But the calm was shattered again this week in a deadly rocket attack. In a series of missile strikes across Ukraine from Kremenchuk to Odesa, Moscow has sent a message: it is still willing to kill civilians, wherever they live. Mykolaiv in southern Ukraine became the latest city to experience shelling, in a barrage on Friday and early Saturday morning. “I understand that staying here can be dangerous,” said Vasilyeva, who moved to Kyiv from Crimea years ago. “But I feel like this is my home.” She and her daughter have become familiar with the “two-wall rule” when air raid sirens sound, running for cover in a hallway or bathroom. Having left Kyiv three days after Russia invaded in February, they are not going to stick around again. “There is nothing worse than being a refugee,” Vasilieva said. Months after Russian troops bombed parts of the capital and brutally seized Irpin and Bucha, two leafy northwestern suburbs, Kievans are trying to restore some semblance of normalcy. Viktoriia Vasylieva, with her daughter Downtown cafes and bars – which before the war were a magnet for the growing middle class and foreigners looking for a Berlin hipster vibe at Ukrainian prices – are starting to buzz again. By 18:00, cocktail drinkers on Reitarska Street spill out onto the pavement. The 11pm curfew means some parties start a bit earlier. But escape from signs of war is impossible. A display of damaged Russian military equipment brings gawkers to the central Mykhailivska Square. The murals honor the war dead. A huge banner at Mayor Wladimir Klitschko’s administrative building calls — in English — for the release of militants captured by Russia after it destroyed Mariupol. Cars still have to weave in and out of spiked steel anti-tank barricades known as “izhaki”, or hedgehogs, which dot the capital’s streets. Sandbags cover statues and support official buildings. Some of the city’s leading creative lights wonder if a candle has been extinguished by Putin’s invasion. “Everything was blooming, the whole country was blooming. Kyiv was the new Berlin. The art scene was huge,” said Darko Skulsky, who moved to the city from Philadelphia to become an executive producer at Radioaktive Film, one of the companies behind the Chernobyl HBO series. “It had the most beautiful bars and nightclubs in the world, great restaurants. Then this happened.” Skulsky now lives in Warsaw. “There are definitely tears. All the time,” he said. Moments after a rocket attack in Kyiv on Sunday June 26 © Derek Brower/FT Almost 4 million people lived in Kyiv before the February 24 invasion. The population fell as Russian troops approached. It has recovered to about 2.7 million now, but the trauma remains. “The city is different. It’s empty,” said Vladyslav Piontkovskyy, a 29-year-old analyst who fled Kyiv with his wife and daughter in March. They came back a few weeks ago. “The subtle things have changed. Your favorite restaurant no longer sells your favorite dish. . . We gave our pets a rabies shot and the vet said it was all over.” Like many others, his anxieties extend far beyond Kyiv. As the Russians invaded, his grandparents chose to remain near Kharkiv, a city now held by Russia. The family lost contact with them in March. Many in the city have similar stories of a country torn apart by war. But the mood is also provocative. Hours after the missile hit on Sunday, music was blaring just down the street at HVLV, a “pre-party” hangout where hipsters smoked cigarettes, rummaged through vinyl records and shared cocktails with tanned soldiers. The men had been involved in the retreat from Severodonetsk a few days earlier, but were preparing to return to Lysychansk, another town where the Russians are pressing their Donbas offensive. “We will return to take Donbas,” said Serhii Filimonov, a soldier with a “Victory or Valhalla” tattoo on his chest. Anti-tank “hedgehogs” on Independence Square in central Kyiv © Sergei Chuzavkov/SOPA/Zuma Press/eyevine In Brodsky’s central Synagogue, Rita Korol and her husband Viktor Priester spoke about life during the Second World War and the Nazi invasion, when they both lost relatives. Many members of their synagogue also fled Kyiv this time, fearing Putin’s army. Few had returned. Korol and Prister remained. “It’s hard at our age to leave,” he said. Did they feel safe? “No.” The couple has no shelter to hide. “When I hear the sirens, I get scared.” While many foreign brands have closed stores or suspended operations, local businesses are showing more steel. The kosher deli next to the synagogue still manages to sell products imported from the US and Israel. Inside the Gulliver shopping center on the street, which remained open during the invasion, the state-of-the-art Silpo supermarket is stocked with ripe fruit, fine meats and fine wines. Piontkovskyy, the analyst, is one of many native Russian speakers in Kyiv who are trying to switch to the Ukrainian language, shunning the language, literature and music of the invaders. It’s another identity adjustment for people who never believed Russia was a threat. Vasilieva, the photographer, says she now chooses to photograph Kievans who return briefly for a final visit to their city. She has fallen out with her pro-Russian father in annexed Crimea, who denies reports of Russian atrocities and bombings. But her daughter’s mental state, not her father’s, is her priority. “I don’t want him to see something awful,” she says. “Her mental state depends on me.”
