Convenient if not exactly comfortable — the air-raid shelter felt more like a sepulchre than a sanctuary. Blaring sirens and loudspeakers made it clear that I had to go underground. As these came during the early morning hours, my sleep was disrupted. This was irritating. But the alarms provoked neither panic nor fear, just annoyed resignation.

I shuffled down, pillow in hand, finding a spot on a cold floor, two stories below street level, in the comparative safety of a garage repurposed to shield people from the Russian bombardment soon going on above — an attack I heard as muffled booms and thumps, even this far down. The cavern I found myself in was a kind of twilight zone, populated by whispering people shuffling about even as others tried to find peace. I couldn’t. The air was stale, somewhat suffocating, infused with a faint odour of cold metal, rubber, motor oil and exhaust fumes. Still, I was hopeful. Having discovered a secluded corner, I dropped my pillow, propped my back against a partition wall and then tried to secure a modicum of rest.

It didn’t work out, for I had settled in the near vicinity of an overly large man. Earlier he had taken possession of a cot and a blanket and was fast asleep well before I arrived. That was made manifest by loud snoring, which echoed through the chambers of this makeshift bunker. So much for any of the rest of us catching shut-eye. So I sat, half-awake, and just waited. And listened. On this particular night, the all-clear didn’t come for several hours. It felt much longer than that.

Over the course of a recent visit to Kyiv, I went through a similarly exhausting scenario several times. Each episode left me drained — the next morning I would be moving just a little bit slower, my mind foggier than........

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