34 1.23.22
that the fi re was probably more symbolic than
strategic. Aug. 24 would mark the anniversary of
Ukrainian independence. The enemy showed off
its artillery every year at this time, but this was
the 30th anniversary, and they seemed to want
to be especially disparaging.
Two days after Yaroslav Semenyaka was killed
in Pisky, I was near Krasnohorivka, a Red Zone
town a few miles to the southwest that was con-
trolled by Ukrainian forces. I was awakened at
dawn by the thumps of incoming artillery. A
rocket had hit an apartment building in Kras-
nohorivka. When I arrived at the building later
that morning, soldiers and local offi cials were
gathered outside. A group of neighbors stood on
a walkway, gazing up at the third story. A gaping
hole was in the exterior. Bent rebar hung from
what had been a balcony.
But it took me a while to notice all that. After
years of fi ghting and stray rockets, the whole
edifi ce was beaten up. Shrapnel scars were
everywhere; half the balconies had been torn
off at some point. Some had been rebuilt, others
covered over with plywood or plastic tarpaulin.
The dark stairwell smelled distinctly of explo-
sives and faintly of old plumbing. The landing
outside Apartment No. 83 was smeared with
blood. Above the blood a woman in a fl oral
housecoat stood in what had been her doorway,
as though awaiting guests.
‘‘Come in, admire,’’ she said wryly. ‘‘We’ve
cleaned up some, but the fact remains.’’
The tiny apartment was decorated with
color-tinted family portraits and wallpaper so
old it looked as though it had soaked into the
walls. A coal stove squatted in the kitchen next
to a Ukrainian Army press offi cer who was photo-
graphing the blown-out windows with his phone.
Larisa wore her short white hair swept up, and
she had military-grade posture and the frankness
to match. She and her husband had just gotten
out of bed when the rocket hit. ‘‘I was on the toi-
let when the ceiling collapsed on me,’’ she said.
He had been having tea in his underwear in the
sitting room. She heard him bellowing. ‘‘He was
saying: ‘Help me! I’m being crushed!’ ’’
She pushed aside the splinters of the door
and went to the sitting room. It was all smoke
and dust. She couldn’t see him. Reaching in, she
found his outstretched hands. She dragged him
to the landing. She looked down and saw red on
her hands and red dripping onto the fl oor. ‘‘He
was completely covered in blood.’’At the hospital, the doctors found that his
liver had been punctured by shrapnel. His arms
were shredded, and he was deafened. He was
conscious, but when she tried to talk to him on
the phone, he couldn’t hear her.
Larisa showed me the sitting room. Ceiling
tiles dangled; a fi sh tank and a TV lay in pieces.
The sofa set was covered in the plaster and wood
shards of the balcony, which had probably saved
her husband’s life — without it, the rocket might
have exploded in the room. Where the balcony
had been was the gaping hole. The remains of
stuff ed animals lay on the fl oor. Normally her
daughter and grandchildren would have been
sleeping here.
‘‘It was sheer luck they were away,’’ she said.
A lap dog circled Larisa’s feet. He had only
just summoned the courage to come back into
the apartment. She opened the dresser. Two cats
cowered on a pile of clothing.
I asked how it was she was so calm. ‘‘Because this
has been going on for such a long time,’’ she said.Above: On the front line
near Shchastya. Right:
An army position in the Zolote
area outside the L.P.R.