A school in Kharkiv, Ukraine, nicknamed Zolushka, which means Cinderella. Claire Harbage/NPR hide caption
A school in Kharkiv, Ukraine, nicknamed Zolushka, which means Cinderella.
In the city of Kharkiv, in northeast Ukraine, there is a kindergarten classroom with bright yellow and green walls and long, gauzy curtains. It's filled with toys and books.
The lockers purple, green and yellow with name tags on the front: Sofiia, Daniel, Bohdan are still filled with children's belongings: shoes, backpacks and a drawing of a snowman.
But these days, there are no children.
In August, Russian artillery hit the school building, shattering windows and covering classrooms in debris. Claire Harbage/NPR hide caption
In August, Russian artillery hit the school building, shattering windows and covering classrooms in debris.
A blessing, given that on a sunny day last August, a Russian artillery attack hit the school building, shattering nearly every window in the classroom. A fate thousands of schools across Ukraine have met since the war with Russia began.
"It's not the damage to the school that I mourn," Yana Tsyhanenko, the head of school, said that day as she surveyed the damage, the glass crunching under her feet. "It's the destruction of childhood."
Under the dust and debris, the classroom told a story of life before the war, of the lives of 27 students and their teacher, disrupted and forever changed.
Students' names are listed on their kindergarten lockers. Claire Harbage/NPR hide caption
Students' names are listed on their kindergarten lockers.
The lunch menu with the date Feb. 24 the day that Russia invaded was still hanging on the wall, advertising the buckwheat soup and cabbage that was never served. A chess game was frozen mid-match, waiting for someone to make the next move.
Near a window, a cluster of plastic pots with the sprouts of African violets sat on a table, each flower planted by a student in the days before schools in Kharkiv shut down. A gift for their mothers. Ready to grow. Full of potential.
"It's not the damage to the school that I mourn," says Yana Tsyhanenko, the head of school. "It's the destruction of childhood." Claire Harbage/NPR hide caption
"It's not the damage to the school that I mourn," says Yana Tsyhanenko, the head of school. "It's the destruction of childhood."
So often in war, the buildings that have been damaged are the most visible. But what about the invisible damage? The human, less-deadly, far-deeper scars?
What had happened to the children who once learned here?
Answering that question began an eight-month journey across Ukraine and Europe and to the United States. Time spent with children who now want to drive tanks or fly jets when they grow up, who have trouble sleeping, and who are scared. Friendships uprooted, children struggling to remember, others wanting to forget. But also children laughing and learning new languages and beginning to dream.
Their stories make up one kindergarten classroom, but they also represent the millions of children from Ukraine who have left and who have stayed.
Nearly 3,000 schools have been damaged in Ukraine since the war with Russia began in February 2022. Claire Harbage/NPR hide caption
Nearly 3,000 schools have been damaged in Ukraine since the war with Russia began in February 2022.
The teacher in charge of that green classroom is Iryna Sahan, who mixes kindness and authority in a way only someone with nearly 30 years in a classroom can do. In her apartment in Kharkiv's northeast, she unwraps a package of newly printed yearbooks. Each book is filled with photos of her 27 kindergartners. She gets goosebumps as she turns the pages, describing them. "Aurora had a big personality. Sofiia was always in charge. Simeon convinced me to buy that chess set."
Her classroom was like a family. Everyone was busy reading, playing and learning.
"An anthill," she says, "constantly in motion."
Iryna Sahan has been teaching kindergarten for nearly three decades. She describes her classroom as "an anthill, constantly in motion." Claire Harbage/NPR hide caption
Iryna Sahan has been teaching kindergarten for nearly three decades. She describes her classroom as "an anthill, constantly in motion."
Kharkiv is the second-largest city in Ukraine, just an hour from the border with Russia. And in those first days of war, it was a scary place. At 7 a.m. on Feb. 24, the morning of the invasion, Sahan sent a text message to the classroom's group chat: "Dear Parents ... this is the information we have at the moment," she wrote. All schools in Kharkiv are closed.
In the days that followed, the parents used the text chain to share evacuation routes, news of power outages, and their families' plans for where they would go.
Of the 27 students in that green and yellow kindergarten class, ultimately, more than half would leave the country driving south through Moldova or west into Poland. For some, it was easier. They had relatives abroad, preexisting plans to emigrate, or a destination in mind. For others, it was much harder: weeks or months living in refugee camps in Poland and Germany; constantly moving from one country to another in search of housing, jobs and stability.
Through that group chat and social media, Sahan follows their journeys in Spain, the United States, Latvia and Germany.
About a dozen of the families stayed in Ukraine, leaving Kharkiv for destinations farther west: Kyiv, Lviv, Khmelnytskyi.
They packed lightly and left in a hurry.
By September, only one family was still living in the city of Kharkiv.
Sofiia Kuzmina, one of the oldest of Iryna Sahan's former students, is confident and tall; her shoulder-length blond hair is often pulled up in a knot at the top of her head. She likes to dance and sing and play dress-up. Yellow is her favorite color.
On a clear afternoon in September, she spins on the metal merry-go-round on the playground that separates her family's apartment building from the kindergarten, with the destroyed rainbow steps and the boarded-up windows in the background.
Sofiia Kuzmina gathers leaves on an empty playground in Kharkiv. Her mother, Natalia, says Sofiia has gotten used to playing by herself. Claire Harbage/NPR hide caption
Sofiia Kuzmina gathers leaves on an empty playground in Kharkiv. Her mother, Natalia, says Sofiia has gotten used to playing by herself.
Now enrolled in an online first grade, she says she still remembers everything about kindergarten: the hairdressing station where Iryna Sahan braided her hair, playing games with her friend Aurora, learning to write her name with her friend Bohdan.
As her mother watches from a nearby bench, she gives up on the playground equipment and heads for a row of bushes, where she begins to collect leaves and sticks, mumbling to herself as she searches.
There are no other children on the playground. Kharkiv, which is frequently shelled by Russian forces at night, remains pretty empty. As Sofiia gathers her leaf collection, Natalia Kuzmina explains that her daughter has gotten used to playing by herself.
Sofiia approaches and hands her mom a pile of greens. "It's salad," she says with a smile. Natalia pretends to take a bite. "Thank you. Yum yum!"
Natalia Kuzmina and her daughter Sofiia in Kharkiv. "I came back to Kharkiv for my children," she says. "It's important that children stay at home." Claire Harbage/NPR hide caption
Natalia Kuzmina and her daughter Sofiia in Kharkiv. "I came back to Kharkiv for my children," she says. "It's important that children stay at home."
In the weeks following the invasion last February, Sofiia's family left the city and spent time at a cottage farther west. But it was short-lived, and they soon returned. "I wanted to go back," Sofiia explains, resting her head on her mother's shoulder, "because here I can choose any of my toys, and there I didn't have any toys."
Natalia says that despite the danger at home, she can't imagine moving and living elsewhere. "I came back to Kharkiv for my children. It's important that children stay at home," she says. "And for me, I'm the person for whom it is really difficult to adjust."
But she and her husband have struggled to find work here, and being so close to the fighting has its challenges for Sofiia. Natalia explains that before the invasion, her daughter was a leader in the kindergarten, social and calm. But the war has changed her. "Now she reacts to everything in a more emotional way," Natalia says. "She will demand something or be argumentative. Sometimes she will cry with no reason."
Sofiia has become more emotional in the last year. "Sometimes she will cry with no reason," her mom says. Claire Harbage/NPR hide caption
Sofiia has become more emotional in the last year. "Sometimes she will cry with no reason," her mom says.
Her parents do everything they can to shield Sofiia from what's happening. They don't talk about the war with her, and they try to put Sofiia to bed before the nightly shelling begins so she sleeps through the explosions. "The earlier, the better," Natalia says, laughing. She's not above lying if she has to: "Oh, that loud sound? That's just a car ... or maybe construction. Nothing to worry about."
About 13 hours across Ukraine by train, in the western city of Lviv, Bohdan Semenukha's mom, Viktoria, has taken a very different approach.
"Our children know everything," she explains, as she sits on the couch in an apartment her family borrows from friends. Her son, Sofiia's former classmate, Bohdan, sits next to her. She begins to quiz him.
Bohdan Semenukha and his mom, Viktoria, look at photos from before the invasion. Claire Harbage/NPR hide caption
Bohdan Semenukha and his mom, Viktoria, look at photos from before the invasion.
"Who made you leave Kharkiv?"
"Russia," he says, looking up at her, his small face eagerly awaiting the next question.
"Why do you love Ukraine?"
"Because I was born here," he says.
"Who made Ukrainians leave their home?"
"Putin."
Bohdan's new school in Lviv is taught in person. There's a shelter in the basement in case of air raid sirens or missile attacks. "I'm the smartest person in my class," Bohdan boasts. Claire Harbage/NPR hide caption
Bohdan's new school in Lviv is taught in person. There's a shelter in the basement in case of air raid sirens or missile attacks. "I'm the smartest person in my class," Bohdan boasts.
They left Kharkiv in a panic last February, driving 36 hours to reach Lviv, close to the border with Poland. Viktoria says it's the safest place they could be that's still in Ukraine. Bohdan's father stayed behind in Kharkiv, assisting the military in their defense.
"Bohdan grew up in an instant," Viktoria says, as Bohdan plays with the family dog, Simba, who made the trip to Lviv sitting on Bohdan's lap. "We didn't have time for filtering things. He saw everything." At first, he was anxious, she says. He started to regress, often sucking on the corner of his T-shirt. Unlike Sofiia's mom, Viktoria felt that telling him everything might help him regain some power and control.
In western Ukraine, the war can feel farther away than in Kharkiv, but air raid sirens are still common in Lviv, and there have been a handful of recent missile strikes.
Bohdan's family left Kharkiv in a panic last February. "We didn't have time for filtering things," his mom says. "He saw everything." Claire Harbage/NPR hide caption
Bohdan's family left Kharkiv in a panic last February. "We didn't have time for filtering things," his mom says. "He saw everything."
As Bohdan and his mom were driving home from school one day this winter, an air raid siren went off. Bohdan leaned forward and asked his mom, "Does it mean that there are rockets above or missiles in the sky?"
"No, I don't think so," Viktoria tells him.
"But what if they can get us?" he squeaks, his hands holding the seat in front of him.
It's a delicate balance, of knowing what's happening but still being able to just be a kid. At this moment, Viktoria reassures him it's OK. She often does this when he gets anxious or stressed.
Bohdan eats borscht after school in the apartment his family is borrowing from a friend in Lviv, Ukraine. Claire Harbage/NPR hide caption
Bohdan eats borscht after school in the apartment his family is borrowing from a friend in Lviv, Ukraine.
On the day Iryna Sahan shared that yearbook of all the children in her class, she pointed to a photo of two blond children smiling up at the camera. "This is young love," she said, laughing.
They're in so many photos together. Sitting next to each other, marching down the hall, one in front of the other. Aurora Demchenko, headstrong and sweet, and Daniel Bizyayev, who loves soccer and is a good listener. Sahan remembered how they'd sit next to each other and giggle, sometimes distracting the other students.
What had happened to them? Were they still in touch?
All Sahan knew was that the war had driven these two best friends the farthest away of any of her students from Kharkiv, and from each other.
The Bizyayevs now live in a suburban neighborhood about an hour north of New York City. On a crisp November afternoon, Daniel steps off the yellow school bus he's ridden home and takes his mom Kristina's hand. They pass pumpkins and yard ghosts, left over from Halloween, on their way to their white two-story house with a large flag in the window. It's half Ukrainian and half American.
Daniel Bizyayev, his parents and two younger brothers now live in a suburban neighborhood about an hour north of New York City. Claire Harbage/NPR hide caption
Daniel Bizyayev, his parents and two younger brothers now live in a suburban neighborhood about an hour north of New York City.
Their new house, which Daniel shares with his parents and two brothers, is pretty empty. There is some basic furniture and a room filled with toys, but the walls remain bare. They left Ukraine so fast, they weren't able to take much with them. Daniel's been missing his bedroom back in Kharkiv. "There were so many books," he remembers. "There were so many stories."
He does have one hardcover book that reminds him of before the war: It's a version of that kindergarten yearbook Iryna Sahan had in Kharkiv.
"This is me and this is me," he says, pointing to photos of himself. In so many of the photos of Daniel, Aurora is standing right next to him. Often, they're holding hands.
"She likes to play soccer and to play cars," he says. They were always together, says Kristina, who's been standing nearby. "Daniel loves her because she is not so girlish."
"It's all a little bit different here because you have your own house," Daniel says in English. "In Ukraine, you usually live in an apartment. There's no upstairs." Claire Harbage/NPR hide caption
"It's all a little bit different here because you have your own house," Daniel says in English. "In Ukraine, you usually live in an apartment. There's no upstairs."
Daniel's parents, Kristina, who worked in marketing, and Yevgeniy, who ran a textile business, had been planning to immigrate to the United States since before Daniel was born. He'd been learning English in anticipation, while the adults worked on saving money, getting the paperwork together and coordinating with Yevgeniy's brother, who lives in the States. When the invasion came last February, they moved up their timeline.
"We wanted to save our lives and the lives of our children," Kristina explains. "For us, it was obvious to leave." As a parent, she says, you make decisions every day. When to wake up. To drink coffee. "Some decisions are harder to make than others," she says. "We never imagined we'd have to make this decision, but that's what we did."
Daniel's parents had been planning to immigrate to the United States since before Daniel was born. The war moved up their timeline. Claire Harbage/NPR hide caption
Daniel's parents had been planning to immigrate to the United States since before Daniel was born. The war moved up their timeline.
After the invasion, they stayed first in Moldova, Romania, and then Germany. Daniel's youngest brother, Leo, spent his first birthday in a refugee camp. In April, they arrived in West Haven, Conn., to stay with a host family they'd never met but connected with through the website UkraineTakeShelter.com. And then right before the school year started, they moved into that white house in New York state.
While Daniel's been making new friends at school and on his soccer team, he's really been missing Ukraine and Aurora. At night, he hugs his stuffed bear, pretending it's her. Over the summer, Daniel sent her a video message. "Kisses for you," he says, blowing kisses at the camera.
Aurora and her family never answered that message Daniel sent. Was it too painful to stay in touch? Or had they just gotten busy, adjusting to life in a new country?
Nearly 4,000 miles away, in Valencia, Spain, Aurora Demchenko's new school has a slide that goes all the way down to the lower-level floor, half inside and half outside. It's an international school, with instruction in English, where she and her two older brothers now go to class.
A few months after the visit with Daniel's family, Aurora is at school, sitting with two other girls on the blue foam carpet in the first-grade classroom. She wears her white and navy blue school uniform. Her long blond hair is pinned up with a red Minnie Mouse bow.
"Aurora, how are you feeling today?" her teacher, Amanda Green, asks. "So-so," Aurora replies in a quiet voice. "So-so," Green repeats. "Thank you for being honest."
At Aurora's school in Spain, students come from all over the world, but in just her class, there are seven Ukrainian children. Claire Harbage/NPR hide caption
At Aurora's school in Spain, students come from all over the world, but in just her class, there are seven Ukrainian children.
As class begins, students chatter in a multitude of languages: English, Spanish, a little German and Russian. The school's students come from all over the world, but in just this classroom, Aurora is one of seven Ukrainian children.
In Ukraine, Iryna Sahan remembers Aurora having a big personality, but in her new class, she is more timid and reserved. When she started school here in the fall, she could hardly speak any English.
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