Getty Images / «Бабель»

Today I was there, near the 118th house, where taking pictures on the roof with the Dnieper river view used to be a very popular thing to do. It was where Yana and I played cards in elementary school, betting on some stupid wishes like juggling raw eggs or going out into the street in a wedding dress made out of garbage bags, and also where we looked at porn magazines stolen from the top shelf for the first time ever.

It was where we celebrated the birthday of Sasha, who is now a very cool cameraman and who survived yesterday, and my classmates and I happily informed each other about that.

It was where now there is an old hostel in the courtyard with broken windows from yesterday, where we went to the "party", as we then called it, to Valera.

Almost every time we walked past this house to the “spit”. The spit has been generally our main recreational area and a place of power. Now it offers a magical view of the ruined lives of my friends.

I went to ask how could I help, what could I bring, and just hug someone I knew there. At least ten people who are dear to me, have families, pets, students, or businesses in that house - some pieces of their hearts.

I saw how rescuers worked, got tired, and replaced each other. How one after another, cars of volunteers and journalists drove up for hours, unloaded, and left. On the top floor, bar stools stood unshakably behind the counter - the load-bearing wall had fallen, but they stood still. How the residents, a little bewildered, walked away from their native courtyard with their suitcases and bags and most probably would never return.

I heard large pieces of walls falling down with a terrible roar, how bags of broken glass fall into the trailer. Near the school, I answered five times the question of where was that house to carry warm clothes from some non-locals with bags who wanted to help. Local small punks ran back and forth, pushed each other, and laughed: "Look, Zheka, well, no home now, yes, well, but the cola is free, let's get one more."

I don’t know who thought of bringing Coke or Pepsi in January when they seem to need tea, coffee, and soup, but this person was definitely not mistaken. I myself would put out a box of cola to see in the eyes that Zheka and his friends that their life didn’t end yesterday, and they remain children.

I saw a lot. I didn’t see only one thing that Russians dream to see at least once - our obedience to blunt force, readiness for capitulation, a split.

Dnipro is holding on. Dnipro gets united. Dnipro is hating

Thanks to my classmates for unity, attentiveness, posts, correspondence, and random meetings these days. We are extremely lucky to meet each other in this life and generally be from here, from the Victory area.

From the UA.SOUTH Editorial Team:

For more than two days a search and rescue operation has been going on the ruins of a residential high-rise building in the city of Dnipro. It was hit by a Russian X-22 missile, which the Russians call the "killer of aircraft carriers." 40 civilians were killed and 79 were injured. On Sunday afternoon rescuers pulled out a 27-year-old woman who managed to survive under the rubble. She is in intensive care, and in serious condition due to severe hypothermia. The fate of more than 30 is unknown.