Interlude: Kherson | Part IV, Suburb on the Blood Revisited. Vova
It is time to start our journey back. However, on the road lies the village of Posad Pokrovske, where we already made a small stop in the morning. As YouTuber Schulz is not happy with his catch - he didn’t get to film much in Kherson, but he would like to show his viewers something - we decide to look around a bit more in the village.
So we leave Kherson, give the soldiers serving at the checkpoint on the outskirts of the town some more chocolate, energy drinks, and cigarettes, and turn our backs to Pokrovske. Right next to the road leading to the houses, we see a villager calmly combing his plot with a metal detector. He doesn’t even raise his head as we drive by.
“Not one step off the road!” Dima orders us as he stops the van. In the meantime, the weather has changed - an icy wind is blowing, but it cannot hide the fact that spring has arrived in southern Ukraine. Everything is turning green already, daffodils are blooming in front of the houses, birds are chirping happily. We take pictures of the ruins of small houses and sheds, and I think that this is just one destroyed village. How many others are there like this? How many more will there be before this war is over?
A small old man walks along the village street.
“Listen,” Schulz nudges Nastya, “go and have a talk with him.”
Nastya doesn’t want to, and she shakes her head.
“Why not? What’s the worst that can happen? If he says he doesn’t want to, then he doesn’t want to and says no.”
Nastya sighs and reluctantly walks over to the old man. I can see her explaining something and pointing toward Schulz. The man’s face lights up. Apparently, he has nothing against these unexpected guests, as he beckons us all over and invites us to see his household.
It turns out to be one of the few habitable, blue-roofed huts in an otherwise broken and ransacked village street. We follow the man, who introduces himself as Vova, into his courtyard, where a fresh-looking Latvian-made Snaige fridge stands.
“Volunteers!” Vova points first to Snaige and then to the other, smashed and doorless fridge lying neglected in the corner of the garden: “Russians.”
Vova then proudly shows off a small collection - shell casings of various calibers, projectiles, mortar rounds, pieces of tank ammunition, a gaudy-looking aluminum cigarette case, and a metal cast of Lenin’s head are displayed on a small table against the wall of the house.
“Found it all on my own land! It’s all from this plot,” Vova points smilingly to his miniature household that is only a couple of meters times a couple of meters large. If it’s all from here, I think, then every plot of land must be thick with scrap metal... Lenin is the one that makes Vova laugh the most.
“Just think about it - one of them brought it with him!”
It really makes us all laugh.
Vova goes on to tell us the entire recent history of Posad Pokrovske, and with it his own recent misadventures: the Russians occupied the village for three months, looting absolutely everything.
“When I came back” - Vova fled from the invaders to Mykolaiv - “the neighbors’ animals were walking around on my property, the cows were mooing in agony: they were thirsty and hungry, nobody had given them anything and nobody had milked them. And in my own house, apart from an old sofa and a table, nothing was left. They looted everything and smashed it up. And you know what they did? They didn’t take these things with them - they carpeted their trenches, slept in the trenches on mattresses stolen from the houses, and used kitchen utensils stolen from the houses. Afterwards, they smashed everything.”
For me, Vova’s story explains the theft of fridges and washing machines better than the claim that the loot was sent to some Siberian village as a gift: a simple soldier can’t just do that, and if fridges and washing machines were sent to Russia, only officers could do that, and not all of them. So Vova’s story seems more logical: everything “amortized” on the spot.
“Will the government help you now?” Schulz asks suspiciously.
“Of course they will! They are already doing it!” Vova exclaims briskly. “The electricity is on. And water. And they brought the fridge,” the villager points triumphantly to Snaige again. “And firewood.” Indeed, in front of the house, there is an awe-inspiring amount of firewood fixed to a wooden transportation frame. "And Zelenskyy himself visited our village,” Vova adds gratefully.
The metal garden gate opens and closes with a bang, and in walks a country-woman about Vova’s age, perhaps about sixty years old.
“See, my neighbor,” Vova points toward the woman, then to the other side, where three two-storey collective farm apartment-type houses stand in a row behind the meadow, one in a sadder state than the other.
“You can’t see it from here,” Vova explains, “but the house is missing another wall. The neighbor can’t live there. So I took her in.”
The man and the woman go on to talk about how the locals refuse to give in to their evil fate, are determined to rebuild their village, and are all doing it together - one for all, all for one. The noise of artillery fire does not reach Posad Pokrovske, but that is the only luxury compared to Kherson. If it were not for Vova’s optimistic tone and the living proof of both him and his neighbor, the village could be considered a fresh battlefield: there are more traces of destruction than of life and reconstruction. But things take time.
“My plot is mine-free,” Vova explains in the meantime. “The mine clearers will make a cross with paint on the asphalt in front of the cleared plot.” I have a quick look behind us - yep, a bright yellow cross does indeed adorn the driveway in front of Vova’s house. “But it’s not like that everywhere. Three clearers were just killed in the field nearby.” We realize that caution is not really in vain. But despite this grim remark, a zest for life radiates from Vova.
“I don’t want to go anywhere. Not to Poland, not anywhere else. This is our land, our soil, we’ll build it all up. If only we had the tools. There is no shovel - the Russians took or destroyed everything.”
But even this concern seems a trifle to Vova, as he immediately goes on to explain how work is progressing inside the silicate-brick hut, which is tattered by bomb fragments.
It’s time to leave. Vova thanks us for our interest and visit.
“Do you need smokes?” Dima asks as we are about to go. Vova’s eyes light up. “And Coke maybe?”
“Listen, boys," Vova then exclaims, “take something for yourselves as a present!”
He leads us back to his collection, thrusting Lenin into Alex’s hand, his grin widening as he points to the artist’s name stamped on the back of the cheap, little figurine. I receive an empty, heavy machine gun cartridge case, accompanied by a matching bullet. As promised, Vova gets a carton of cigarettes and three one-and-a-half-liter bottles of Coca-Cola. Our parting words offer him well wishes for the reconstruction. Strangely, as we drive away, it feels as if the reassurance wasn’t meant for Vova, but rather for ourselves.
We turn the minibus back towards Mykolaiv, embarking on the journey back to Odesa. On the way, a HIMARS thunders past us, heading east, a stark reminder that the war is far from over, its outcome far from certain. We’re equally struck by the extensive street construction underway around Mykolaiv. Alex interprets it as a sign of Ukrainian optimism, while I suspect it might be a strategic military operation.
Four hours later, arriving in Odesa feels like landing on another planet, or at least reaching a distant continent. It’s hard to believe it's only two hundred kilometers away.
So we leave Kherson, give the soldiers serving at the checkpoint on the outskirts of the town some more chocolate, energy drinks, and cigarettes, and turn our backs to Pokrovske. Right next to the road leading to the houses, we see a villager calmly combing his plot with a metal detector. He doesn’t even raise his head as we drive by.
“Not one step off the road!” Dima orders us as he stops the van. In the meantime, the weather has changed - an icy wind is blowing, but it cannot hide the fact that spring has arrived in southern Ukraine. Everything is turning green already, daffodils are blooming in front of the houses, birds are chirping happily. We take pictures of the ruins of small houses and sheds, and I think that this is just one destroyed village. How many others are there like this? How many more will there be before this war is over?
A small old man walks along the village street.
“Listen,” Schulz nudges Nastya, “go and have a talk with him.”
Nastya doesn’t want to, and she shakes her head.
“Why not? What’s the worst that can happen? If he says he doesn’t want to, then he doesn’t want to and says no.”
Nastya sighs and reluctantly walks over to the old man. I can see her explaining something and pointing toward Schulz. The man’s face lights up. Apparently, he has nothing against these unexpected guests, as he beckons us all over and invites us to see his household.
It turns out to be one of the few habitable, blue-roofed huts in an otherwise broken and ransacked village street. We follow the man, who introduces himself as Vova, into his courtyard, where a fresh-looking Latvian-made Snaige fridge stands.
“Volunteers!” Vova points first to Snaige and then to the other, smashed and doorless fridge lying neglected in the corner of the garden: “Russians.”
Vova then proudly shows off a small collection - shell casings of various calibers, projectiles, mortar rounds, pieces of tank ammunition, a gaudy-looking aluminum cigarette case, and a metal cast of Lenin’s head are displayed on a small table against the wall of the house.
“Found it all on my own land! It’s all from this plot,” Vova points smilingly to his miniature household that is only a couple of meters times a couple of meters large. If it’s all from here, I think, then every plot of land must be thick with scrap metal... Lenin is the one that makes Vova laugh the most.
“Just think about it - one of them brought it with him!”
It really makes us all laugh.
Vova goes on to tell us the entire recent history of Posad Pokrovske, and with it his own recent misadventures: the Russians occupied the village for three months, looting absolutely everything.
“When I came back” - Vova fled from the invaders to Mykolaiv - “the neighbors’ animals were walking around on my property, the cows were mooing in agony: they were thirsty and hungry, nobody had given them anything and nobody had milked them. And in my own house, apart from an old sofa and a table, nothing was left. They looted everything and smashed it up. And you know what they did? They didn’t take these things with them - they carpeted their trenches, slept in the trenches on mattresses stolen from the houses, and used kitchen utensils stolen from the houses. Afterwards, they smashed everything.”
For me, Vova’s story explains the theft of fridges and washing machines better than the claim that the loot was sent to some Siberian village as a gift: a simple soldier can’t just do that, and if fridges and washing machines were sent to Russia, only officers could do that, and not all of them. So Vova’s story seems more logical: everything “amortized” on the spot.
“Will the government help you now?” Schulz asks suspiciously.
“Of course they will! They are already doing it!” Vova exclaims briskly. “The electricity is on. And water. And they brought the fridge,” the villager points triumphantly to Snaige again. “And firewood.” Indeed, in front of the house, there is an awe-inspiring amount of firewood fixed to a wooden transportation frame. "And Zelenskyy himself visited our village,” Vova adds gratefully.
The metal garden gate opens and closes with a bang, and in walks a country-woman about Vova’s age, perhaps about sixty years old.
“See, my neighbor,” Vova points toward the woman, then to the other side, where three two-storey collective farm apartment-type houses stand in a row behind the meadow, one in a sadder state than the other.
“You can’t see it from here,” Vova explains, “but the house is missing another wall. The neighbor can’t live there. So I took her in.”
The man and the woman go on to talk about how the locals refuse to give in to their evil fate, are determined to rebuild their village, and are all doing it together - one for all, all for one. The noise of artillery fire does not reach Posad Pokrovske, but that is the only luxury compared to Kherson. If it were not for Vova’s optimistic tone and the living proof of both him and his neighbor, the village could be considered a fresh battlefield: there are more traces of destruction than of life and reconstruction. But things take time.
“My plot is mine-free,” Vova explains in the meantime. “The mine clearers will make a cross with paint on the asphalt in front of the cleared plot.” I have a quick look behind us - yep, a bright yellow cross does indeed adorn the driveway in front of Vova’s house. “But it’s not like that everywhere. Three clearers were just killed in the field nearby.” We realize that caution is not really in vain. But despite this grim remark, a zest for life radiates from Vova.
“I don’t want to go anywhere. Not to Poland, not anywhere else. This is our land, our soil, we’ll build it all up. If only we had the tools. There is no shovel - the Russians took or destroyed everything.”
But even this concern seems a trifle to Vova, as he immediately goes on to explain how work is progressing inside the silicate-brick hut, which is tattered by bomb fragments.
It’s time to leave. Vova thanks us for our interest and visit.
“Do you need smokes?” Dima asks as we are about to go. Vova’s eyes light up. “And Coke maybe?”
“Listen, boys," Vova then exclaims, “take something for yourselves as a present!”
He leads us back to his collection, thrusting Lenin into Alex’s hand, his grin widening as he points to the artist’s name stamped on the back of the cheap, little figurine. I receive an empty, heavy machine gun cartridge case, accompanied by a matching bullet. As promised, Vova gets a carton of cigarettes and three one-and-a-half-liter bottles of Coca-Cola. Our parting words offer him well wishes for the reconstruction. Strangely, as we drive away, it feels as if the reassurance wasn’t meant for Vova, but rather for ourselves.
We turn the minibus back towards Mykolaiv, embarking on the journey back to Odesa. On the way, a HIMARS thunders past us, heading east, a stark reminder that the war is far from over, its outcome far from certain. We’re equally struck by the extensive street construction underway around Mykolaiv. Alex interprets it as a sign of Ukrainian optimism, while I suspect it might be a strategic military operation.
Four hours later, arriving in Odesa feels like landing on another planet, or at least reaching a distant continent. It’s hard to believe it's only two hundred kilometers away.
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