Interlude: Kherson | Part III, The Basement
Dima stops the car at the end of what was, or maybe still is, Suvorov Street. Six hundred meters ahead, the Dnieper glistens. At the bottom of Ushakov Avenue, almost on the riverbank, stands a small yellow bus. Initially, we think it’s a safe bus stop, but Dima notices it’s riddled with bullet holes and partially burnt. We decide against going near the river.
I scan the surroundings and see an empty pedestal at the street’s end. “A. V. Suvorov,” the sign declares, but the pedestal stands bare. Later, I learned the Russians took their hero’s statue with them when they left Kherson. I doubt any Ukrainians miss it, which explains why I’m unsure if the street still bears Suvorov’s name. In the spring of 2023 a massive decolonization campaign is sweeping across all of Ukraine, with streets being renamed and statues dismantled everywhere.
We follow Sveta into the building’s deep basement. The musty air is thick with the smell of mold, cat urine, and damp concrete. We pass through a series of thick, threadbare carpeted doorways before reaching a less pungent room lit by a pale wall lamp. Inside, a wide bed, several worn armchairs piled high with blankets, a wooden table with a tiny electric hotplate, and pet cages fill the space. A dusty carpet covers the floor, holding a small television. Large plastic water bottles line the walls.
“This is how we live,” Sveta explains, spreading her arms. “We spend every night here. The cats sleep in the cages. At least we have electricity.”
“I feel safe here too,” Alex admits. While the room is drab, with peeling paint and worn-out furniture, I have to agree.
“We also have neighbors down here,” Sveta gestures, and we follow her back through the carpeted doorways and dusty corridors to another room. Light filters through an ancient Persian rug hanging over an entrance. Sveta calls out, and a man in his fifties, his face etched with sadness, emerges. Without hesitation, he invites us to see his “living quarters” - a cramped space measuring about one and a half by two meters. Dima enters and unleashes a torrent of angry words directed at the Russians. The sight clearly shakes his usually unwavering optimism, at least momentarily.
“We only go upstairs occasionally,” the man explains, “to get things from our apartments or sometimes to make a quick meal.” We nod, the weight of the situation heavy in the air. I yearn to leave. We thank him and quickly depart. Sveta and her friend escort us to the courtyard.
“It’s alright,” Dima declares as he regains his usual composure, his large hands firmly shaking the women’s in a farewell gesture. “Hold on, we will win soon!”
“We must hold on, we must,” Sveta agrees, her voice carrying both sadness and confidence. “Of course we will win…”
Leaving the courtyard, Dima instructs us to get a box of Snickers bars and some Coca-Cola bottles for the ladies. I climb into the minibus and help gather the supplies.
In any case, an eerie silence hangs over the supposedly bustling downtown pedestrian area. A few shadowy figures hurry by, while most shops and cafes stand shuttered. However, in stark contrast to the desolate landscape and tense atmosphere, there is an open beer garden nearby. A couple of locals sit on the terrace, enjoying glasses of beer, a mere 700 meters from the deadly waterfront.
Nastya strikes up a conversation with two local women, Sveta and her friend (as I later learn). I stand a few dozen meters away, discreetly filming the emptiness of Suvorov Street, and miss their conversation. However, Sveta and her friend are delighted to see visitors from afar and invite us to their home. It’s in a grand, reddish-brown Stalin-era building on the corner, or rather, beneath it. All the windows are covered with plywood, pressed sawdust plates, or stare blankly. The facade bears tens if not hundreds of small scars.
Nastya strikes up a conversation with two local women, Sveta and her friend (as I later learn). I stand a few dozen meters away, discreetly filming the emptiness of Suvorov Street, and miss their conversation. However, Sveta and her friend are delighted to see visitors from afar and invite us to their home. It’s in a grand, reddish-brown Stalin-era building on the corner, or rather, beneath it. All the windows are covered with plywood, pressed sawdust plates, or stare blankly. The facade bears tens if not hundreds of small scars.
“Twice our house has been hit. Twice!” Sveta says as she leads us into the courtyard. A small, deep-looking hole gapes in the tarmac. We wouldn’t have noticed it had she not pointed it out. “There’s an unexploded missile buried deep there,” she explains. Mine clearers investigated and deemed it safer to leave it where it lay. The courtyard cats seem unfazed.
We follow Sveta into the building’s deep basement. The musty air is thick with the smell of mold, cat urine, and damp concrete. We pass through a series of thick, threadbare carpeted doorways before reaching a less pungent room lit by a pale wall lamp. Inside, a wide bed, several worn armchairs piled high with blankets, a wooden table with a tiny electric hotplate, and pet cages fill the space. A dusty carpet covers the floor, holding a small television. Large plastic water bottles line the walls.
“This is how we live,” Sveta explains, spreading her arms. “We spend every night here. The cats sleep in the cages. At least we have electricity.”
“I feel safe here too,” Alex admits. While the room is drab, with peeling paint and worn-out furniture, I have to agree.
“We also have neighbors down here,” Sveta gestures, and we follow her back through the carpeted doorways and dusty corridors to another room. Light filters through an ancient Persian rug hanging over an entrance. Sveta calls out, and a man in his fifties, his face etched with sadness, emerges. Without hesitation, he invites us to see his “living quarters” - a cramped space measuring about one and a half by two meters. Dima enters and unleashes a torrent of angry words directed at the Russians. The sight clearly shakes his usually unwavering optimism, at least momentarily.
“We only go upstairs occasionally,” the man explains, “to get things from our apartments or sometimes to make a quick meal.” We nod, the weight of the situation heavy in the air. I yearn to leave. We thank him and quickly depart. Sveta and her friend escort us to the courtyard.
“It’s alright,” Dima declares as he regains his usual composure, his large hands firmly shaking the women’s in a farewell gesture. “Hold on, we will win soon!”
“We must hold on, we must,” Sveta agrees, her voice carrying both sadness and confidence. “Of course we will win…”
Leaving the courtyard, Dima instructs us to get a box of Snickers bars and some Coca-Cola bottles for the ladies. I climb into the minibus and help gather the supplies.
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