. Nikolai Vladimirovich is wrapped in a warm yellow-brown blanket. Legs protrude from the blanket, one has a boot, the other has only a black sock. Polyethylene is spread at the bottom of the grave, then a bundle with the body is placed there.
- Head to the north should be, but this is not the north.
- He won't be long. He will be reburied anyway.
- The cross still needs to be put up.
- I'll find it, I'll put it on.
Everyone silently looks at the bundle with the dead man.
- Hey ... well, at least he didn’t suffer? the grandson asks.
- Well, how can I say, I didn’t suffer ... - the young man answers thoughtfully. - At night he went to the potty, grabbed his heart, fell, groaned and died. And that's it.
The grandson nods. The body is wrapped in polyethylene, a board is placed on top.
“Kingdom of Heaven,” says the elder. And continues with selective obscene swearing. Scolding drowns out another loud explosion - just like thunder from heaven.
The grave is buried together. And then we all wait for some last word.
- 73 years old. You could still live! - the grandson says angrily. - Lie down here, grandfather. Wait ***, better times.
***
We go back to the car. On the way, a woman calls out to us: "Dear press, come, please." I'm coming. She points to the basement, which was a shop a couple of months ago:
- Tell someone, please: at Nikopolskaya, 138 lies a corpse. It's not ours, we don't know it. Let someone pick him up and bury him.
What happens after the entry of Russian troops into Ukraine. Day 54
In the dark, a dead person is really visible. There is no fighting in this part of the city now, but the bodies of the dead come across on the street - you can see from them that they have been lying for more than one day. We drive slowly along Nikopolsky Prospekt. A man lies directly under a traffic light at a crossroads, arms outstretched. The other is on the sidewalk, in a mess of wires. Another seems to be resting under a tree on the lawn. Well, I manage to notice garden cotton gloves in the hands of the person lying on the side of the road. On the other side of the road, a red jacket and bright white boots; the face is not visible, but the clothes seem to be a woman. Nearby is a man in a blue jacket, face down. At the burnt-out bus stop there is another one with a fashionable red backpack: a jar of what looks like jam rolled out of it onto the pavement. A larger jar, it seems, with homemade pickles, neatly stands nearby.
Three more occupy a whole lane, the car has to go around them. I do not look out the window and do not turn around, I am afraid that the photographer will ask the driver to stop. The car drives a hundred meters and really stops. A man in a black jacket lies on his side, the bones of the skull are visible instead of a face. A teenage girl in a red jacket is face down on crossed arms, as if she is sleeping peacefully. The black face of an older woman is looking at the girl. Her hand is unnaturally twisted: it looks like she tried to crawl.
I try to read the Lord's Prayer to myself, but I stumble twice and start over. Then the photographer and I return to the car. We walk in silence through the dead spring.
On the very outskirts of the city, I notice a miraculously surviving auto shop. Those who entered the city from this side saw spray-painted inscriptions on it: “Glory to Ukraine! Russian, give up. Welcome to hell, Russian bastard." After a couple of kilometers, I see a concrete block dumped on the side of the road. Other words are drawn on it with black paint: “Akhmat strength” and “CHECHNYA!”
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