When missiles and rockets are flying, when I hear explosions, when I hear the whistle, when death flies over my apartment on the ninth floor, I get scared. I'm frightened, I pull out the cat that got under the bed, put it in my bag, take the dog, and we run to school. There is a shelter in the basement of the school, with makeshift beds made of wooden pallets covered with Soviet blankets. People put their children to sleep on them. In the shelter, you can't hear the explosions, but if the explosions are very close, you can hear them.
I am scared and ashamed of my fear. I go into the basement like a woodlouse crawls under a stump. It huddles there with other woodlice, they dig in the wet soil while the tree is being cut down.
And somewhere closer to the front line, there are people who are probably also scared. I don't know what they feel, because I probably have no right to ask them. They are probably in the trenches talking and drinking tea. Tea with a taste of blood.