In the morning darkness at the reception of our central Kharkiv hotel, 25 miles from the Russian frontlines, the night porter’s face was creased with sleep. As we made our way towards the door to catch the early express to Kyiv, he handed us a small keyring with a yellow and blue plastic ornament. They had been made by local children.
The man was large, muscled rather than hammy, and had a trim beard. In the several days we had stayed at the hotel, he had not shown a trace of emotion. Now he almost looked as if he might cry.
‘Perhaps next time we meet there will be peace,’ he said struggling with his English. Then he said it again: ‘Perhaps there will be peace.’
On the night of the inauguration, we sought a bar where locals might be watching the event on television
It was the second time we had stayed at this hotel, nestled in a courtyard in Ukraine’s second city.
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