It is impossible to comprehend how Iryna Kostenko could have hauled her murdered son’s body into a wheelbarrow, pushed him home and then buried him in the shallow grave she dug in the frozen soil.
“I covered the grave in a blanket to protect it from the dogs,” she said. “He isn’t in a coffin – I had to roll him in a carpet.”
And then, weeping uncontrollably, she held up a photograph of Olekseii, killed at 27, and wailed “This is my love, my sweetheart.”
