a photojournalist’s personal account of the Ukrainian city

With the train from Poland delayed, I arrive in the Ukrainian city of Lviv well after curfew to find the city deserted. A stray dog―perhaps a forgotten pet―is the only sign of life I encounter as I rush through the eerily empty streets to my hotel. That night, as I try to sleep, the city is so quiet that I could be somewhere in a village in the countryside.

This being a city in a country at war, I have no illusions about what I might find there. Even so, it’s a disturbing return to a place I’ve come to know well over the past few years.

This is now my fourth visit to Lviv. My first was in February 2015. On that occasion, I had arrived in the city after traveling through Donbass, during a ceasefire between Kyiv and Russian-backed separatists. With its trams and cobbled streets, Lviv felt a world away from the industrial, war-torn east.

There was a sense of discovery in being here, and with it a sense of pride. I could brag to others about this gem of a city, so often overlooked by foreign tourists, as true as it was before hostilities began. Architecturally it was the equal of Budapest, I thought. It was like Krakow, but without the hordes of tourists and the British bachelor parties.

As the former capital of the Austro-Hungarian province of Galicia, the city offers a wealth of architectural delights, encompassing a range of styles: Renaissance, Baroque, Classicism, Historicism, Art Nouveau and Art Deco. Having survived WWII intact and withstanding the years of Soviet neglect that followed, you can wander here for hours, surrounded by history, imagining yourself in the twilight of the Habsburg era.

The Austrian influence is evident in the inexhaustible number of cafes, offering countless blends of coffees accompanied by cherry or apple strudel. You can imagine the intellectuals and writers of the time crouching under the vaulted ceilings. Joseph Roth ― chronicler of Austro-Hungarian decline ― was born near the town. The great Polish-British novelist Joseph Conrad ― born further east ― spent part of his youth in a boarding house here.

But perhaps the writer best associated with the city is Leopold von Sacher-Masoch. An Austrian nobleman, it is from Masoch that we get the term “masochism” because of his short story from 1870 venus in fur (there’s even a tourist bar in the old town named after him).

On my first trip, I particularly liked the vibrant Rynok―the main square―flanked by pastel-colored, Italianate buildings, where young people congregated on the weekends. But despite all the history on display, I was taken by the city’s youthful spirit. Lviv is often cited as the heart of Ukrainian identity and the young people I met here illustrated their country’s desire for a more prosperous Ukraine.

I returned to Lviv on two subsequent visits. On my second, in January 2017, I rented an apartment in a turn-of-the-century building. The lock on the front door didn’t always work and I heated the apartment every morning using the old ceramic stove.

My last visit was in early 2020, on a train trip through Central Europe. It was one of the last places I visited before the Covid-19 pandemic and the closures ended all of our travels.

Looking back now, following Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, I fear the worst, having seen images of funeral processions and empty supermarket shelves. Today, the city serves as both a refuge and a transit point for refugees. An estimated 200,000 Ukrainians fled here and many more passed through on their way to Poland and beyond.

The Art Nouveau station is crowded when my train arrives, with people waiting to spend the night, or with those who have made the station a temporary refuge. As I move the next day, I see people gathered outside a church singing hymns. But what I consider another funeral is actually a celebratory service, as I arrive on Easter Sunday.

In fact, I have never seen the city so lively. The cafes are not only open but full. Couples and families fill the main square. Women and girls wear daffodils or pose for photos under cherry blossoms. The booksellers in the market behind the Dominican cathedral ply their trade. It’s not the uncertain and scary city I expected.

The signs of the war are still there: the anti-aircraft sirens being the most obvious, but also the fortified monuments and the condemned windows of the churches. For most, however, war seems a long way off. Even when multiple missiles hit the city the next day ― killing seven people ― Lviv residents seem unfazed; life goes on.

Maybe it’s just a veneer of calm, or maybe Moscow having failed in its bid to capture Kyiv, there’s a sense of respite – a chance to breathe.

It is hoped that the air of resilience bodes well for a positive end to the war, for as long as it lasts. And I can’t wait to see the city again when the country is at peace.

Updated: May 20, 2022, 6:02 p.m.