October 27th 2025

Yuriy returns to his childhood apartment in Kharkiv, reflecting on memories and the stark changes brought by war. Amidst the remnants of the past, he finds solace in small comforts and prepare the space for fellow Ukrainian soldiers passing through.

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TRANSCRIPT: (Apple Podcasts & Podbean app users can enjoy accurate closed captions)  

It is 27th of October.

I'm recording this episode sitting in the kitchen of my apartment in Kharkiv. I came here for, just a few hours and almost as soon as I finish this story, I'll be living again. This apartment belonged to several generations of my family. I grew up here, as did my cousins, my daughter, and my nephews. There were always a lot of people here, always noisy and cheerful, you know those silly comedies where stereotypical Italian families all cram into a tiny kitchen and everyone talks at once, it was kind of like that here too.

But for almost four years now, it hasn't been like that. The Russian border is less than 20 miles away and constant sharing has destroyed much of the civilian infrastructure. There is no heat in the apartment and electricity is often cut off. I look out the window and see almost the same view I saw all my childhood- trees with yellow, autumn leaves a few people walking by dogs, pigeons perched on the wires, waiting for my elderly neighbor to come out and feed them bread crumbs. Of course, many things in the courtyard have changed. The big, beautiful riping willow is gone, only the stump remains. A few weeks before the full scale war, it was struck by lightning and burned completely. If I believed in omens, I would have taken that as a very bad sign.

Next to the stump, there is something else that was not here when I was a child, a green military van. It's mine. It's large and fairly comfortable though, it's already 20 years old. It could easily fit my whole family and we could drive somewhere to the sea, to Crimea where it is still warm, even if swimming in the sea is no longer possible. But there is no one to go with, and Crimea has long been occupied. My family is scattered across the world. The once noisy apartment now stands silent and slowly falls apart. I'm not selling it or renting it out- not only for sentimental reasons, but also because I use it as a place to rest during my trips. There is still gas here so I can hit some water and take a shower. When the power's on, I can even do laundry in the washing machine. You can't imagine what a luxury that is for a soldier.

I made several sets of keys to this apartment and gave them to friends who serve nearby or occasionally pass through Kharkiv. I can tell that someone was here recently. There is a bottle of water and a can of food on the table just in case someone arrives late when the stores are closed, so they'll have something to eat and something to make tea or coffee with. Someone also spent the night in my daughter's former room and read books from her little library, Sherlock Holmes, and some modern science fiction.

It's time for me to go. I'll check if I've turned off all the lights, leave some fresh water and a bit of cookies on the table for people who can come here in the future and head out from my childhood home once again.

I don't know when or if I'll come back, but I really hope I will.