KYIV, Ukraine — Driving around the heart of the Ukrainian capital one might almost think things had returned to normal.
More than three months after Russia retreated from Kyiv, shops and restaurants in the center of the city are open and buildings are unscarred. But the illusion of normalcy quickly shatters.
Statues of Ukrainian heroes in public squares are shrouded with sandbags. Independence Square — the scene of massive demonstrations in 2014 that demanded that Ukraine opt for Europe rather than remain under Russia's thumb — is lined with "hedgehogs." That's the nickname for metal antitank barriers.
Meanwhile, burned-out Russian tanks and mobile artillery are now on display in the plaza fronting the famous St. Michael's Golden-Domed Monastery.
But it is the journey from Krakow, Poland, to Kyiv that gave me the most insight into how much has changed in Ukraine since I last visited in February, just before the Russian invasion began.
Vladimir Putin's aggression has turned Ukraine into a country in motion.
The figures are staggering. There are an estimated 5 million Ukrainians who have fled their country. According to the United Nations refugee agency, as of June, at least 7 million Ukrainians had become internal refugees, with the number soaring as Russia destroys more cities, towns, and villages in eastern Ukraine. Putin's war crimes have driven as many as one-third of Ukrainians from their homes, according to the U.N. agency.
Poland is now home to an estimated 3 million Ukrainian refugees. Krakow, a spectacularly beautiful city with a medieval core and a castle that housed Polish kings, is host to at least 200,000 Ukrainians, most of them women and children. I met several, and heard their appreciation for the generosity of Polish volunteers who have helped them settle, and find housing and jobs.
The resilience of the Ukrainians and the openness of the Poles have both been stunning. But what I was told over and over by Polish volunteers I met — a lesson that should be taken to heart by Americans — was this: "We are helping them not only because they are brave, but because, if they were not fighting the Russians in Ukraine, we would be fighting them here."
In Krakow, I met Viktoriia Mudritska, who was a director at the historical museum in Chernihiv, a midsize city located less than 40 miles from the Russian border, which was attacked on the first day of the war. She told me how she hid during the bombardment with three friends and four dogs in a friend's small basement for 10 days until Ukrainian soldiers told them they had to leave. The house was destroyed the day after they left. "We didn't believe this could happen," she recalls. "Then you have to accept it."
A practicing Buddhist, she stayed for a while in a Buddhist Center near the Polish border that was sheltering 100 refugees (she recovered there from a case of COVID-19). Then she went to stay with friends in Poland and "began to send CVs everywhere." She had worked at the Chernihiv museum on a history of Jews in that city; her CV caught the eye of the head of the Galicia Jewish Museum in Krakow, and she was hired to work on educational programs.
The museum and its director, Jakub Nowakowski, have made special efforts to help Ukrainians of all religions. Another refugee, Tetiana Veroniuk, who was a dancer and actress in Kyiv, went on Facebook looking for work. "Kuba" — Nowakowski — "found me and helped," she told me.
But both Viktoriia and Tetiana speak of the special challenge that faces displaced Ukrainians abroad and at home. "I can only plan for a few days," said Viktoriia. "Who knows what will be in our future?"
Although many refugees are starting to go home, she is worried about Chernihiv's future if Russia continues its aggression. "I can help volunteers here," she said. "For women with children it is not so easy."
Tetiana echoed this uncertainty: "I had so many plans, my group traveled and performed abroad, but now ... I don't know what comes next."
It is this terrible uncertainty, as the war drags on, that haunts Ukrainians, and indeed the whole of Europe. How will things end? Will they end? Will the United States and Western Europe finally send Ukraine the long-range rocket launchers, artillery, and antimissile systems they need to drive the invaders back to their own soil?
The awfulness of this uncertainty — along with the admirable volunteers eager to help ease Ukrainians' pain — were in full view as I traveled yesterday to the Polish border town of Przemysl to catch the night train to Kyiv.
There are no flights into Ukraine anymore. So hundreds of Ukrainian women and children were huddled in the waiting room — and outside in a long queue in the cold — awaiting a train that was four hours late. The good news was that young Polish high school volunteers in yellow vests rushed to help old ladies carry their baggage, while American volunteers working for World Food Kitchen handed out hot homemade soup and sandwiches in carry bags.
Meantime, the travelers, some of them Ukrainian wives visiting husbands in the army or returning home for good, were remarkably good-natured — or resigned — except for frantic young women with sick children or crying babies who were trying to cope.
When the train finally pulled out at 3 a.m. for the 12-hour ride, I felt incredibly lucky, knowing that I had a home to return to in the U.S. and could leave the war zone at will. But I remembered the mantra I heard over and over in Poland: "They are fighting so we do not have to."
This Ukrainian limbo cannot last forever. Either we and the Europeans give Ukraine the weapons to end it, or we will be drawn into Putin's madness along with Ukraine.
