Strezhko’s ambitious plans were never realized. On September 8, the armed forces of Ukraine launched a surprise counterattack. They quickly recaptured a section of territory in the northeastern region of Kharkiv, including Shevchenkove. Most residents greeted the soldiers with hugs and kisses. Strezko disappeared. He is believed to have fled across the Russian border, along with other associates. Shevchenkove’s acting military commander, Andrii Konashavych, pointed to the chair where the mock mayor had sat in the council building. On the wall was a portrait of Taras Shevchenko, the national poet of Ukraine after whom the city is named. What happened to Putin’s photo? “We tore it up,” Konashavych said. Why was there no photo of President Zelensky? “Presidents come and go. Shevchenko is eternal,” he replied. Andrii Konashavych, the acting military commander in Shevchenkove. Photo: Daniel Carde/The Guardian Konashavych described Strezhko as someone who did not hide his pro-Moscow views. The Russians rolled into Shevchenkove – population 7,000 – on February 25, at the start of the invasion. Strezhko got the job after tearing up a Ukrainian trident and stamping on it with his foot. A monument to Ukrainian soldiers who in 2014 fought against Russia in Donetsk was also demolished. The Russians promised the residents that they would stay in the city forever. They were also told – falsely – that the city of Kharkiv had fallen. Over time their presence became low-key. A pair of young soldiers patrolled the park, sometimes falling asleep drunk on its benches. Over six months of occupation, troops were rotated in and out. They came from all over Russia, including as far away as Siberia and Buryatia, locals said. A propaganda newspaper was given along with humanitarian supplies labeled as aid from Moscow. There were pro-Kremlin Telegram channels and a radio station, Kharkiv-Z, named after the letter symbolizing Putin’s takeover of Ukraine. It was difficult to measure what constituted support for the occupation. A small minority actively cooperated. Others just tried to survive. The site where a plaque with a Ukrainian trident was torn down during the Russian occupation of Shevchenkove. Photo: Daniel Carde/The Guardian Not far from the city’s bust of Shevchenko, two pensioners had a heated debate about the quality of food donated by Russia. One, Luda, said the can of corned beef she had received was “delicious.” Anatoly Sukhomlyn, a retired 72-year-old train driver, strongly disagreed. “It was disgusting, swimming in grease,” he said. The difference of opinion appeared to indicate political sympathies. Sukhomlyn said the Russians checked all residents for Ukrainian patriotic tattoos and came twice to inspect his garage. If the owners were absent, they broke down the doors. They also looked at computers and flash drives. Putin’s FSB spy agency arrested several people, he said. Those arrested were interrogated in Kupyansk, the regional center 35 kilometers away, now the scene of heavy clashes. Map of northeastern Ukraine. Twelve days ago, Sukhomlyn said he saw a Russian soldier on the street wearing civilian clothes. He had thrown away his gun in a panic and was carrying his belongings in a rucksack. The soldier piled into a civilian car with six others and sped off in a northerly direction. Hours later, the pensioner was cheering on the liberating Ukrainian soldiers. “This is my country. This is where I was born and this is where I will die,” he said. The retreating conquerors took few prisoners with them. One was a local historian, Andrii Bulyaga. He was arrested two weeks ago along with several others when he went to take a photo of a burning oil refinery. “They put a sack over his head and took him away,” said his son Misha. “There are rumors that he is being held somewhere in the Donetsk region. But we don’t know.” On Monday, investigators were trying to track down residents accused of treason. So far they had arrested three people. More than 100 police officers in the area defected, deputy prosecutor Roman Yerokhin said. Those who committed serious crimes against the state could expect long prison terms, according to Article 111 of Ukraine’s criminal code, he said. A room where the Russian military police slept in the Shevchenkov prosecutor’s office. Photo: Daniel Carde/The Guardian Yerokhin pointed to a room next to his office where the Russian military police lived. They left behind mattresses and a sleeping bag. His staff had thrown green Russian ration packets and an army jacket into a bin in the yard. Yerokhin said he had originally worked as a prosecutor in Luhansk, now the capital of the self-proclaimed Luhansk republic. He left in 2014 when Russia and its proxies took over. At the enlistment office down the street, a sign read: “Drugged. Do not enter.” Boxes of ammunition had been stacked outside and formed into a makeshift checkpoint. Yerokhin entered the building through a rear gate and descended the brick steps into a cool basement. Visible in the darkness was a suite of white metal cages, welded between them by Russian guards and placed during the occupation. Deputy prosecutor Roman Yerokhin in his office at the Shevchenkove prosecutor’s office. Photo: Daniel Carde/The Guardian There were narrow wooden benches, toilet buckets and water bottles. A tiny punishment cell contained a chair, with no room to lie down. The occupiers set up a surveillance camera, hanging from the ceiling, and had put an Orthodox icon on the wall. “Russians treat people like beasts. We believe they locked up their deserters here,” Yerokhin said, adding: “There may have been Ukrainian prisoners.” The Kremlin, it seemed, was determined to impose its own harsh rules and punishments on the territories it held. Similar chambers have been found in other recently liberated cities, including Izium, the site of a mass grave of 443 bodies. Survivors have described how interrogators tortured them using a military field phone attached to a crocodile clip or beat them with wooden sticks. Map of Ukraine. Over the weekend, refugees from Kupyansk arrived in Shevchenkove’s central square in buses. They queued up outside the police station to register. Officials checked their documents against a list of wanted associates. The city was doubly lucky. It was quickly captured and is now just out of range of the Russian guns, which are positioned in a new position on the east bank of the Oskil River. The road to the front line passes through fields and borders littered with damaged Russian military equipment. It included a T-80 tank, which had been hit by a missile. A depression showed where the tank’s gun had pierced the earth at the time of impact. There were burnt out infantry fighting vehicles and an orange painted Lada car with the markings Z. The letter was also plastered over several bus stops. A damaged Russian amphibious infantry fighting vehicle lies in ruins along a road between Kupiansk and Shevchenkove. Photo: Daniel Carde/The Guardian On the outskirts of Kupyansk, occupation soldiers had repainted the district sign in Russian colors. They had also removed the soft sign – “ь” – that distinguishes Ukrainian from Russian spelling. Ukrainian soldiers had repainted the sign in blue and yellow. The 2-foot-tall soft sign letter was propped up next to a checkpoint and a sandbagged fighting pit. Across the street, someone had abandoned a pair of Russian army boots. Konasavich said he was confident Ukraine’s armed forces would seize further territory from Russia, including Donbas, which consists of neighboring Luhansk and Donetsk provinces. “Our military is quite successful. Of course we will continue,” he said. Konashavych said his small town had witnessed an invasion and liberation within a few extraordinary months. “It’s like a movie theater,” he added.
