Odessa before the Storm
A report from the Catherine the Great's Jewel on the Black Sea before the Russians attacked
I have been in many cities on the eve of war. Things are often eerily calm - and then suddenly they are not. A few weeks ago I was in Odessa, the Ukrainian port on the Black Sea. There was a sense of unease in the air but little obvious sign of the coming war, even though most residents expected it. Yesterday reports said that Russian troops had landed in the city and it was rocked by explosions, probably caused by incoming missiles. I was in London when the news of the Russian attack broke, far from the war. I got a message from Slava, who I write about in the story below, asking me what I thought he should do. But, of course, it’s very difficult to give advice when someone’s life may depend on it. I debated not publishing this story as it is now outdated. But in the end I decided to as it captures a moment in time in Odessa and the hopes and fears of its people before the Russians attacked. A version of this story appeared in The Spectator.
In the famous Eisenstein film of 1925 the Potemkin steps in Odessa are transformed into a river of human terror and death as Tsarist guards indiscriminately shoot down fleeing men, women and children.
Last month the same steps, the most famous landmark of this southern Ukrainian city, were almost empty except for a few thickset men in black leather jackets smoking cigarettes and talking furtively.
The Carousel de Odessa, busy with children when I last visited this bustling port city on the Black Sea last the summer, stood still. A lady selling kitsch with maritime themes, some embossed with the words Odessa Mama - the city's affectionate moniker, was struggling to trade.
"In the summer business is good," she said. "But now there is almost nothing. There is the cold, and of course, the situation…"
At first blush life seemed to go on uninterrupted in this million-strong city, even as the threat of a Russian naval attack and amphibious troop landings hung over it.
People still promenaded in the city's main pedestrian street, Deribasovskaya, where horsemen offered children rides on ponies with pink saddles.
But in the cafes, markets, and the large, open squares, beneath the patina of normalcy there was fear and unease.
"How can we plan for tomorrow?" Slava, a doctor in his thirties, said over tea with bergamot in a café named after Nikolai Gogol, author of Dead Souls, the novel satirising political corruption in 19th Century Russia.
On the wall next to our table was a small photograph of the writer, allegedly an original, in a much-too-large frame.
"Perhaps I should fight, or at least work as a surgeon on the frontlines," Slava said. "But part of me just wants to run away to Poland, or to the West, while I can. I don't want to be the frog in the boiling water who doesn't jump until it is too late."
The citizens of Odessa - in turn an Ottoman garrison town, Catherine the Great's Jewel on the Black Sea, a bustling mercantile centre for Russian Jewry, and now Ukraine's largest trading port - had good reason to fear.
Among the most likely scenarios of a Russian invasion of Ukraine, several included seizing control of this city early in the campaign. "Putin needs the sea, and that means us," a middle man called Sergei said.
Most feared an amphibious assault launched from Crimea, several dozen miles to the East, possibly augmented by a push by Russian forces stationed in the breakaway Moldovan enclave of Trans-Dniester just to the West.
A move on Odessa would effectively cut off Ukraine, the world's fifth largest exporter of grain, from its Black Sea trade, strangling its economy.
Western policy-makers spent weeks attempting to divine the true intent behind Russia's calibrated belligerence. But for Odessans, effectively living on the frontline of a new Cold War, the reality was simpler.
This conflict, they said, was not going to disappear. It was a question of when, not if.
News that late diplomatic efforts were continuing, were greeted with a shrug.
"Let them talk," Sergei said. "Talking is always good - but it will make no difference. Putin's path is set."
In a tiny café offering hot drinks as well as cooking sauces, butter, batteries and other essentials in the city's New Bazaar, the oldest of the municipal markets, two middle-aged ladies offered strident views.
Sveta - both declined to give their real names - was sipping a steaming cup of aromatic tea.
"We all have relatives in Russia, and we speak the same language," she said. "The Russians are good people, our people."
"But this is about Putin and his terrorism. Look at this market - the meat, the fish, all the cheeses that we have. We live so much better. That is what Putin hates. And he hates the fact that we are free."
"Here our politicians are also clowns, but at least we can throw them out. In Russia that is just not possible. Even this conversation would not be possible."
Masha, who was serving behind the bar, was also adamant.
"Why would we want to join them?" she said. "We do things differently. Why should they decide our future for us?"
In many ways Odessa has trodden its own path since its founding in the late 18th century. Ostentatiously grand for such a small city and with sizeable German, Greek, Jewish and other ethnic communities, it is dotted with small palaces once owned by notable mercantile and royal families.
In the former Tsarist empire perhaps only St Petersburg was grander. The Potemkin steps alone, which incorporate a tunnel and are built from granite shipped in from Italy, cost twice the annual municipal budget when they were built.
The predominant language is Russian, but it is spoken with a soft regional dialect, incorporating the "h" of Ukrainian in place of the harder Russian "g". Yiddish and German words are still used.
Locals speak of a unique identity that harks back to when the city was a free port and one of the richest in the wider region. While the city has since lost much of its Jewish population - who once made up 50 percent of inhabitants - it is still a place of multiple and overlapping identities.
Pressed, some locals admitted there was a small minority in the city that might welcome a return to Russian rule. In 2014 when Putin seized Crimea and parts of Donbas in the east, there was also a small uprising of pro-Russia activists in Odessa.
More than 40 of them died in a mysterious fire in a trades union building that has still not been fully explained.
But finding anyone to admit to pro-Moscow views was difficult. And in the eight years since the war in the east began many have turned against Moscow and towards Kyiv.
"I was more balanced in my views back then," Slava, the doctor, said. "But after everything that has happened - Crimea, Donbas, the constant threats - I feel much more Ukrainian now."
"When I teach medical classes I have started using the Ukrainian language. Some of my older colleagues don't like it, they said Ukrainian is the language of the peasants. But we are in Ukraine now - and that is where our future lies."