Donetsk. Inevitable

Marina and I are sitting between the floors in the entrance of the Stalinsky house in the center of Donetsk. Glass shakes, you can hear the "hail" falls. This means that the war is somewhere very close, a few kilometers from us. I note with surprise that I am somehow too calm about this fact. There is something inevitable in these rolling sounds.

“We are sitting in the right place,” Marina notes phlegmatically, lighting the next cigarette. - There are thick walls. And most importantly, far from the windows.

A few days ago, Marina stocked up with cigarettes and products in case the civilization suddenly leaves from Donetsk.

“Yesterday, the shell fell into the maternity ward, where my son once was born,” she says dramatically quietly. -And one militia shot a laboratory assistant in the hospital for talking to him somehow incorrectly. After that, the doctors rebelled and wrote statements about leaving. There is no one to operate now.

Donetsk is a millionth city, which was once the center of one of the most important regions of the country. Between the moment when the building of the regional administration was seized by armed people who proclaimed the Donetsk People’s Republic, and an entire eternity flew today. During this time, hundreds of military and civilians were killed in the anti -terrorist operation in the Donbass, Slavyansk was liberated and Malaysian Boeing was shot down. Most stores, beauty salons and cafes were closed. Drugs began to disappear from pharmacy shelves, and doctors from hospitals. Thousands of people left the region.

The millionth city is empty. At the entrance to Donetsk from the south side there is a steady smell of Gary: in this area they are regularly bombed. For some time now, the metropolis has been taken into the ring by the Ukrainian army, and I quite clearly feel how a healthy, muscular body of the city leaves blood.

It’s dark and damp in the bomb shelter, a wounded dog scurrying down the stairs.

Only flower beds are cherished: no matter what, the old women continue to water roses and cut the bushes. They say that the beauty and grooming of the streets saves people who remained in Donetsk from immersion. But calmly only in the center, and a few kilometers from it begins the space of anxiety.

In the courtyard of one of the houses in the area of ​​the railway station, which recently fired at the artillery, a fire was diluted, and a pot of pot was on it. Pensioners boil water for tea. There are no gas and electricity in the house for several days. They will learn the news from friends from other areas where television and Internet still works.

Nearby, at the 18th hospital, is a bomb shelter. I was brought to him by two inspectors of the Civil Defense of the DPR Lyudmila and Alexander. There we are met by a group of gloomy grandmothers.

“Look, here people actually live here,” Lyudmila shows a finger. - We bring them everything you need.

-Why are you lying? - Suddenly one of the old women on the inspector is pounced. - Nobody helps us! And we see you for the first time!

“I sent you a volunteer ...” she justifies.

- Not Murchi! - another grandmother is approaching her. - We don’t even have light here, no one brought candles!

It’s dark and damp in the bomb shelter, a wounded dog scurrying down the stairs. In the depths of the corridors immersed in the darkness of the corridors, wrapped in old blankets, people are lying. Some have a thin candle on the table, around a plate, pots and playing cards.

The silhouette of a man is shown from the long room. Seeing the camera, he begins to scream on the move. Cursing break through through each second word.

I clearly feel how the healthy body of the city leaves blood.

“My apartment on *** smashed the shell, right when I was at home,” he says. - At first I heard a whistle. And I know that if a whistle of a mortar is heard, then it flies right at me. I managed to lie on the floor. The apartment was turning the apartment, the balcony was vomited with the root. When I calmed down, I decided just in case to go to the corridor on the yoga mat that my wife left. And then a howitzer hit the house. Then I went to the bomb shelter and I don’t want to get out of here anymore.

The man gradually calms down, goes outside and lit a cigarette.

“You know, I’m aware of who actually shot there,” he continues. - I can distinguish such things. And I know that both those and these are “well done”.

The inspector Lyudmila takes me aside and reports in her ear that this guy is Benderovets.

“This grandmother managed to tell me here,” she says, smiling slyly. - He believes that the DPR is to blame for everything. Do we often meet such at objects, however, Sash?

Inspector Alexander nods.

“There are enough those who do not agree,” he says. - Many schools do not want to let us in, prepare for Ukrainian first September, according to Ukrainian textbooks. The other day I was in one of the schools where there is a bomb shelter. I come there, I ask you to provide it for the inspection, and the director says to me: "Glory to Ukraine, Glory to the heroes, mine will not shoot at me, goodbye." Well, nothing, then we are talking to such in our own way.

In the city, it remains to work around the clock only one cafe, part -time bomb shelter. In it, the top of the Donetsk People’s Republic meets every evening. Self -proclaimed officials come here, accompanied by bearded barns, hung with weapons. They do not take off their machines, even when they eat.

- Where can you have fun here normally? - The bearded man with the Caucasian accent addresses me. On his sleeve he has a “Novorossia” strip.

“Nowhere,” Kostya answers him cheerfully, my interlocutor. - Everything was closed. Now we only eat and smoke hookah - these are our entertainment.

Soon, two young girls sit down to the machine gunner, and he orders hookah and ice cream.

“It seems to me that everything should end soon,” Kostya tells me. - The Ukrainian army will run away, and the Donbass will become a little Switzerland.

- Yeah. Already became, ”the man laughs at the next table. - Especially eloquently, this is evident from the “shelter” plate in the basement of the cafe.

Somewhere in the distance, an explosion is heard, followed by a few more volleys. No one is reacting, everyone is already used to it. I notice behind myself that I also react to it calmly. Yes, there is something inevitable in these rolled sounds.