from Odessa to Kharkiv, the fatigue of war – L’Express

In the buildings coated in ocher, green and blue which border the neoclassical Opera House, the people of Odessa are divided into two. First, those who rush, following instructions, towards the underground shelters, including the catacombs, one of the largest labyrinths in the world, transformed into reception cellars by ingenious volunteers. Then, those who prefer to go about their business, including Irina, a young waitress at the Café central, who smokes her cigarette on the sidewalk with equally reckless colleagues, as if to defy the Russian aggressor and the grapeshot and, also, to fight the precept of Nikolai Gogol, the native son: “More contagious than the plague, fear is communicated in the blink of an eye.” At the Opera, moreover, we queue despite the air alert. Of the 1,500 seats available, only 350 places are allocated to classical music and ballet lovers, because the underground shelter only has a limited capacity. That evening, Puccini’s violins and clarinets temporarily soften the sirens that invade the sky.

Odessa is like Ukraine as winter approaches, bathed in worry and hope. “At the start of the war, we thought that Odessa was going to fall,” said Oksana Dovgopolova, exhibition curator. “Now we know that we can hold on. At the same time, the Russians are seeking to suffocate our great port, the lung from the country.” This figure of cultural life is proud to carefully apply makeup every morning to say no to terror. She set up an “artistic experience laboratory” with a few artists to help the Odessites cope with the martial atmosphere. “We understand that the war will last. Nobody here knows if Western aid will continue in the long term, which makes our homeland very fragile.”

It is a diffuse impression which grips the traveler crossing the ravaged country. From the Black Sea port to the Russian border, from Kharkiv to its capital kyiv and its farms with black soils, so fertile, the spirit of resistance, the habituation to war, is coupled with a diffuse fear – the deaths on the front line, civilian losses, the economy adrift… In Kiev, Deputy Foreign Minister Emine Dzheppar expects “a very difficult winter”, she says, in her office near Maidan . “We are in the process of securing our entire energy and electrical system, once again targeted by the enemy.” Close to Volodymyr Zelensky, she rejects any idea of ​​future negotiations or ceasefire, which would allow Russia to regain strength and restart hostilities. “If we stop the war, we will be massacred.” Like many Ukrainian officials, she admits not knowing what tomorrow will bring, let alone next year.

In Kharkiv, the country’s second city, with more than a million souls, the grip has been loosened but the skies remain threatening. Last year, the eastern city was almost surrounded by the Russian army, but the territorial defense managed to drive out the occupiers, forcing them into a humiliating retreat. The scars of these rains of steel remain in the streets of the center, with its buildings cut in two, its apartments perforated by the missiles, the scrap metal pointed towards the clouds. The Cathedral of the Annunciation takes the rain: its golden tiles were partly blown away by an Iskander missile.

In the north-eastern districts of the city, which were hard hit and once occupied by Putin’s soldiers, many buildings were smashed. “My parents told me it was the equivalent of the bombings of 1943,” says student Aleksi, who returns from time to time to his destroyed neighborhood, Saltivka, with its apocalyptic landscape, the most bombed place in Ukraine during the first four months of the war. The middle school, as well as kindergarten 364, were blown up by bombs. “All this is deliberate,” explains a territorial defense officer in charge of protecting the city. The Russian strategy consists of targeting schools and civilian buildings to force the population to leave and demoralize the troops. But most residents have courageously chose to stay.” On a wall, we can read this inscription: “Welcome to hell”.

The young editor Oleksandr Savchuk also decided to stay. He has little need to protect himself in the event of celestial trouble, because his small publishing house is located, wisely, in the basement of an old red brick building. “I focus on books that re-explore the culture of Ukraine, because there are a lot of holes in our history, erased and rolled away by the Soviet colonial system.” With just one assistant, the jovial and tireless editor works hard to publish contemporary authors and those of yesterday, the majority of whom were killed, imprisoned or forced into exile during the time of the USSR. “Exploring our past is our way of resisting,” he says, happy to have recently recovered other archives.

A few blocks away, writers read poems in front of a packed room – always in the basement. When the siren sounds, the audience at the Arteria cultural center doesn’t blink, just to say no to the lurking fear. The whole of Kharkiv seems to resonate with this desire to return to basics. A Russian-speaking city, it wants to obliterate Russian influence. The statue of Pushkin is now veiled, the Art Museum hides its paintings from the time of the Tsar or the Soviet era and many residents abandon their mother tongue, described as “the language of the oppressor”.

At the other end of the country, cosmopolitan Odessa is healing the wounds of the night, but it intends to remain open to the world. “We must do everything to ensure that it keeps its character, a city that is simultaneously Polish, Jewish, Ukrainian, Tatar, Italian, Greek and Russian,” says Anastasia Herasymchuk, head of the magazine. Ukraine World. We must respect all the cultures of this melting pot, and above all its tolerance.” Like many city dwellers, this journalist is preparing for winter by buying stocks of food, cans of water, candles and batteries. “It is true that economic issues create serious tensions within the population. Much more than at the start of the war, when we were united…”

According to several sources, a secret agreement was reached under pressure from China for Russia to let Ukraine export part of its grain. “Beijing put all its weight on Putin so as not to endanger Chinese supplies, but also that of part of Africa,” assures Ivan Niyakiy, a major grain exporter. The war could last for years and the destruction of industrial infrastructure has already cost the country more than $36 billion.” Partly dilapidated, with its yellow cranes at a standstill and its gutted silos, the port of Odessa is suffocating. A Greek ship waits at dock no. 3.

At the exit of the harbor, we witness a astonishing scene: on the ground floor of the luxury hotel Nemo, on the edge of the beach, a huge indoor swimming pool welcomes five dolphins, trained by three swimmers for the happiness of the babushkas and their grandchildren who bathe there. The hotel’s flagship entertainment, “dolphin therapy” costs 60 euros. The dolphins don’t seem bothered by the air alerts, nor do the swimmers.

On the sand, 30 meters from the dolphinarium, pianist Igor Yanchuk, wearing a red hat and thick parka, plays facing the sea at each sunset “to help people endure the war”, accompanied by the crash of the waves. The upright piano is called Pianomore, “the piano of the sea”, and onlookers appreciate this moment of respite and emotion as the day fades. In the distance, a light flickers and approaches the port – a ship that was able to escape the mines. The yellow light of the freighter on the horizon and the musical notes then form a singular spectacle, an opera of hope and a promise of twilight.