Kurkov is a good cook, and on the evening of February 23, he was preparing for a group of visiting journalists in his Kyiv apartment (in Ukraine, ruby-colored borscht, made from beetroot and topped with sour cream and dill, is said to have 300 different ways of making of the plate). His guests would never taste the result. At five o’clock the next morning, he was awakened by three loud explosions: Russian missiles had struck the Ukraine. the war had begun. On March 1, he and his English wife were living hundreds of miles away in western Ukraine, their lives changed suddenly and very painfully. “I couldn’t imagine it [my] Happiness could be destroyed so easily,” he says of finding himself internally displaced (until recently, half of Ukraine’s population were displaced or refugees). “I thought my happiness was not material, but a state of mind, like the energy that comes from making eye contact with another person.” Kurkov’s diaries, excerpts of which he has broadcast on the BBC and published around the world, bring the early days of the war alive for the reader. He writes poignantly about the notes people are starting to leave in their cars offering lifts at the border. of his sudden longing for the comforting sweetness of honey. of the cigarettes needed to bribe Russian soldiers at checkpoints in the east. Here are the kind of stories you don’t see on TV news: an account of the evacuation of dolphins trained to work with autistic children from Kharkiv to Odesa. from the doll charms (known as oberig or “protectors”) that Ukrainians knit and carry on the front along with warm socks. the rise of TikTok star Tetiana Chubar, a petite, blonde, 23-year-old divorced mother of two who is the captain of a self-propelled howitzer. But for him, these first strange and scary weeks are already like another age. So much has happened since then. His family – he has three grown-up children – is back in Kyiv now that the city has reopened “like a beehive” and in the meantime he’s on the road, criss-crossing Europe, taking full advantage of the fact that, at 61, he’s allowed to travel (Ukrainian men under 60 are not allowed to leave the country because they may be asked to fight). France, Germany, Norway, Iceland: all want to hear him speak and are happy to oblige. He doesn’t expect to return to Ukraine for weeks. But today he is in London, on his way to a family wedding in Oxford, and has somehow found time to come to my house for tea. What do the strangers he meets most want to know? I ask, ignoring the fact that he has a bite of cake. They usually have two questions, he says. First, they need him to explain why Putin has become – suddenly, in their eyes – so aggressive. Second, they want to know why the Ukrainians resisted so fiercely. Ukrainians queue to board buses crossing the Polish border, March 18. Photo: Wojtek Radwański/AFP/Getty Images And how does he answer? He slightly disagrees with those who talk about Putin’s imperial ambitions. “It is his hatred of Ukrainian society that is behind his aggression,” he says. “The Ukrainian mentality is opposite to the Russian mentality. In Russia, the Soviet idea of collective responsibility still exists – people are loyal to the government and live in expectation of things like nepotism – while in Ukraine, people are individualists. They have opinions they want to defend. There are over 400 political parties registered with the Ministry of Justice in Ukraine.” Laughs. “Basically, Russians are monarchists and Ukrainians are anarchists.” And that’s why they fight so hard. If the war has strengthened Ukrainians’ sense of nationhood, they are also motivated by the fear “of living in the Soviet Union again… Russia is an authoritarian state and people in Ukraine are used to freedom, to being able to protest if they are unhappy.” Kurkov is best known for his 1996 novel Death and the Penguin, a book that has been translated into more than 30 languages. When the war started, he was hard at work on a new novel, but he hasn’t touched it since. At first, he was very distracted and missed his library, which was left behind in Kyiv. Then he started writing in his diary, the phone started ringing, and he found himself very busy as a voice for Ukraine to the world: “It’s a big responsibility. I wish there were more like me.” But there are also, he knows, things he can say that might ring hollow if they were coming from a non-Ukrainian. Get culture. He believes that is never more important than in wartime, offering as proof of this the fact that once the conflict began, the platforms of the Kiev metro were used as free cinemas. “People can’t live without it,” he says. “It gives meaning to a person’s life. It explains to a person who he is and where he belongs.” However, this area is also complicated. Like millions of Ukrainians, Kurkov, who was born near Leningrad, is a native Russian speaker, and part of his book’s appeal lies in his accounts of the country’s struggle for identity, which the war has made more vexing. Ukraine, for example, called for a boycott of Russian culture. But while many younger Ukrainians are enthusiastic about the idea, older ones are more conservative. The board of the Pyotr Tchaikovsky Conservatory in Kyiv, the country’s national music academy, recently met to discuss whether it should be renamed after Ukrainian composer Mykola Lysenko – and ultimately decided against it. Meanwhile, an opera-loving friend of Kurkov’s wept at the thought of not being able to hear Eugene Onegin again at the Kiev Opera House. Does he worry about such separations? A little, yes. “I compare it to my perception of German culture as a boy. In 1973, when I was 12 years old, I had to choose a language to learn at school. I said I would never learn German, because they had killed my grandfather. By my 30s, this was a hostile culture. It wasn’t justified, but… Russian speakers make up 40% of Ukraine. The country will remain linguistically divided. But I hope, when the war is over, it won’t be felt in the streets.” The oligarchs are suffering. They want to go back to Nice and Cannes. They want their yachts Even the young, however, are infinitely more patriotic than before. “My daughter is a British citizen. He was working in London when the war started. But in August, she gave up her apartment and moved back to Kyiv and started speaking Ukrainian to me for the first time in my life.” Not that there is a job for her in Ukraine. The financial situation is dire and one wonders how many of those who left will never return. “It’s hard to generalize about mood. But many refugees are not optimistic. I’d say at least half don’t want to go back – either that, or they have nowhere to go. Those from Donbas are pessimists. Even if it is released, it is destroyed.” The optimism, he says, is mostly confined to the west of the country, where people are both more defiant and more politically engaged. Is he optimistic? (We’re talking before Ukraine’s stunning gains in the east – of which, more later.) “I think the war will definitely continue into next summer at least. It depends on Putin’s death and then on who takes over, because there are at least four different possibilities.” What does he mean? Is Putin likely to die? (Rumors abound about the President’s health.) “As long as he lives, the war will not end. But Russia is not winning, and that should have an impact on his health…” He gives me a knowing look. “I have no intelligence, but I think there is a battle [behind the scenes] in Russia. These strange suicides are important. It’s no accident.” (He refers, among other incidents, to the recent death after a “fall” from a Moscow hospital window of Ravil Maganov, a senior oil executive whose company had criticized the Russian invasion.) Elite generals and the FSB, his successor, the KGB, believes he would like Russian aggression to continue. But the oligarchs may have different ideas: “If the oligarchs corrupt all the generals, I think the war can stop very quickly. The oligarchs are suffering. They want to go back to Nice and Cannes. They want their yachts.” Kurkov in Kyiv in March this year. Photo: AFP/Getty Images What about the role played by Europe? President Zelensky’s wife told us that inflation and rising gas bills are a small price to pay if they mean freedom for Ukraine. “Europe’s role is not critical, but it is almost critical,” he says. He notes that France and Germany have yet to deliver the military aid they promised (although pressure is now mounting on Olaf Scholz, the German chancellor). “Without Britain and America, we wouldn’t be where we are.” The last time I was in the UK, Ukrainian flags were everywhere. this time, there are far fewer around. “I hope people don’t start displaying Russian flags as they worry about their bills,” he says with a smile. The West must…
