In Mykolaiv’s bunkers, civilians are defiant, but fear for their city

Ukrainian Svitlana Klimenko, whose family has lived in the same house here for seven generations, leads the way down a narrow courtyard trail and past a tiny, snow-covered urban garden.

“This is the secret path,” she says.

She steps through a gap in the fence and into the nondescript entryway of an aged apartment block. Unlocking a heavy steel door, and wielding her flashlight like it’s her only weapon, she descends dark stairs deep underground, to yet another steel door.

Inside is a Soviet-era bunker, a relic of the last world war, and recently unsealed for the first time in 70 years.

Soon after Russian forces invaded Ukraine in late February, fearful neighbors quickly resurrected the bunker’s electrical, ventilation, and water systems and brought down pallets and mattresses, old furniture and plastic chairs, to shield 150 people.

When air raid sirens sound in Mykolaiv, dozens of Ukrainian citizens shelter here.

The thick-walled bunker is just one impregnable symbol of resistance and survival, shown with pride in this frigid city, which has already withstood two weeks of Russian ground attacks and sporadic rocket fire.

But among residents there is foreboding, too, that denying Russian President Vladimir Putin victory over this strategic port city – effectively blocking the Russian advance west along the Black Sea coast – will trigger a far greater, vengeful onslaught.

“I was sure that Mykolaiv would be taken quickly, and it is unexpected that the Ukraine army held it all these days,” says Ms. Klimenko, whose job gilding furniture with gold leaf stopped when Russia invaded.

“The army has fought very bravely and strongly, so my hope is for the city to stand,” she says. “But I’m afraid it’s going to be like Kharkiv or Mariupol, and that because of our strong fight back, the Russians will destroy the city.

“I am afraid of total bombing and destruction of our architecture and heritage.”

“We are waiting constantly”

Ms. Klimenko says her knees shake with every air raid siren, but she finds solace by helping a virtually immobile older neighbor, who lives on a fourth floor.

And the mindset of her neighbors?

“They are angry with the Russians,” she says. “This city was very friendly to Russia before this.” But now, sympathy is gone.

“We have no choice,” interjects her son-in-law, Andriy. “They’re killing us.”

Residents of Mykolaiv say they are surprised about how their city – founded in 1789 at the confluence of wide, windswept rivers – has become a frontline fulcrum of the Russian advance toward Odessa.

“I feel worried, anxious inside,” says Ms. Klimenko. “We are waiting constantly for something to happen.”

For what, exactly, is increasingly becoming clear above ground and on television and social media channels, which show Russia expanding the scope of cities it is targeting.

Officials said a heavy Russian bombardment of Mykolaiv Sunday morning included cluster bombs, damaged 40 buildings – among them a school – and left nine people dead.

The death toll was high, said the mayor, Oleksandr Senkevych, because, unlike previous Russian strikes, which mostly occurred at night during a curfew, the Sunday attack came at around 9 a.m.

Since the war began, up to one-third of the residents of Mykolaiv have left the city, based on the amount of garbage collected and services now provided, the mayor told the BBC.

Russian forces “don’t come close to the city with their troops, but their rocket bombardments are coming more and more,” said Mr. Senkevych. “People in this city are really motivated, they know what they stand for, and they are ready to meet the enemy and fight them back,” he said.

“You must tell the truth”

Days earlier, on a visit to the Ingulskii district in eastern Mykolaiv, one hears the distinctive sounds of clearing broken glass – sweeping shards into buckets, and dropping them into dumpsters. Two rockets had struck before dawn last Monday, and residents were still bewildered by the assault on their reality, their anger deepening for a war they did not choose.

“We did nothing to Putin – why ... did he come here?” asks Tetiana, a retired ballerina, using an expletive to punctuate her question. “He’s a moron, an animal.”

One rocket landing outside her Soviet-era apartment block cut off the gas supply, but electricity and water are still working. All the windows are broken, with plastic sheeting often in their place now to stop frigid winds that at times lower temperatures outside to just 10 degrees Fahrenheit.

A friend’s new car, parked outside, is a crumpled wreck, peppered by shrapnel.

“This is the image of how Putin does not hit civilians,” says Tetiana’s neighbor, sarcastically dismissing the Russian leader’s denials that civilians are dying, despite indiscriminate Russian bombing in numerous Ukrainian cities. He is bundled up in a thick jacket against the cold, and carries food in plastic shopping bags.

Tetiana says she considers herself “lucky” compared with her sister, who lives under Russian occupation in Kherson, 45 miles to the southeast. The main military threat to Mykolaiv is from Russian troops advancing from Kherson.

“She cries, she cries. She is in a very bad mood,” Tetiana says of her sister.

President Putin said one reason for invading Ukraine was to wipe out “Nazis” and “nationalists” who threaten Russia – excuses that are laughed at in Mykolaiv.

“We say, ‘Stop the war! Help us.’ There are no nationalists in Ukraine, only simple people with good souls,” says Tetiana, who gave only her first name. “Save us! You must tell the truth about Ukraine.”

Tetiana runs her gloved fingers through the snow on the wrecked car – the impact point of the rocket leaving a crater in the earth several yards away – and then reenters her building.

Passing shrapnel-scarred walls, she climbs the stairs, and her tough veneer cracks. She speaks again, her voice breaking this time, as emotion takes hold: “I don’t know how to live in war.”

Engaging in bunker talk

When an air raid siren sounds, other residents enter an underground bunker not far away. It is not as deep as the reinforced Soviet-era structures, but is a basement-turned-gym with comfortingly thick walls, nonetheless.

Ukrainian families and their children rest on one side, checking their phones for news and to reassure relatives. In the next room, on couches and chairs, an older set ponders what it has seen of Ukrainian resistance so far – and wonder if, and when, it can stop the Russian advance.

“We never invaded anyone,” says Margarita Andrieva, a Ukrainian of Belarusian descent, who wears a bright orange hat while she waits out the siren.

“We had our dreams. We had our jobs,” she says. Her relatives in Russia and Belarus “don’t believe this is happening. They say we are Nazis and need to be careful.”

Mr. Putin “is worse than Hitler,” she says. “He took Goebbels at his word: The more you lie, the more people believe,” says Ms. Andrieva, referring to the Nazi propaganda master, Joseph Goebbels.

Others nod in agreement; this is typical bunker talk. They nod, too, when the discussion turns to Russian tactics, and apparent disorganization on the battlefield.

The annual May 9 Victory Day parades across Red Square in Moscow – which project a gleaming, marching, powerful Russian military – have been proved by Ukrainians to be “fake,” says Ms. Andrieva.

“Ukraine is strong; people need to understand we can’t give up,” she says. “Putin is a coward. He’s afraid snipers will kill him. That’s why he’s hiding in a bunker.

“We don’t accept cowards.”