SUNDAY, MAY 8 , 2022. THE WASHINGTON POST EZ RE A
Dressed in green fatigues and each
carrying a gun, the men sat for hours
every day watching a Russian posi-
tion on the horizon. The sounds of
shelling rang out from the distance,
but at this observation point it was
quiet. They asked to be identified by
their military call signs, out of fear for
their families’ security.
Kino smiled. “We think the Rus-
sians are still getting over their Easter
hangover,” he said.
When war began here, President
Volodymyr Zelensky ordered a gener-
al mobilization. No men of fighting
age may leave the country, and
s oldiers on the front lines are de-
ployed until further notice. So along
this front line, they rely on video calls
to find out, sometimes with difficulty,
whether their loved ones back home
are safe.
In the early weeks, Druid looked at
the screen as his wife showed him
their new baby, Nicole, and as she
recovered from her emergency
C aesarean in a bomb shelter instead
of a hospital.
Another soldier, Bear, watched as
his young daughter learned to speak.
“Her pronunciation is bad,” he
smiled.
But the hardest days on base have
been for soldiers with family in areas
where Russian forces were known to
be committing atrocities. They often
called wives and parents, but no one
picked up. They c hecked their phones
again and again, but no news came.
“I’m fighting so that my daughter
doesn’t have to know what war is,”
Druid said.
Thinking of his son, Kino added,
“Even if I don’t see peace, I want my
children to.”Love, hope are his weapons
As a man of God, Denys Kravchuk
doesn’t t hink it’s r ight for him to carry
a firearm. But as a man who often
visits a Ukrainian front line that has
been heating up, Kravchuk knows
how to use one if he must.
Kravchuk, a military chaplain in
Zaporizhzhia — less than 40 miles
from Russian forces — knows of three
military chaplains killed in the past
two months. It has sparked a debate
about whether even praying with sol-
diers now requires armament.
“You’ll never see me with a weapon
— only if fighting begins and I have to
protect myself or my loved ones,” he
said. “A p riest’s real weapon should be
the cross.”
Ukraine’s military chaplains get
some combat training, including first
aid. Kravchuk, a 28-year-old newly-
wed, said he’s scared every time he
travels to the front line, but his job is
to be a calming presence there. He
tells every soldier he loves them.
A soldier on the front line recently
scolded Kravchuk for talking too
much about the future. Tomorrow
isn’t guaranteed, he said.
“I told him that living just one day
at a t ime isn’t g ood,” Kravchuk said. “A
person should have some more ambi-
tious plans in life, to have something
to live for.”
On May 1, the first Sunday after
Orthodox Easter, traditionally a day
when the Eastern Orthodox commu-
nity honors its dead, Kravchuk led
soldiers in prayer.There were more losses to mourn
this year. The small room at the
garrison, with an altar and church
icons on the wall, had a somber feel as
morning sunlight and the smell of
incense filled the space.
At the end of the service, the sol-
diers blew out their candles and
picked up the guns they had stashed
outside. Kravchuk took off his dark
green robe, still dressed in military
uniform underneath.Without a home, imagining
a future
In Anastasia Dembitskaya’s last
days in her hometown of Mariupol,
things were suddenly easier. After
two months of bombardment, Rus-
sian forces roamed the streets in
near-total control, with a small group
of Ukrainian fighters holding out in a
massive steel plant.
She climbed out of the basement
where she and her two children had
waited out the siege and saw all that
had been lost. The city was in ruins.
Russian soldiers were living in apart-
ments once occupied by those who
had fled or been killed.
Nearly all her friends and loved
ones were already gone. She feared
some had been forcibly evacuated to
Russia. Others were scattered across
Ukraine and beyond. Her city had
been annihilated, and she was one of
the last still here.
Russians offered food — they called
it humanitarian aid — to the few
remaining residents. Dembitskaya
said they made them listen to the
Russian national anthem before they
could have it. They also passed out
propaganda claiming all the destruc-
tion was the fault of Ukraine or
NATO.
One day she ran into her boss — a
link to her now-distant former life. He
was leaving the city with a convoy of
cars, and she joined. He warned that
Russians were putting people on bus-
es to Russia, so cars were safer.
They drove to Zaporizhzhia, a city
near the front line but under Ukraini-
an control. They had to pass through
more than 20 Russian military check-
points, where searches were long and
tiresome. A drive that would normal-
ly take about three hours required
two days.
When she finally got to safety, she
and her children sat at a t able in a tent
where volunteers gave them hot food.
What was her plan now?
“Western Ukraine,” Dembitskaya
answered. “Only Ukraine.”Searching for a son
Oleh Buriak’s face creased with
worry as he talked about his
1 6-year-old son. Vlad had been miss-
ing for weeks, taken by Russian forces
who occupied their hometown of
M elitopol.
A nerdy, quiet teen who loved video
games, Vlad had surprised everyone
when the war began. When Russian
forces took over, he had stayed put
because he said his family needed
him.
“Our little geek had a strength that
we didn’t expect,” his father said.
The Russians destroyed their life in
Melitopol. They arrested the mayor,
and peaceful protesters began to dis-
appear. Russian rubles became the
legal tender.
Vlad’s parents are split. Buriak
lives in Zaporizhzhia. Vlad was living
in Melitopol with his mother and
sister, who evacuated as the Russians
arrived.
Buriak told his son again and again
that he must leave, but the young man
resisted. His grandfather, a cancer
patient, was in his final weeks and
needed his help.
For 42 days, Vlad stayed by his side
and administered what palliative
care he could. His grandfather died at
5:45 a.m. on April 8, and Vlad began
driving out of town almost immedi-
ately.
At the last checkpoint under
R ussian control, a soldier demanded
Vlad’s phone, other passengers in the
car said later.
“It’s my property,” he told the sol-
dier.
“You’re giving it to us,” the soldier
said.
He opened the door and pulled
Vlad out. It was 11:42 a.m.
Vlad hasn’t b een seen since. Buriak
said he had received information sug-
gesting the boy was alive, and he is
clinging to that hope.
As he flicked through photographs
of Vlad as a younger boy, the man’s
shoulders sagged in despair. There
was Vlad, waiting patiently for his
dinner, or wrapped up for winter by
their Christmas tree.
“A s a father, he knows I’d do any-
thing for him,” Buriak said.
“His kidnappers need to communi-
cate. They have to tell us what they
want.”Khurshudyan reported from Kharkiv and
Zaporizhzhia. Loveluck reported from
Dobropillya, Bakhmut and Zaporizhzhia.
Eugene Lakatosh in Zaporizhzhia and
Bakhmut and Dmytro Plotnikov in
Dobropillya contributed to this report.NICOLE TUNG FOR THE WASHINGTON POSTNICOLE TUNG FOR THE WASHINGTON POSTHEIDI LEVINE FOR THE WASHINGTON POSTFROM TOP: Denys Kravchuk is a military chaplain in Zaporizhzhia,
Ukraine, less than 40 miles from Russian forces. He has been forced to
consider whether he should be carrying a gun. Anastasia Dembitskaya,
second from left, with her nephew and daughter at a reception center for
the displaced in Zaporizhzhia. She fled from Mariupol, which is now in
ruins, and wants to stay in Ukraine. Oleh Buriak shows a picture of his
son, Vlad, now 16. The boy stayed behind in Melitopol to care for his
grandfather as he died of cancer. Then, as he left the city, a Russian soldier
pulled him out of a car. He hasn’t been seen since.war in ukraine