Ivan, six, is sitting in a classroom colouring-in a tank with green crayon. Behind him, eight-year-old Sophia bites her lower lip in concentration while sketching a rabbit.
There are 20 children in the class and they hang on the every word of their teacher, Larisa, whom they call Mum, not because they are presumptuous or impudent, she explains later, but – her voice catching – because they are orphans and feel the want of maternal love, particularly during wartime.
‘These children are the really vulnerable ones in all this madness,’ she says, gesturing towards workmen delivering sandbags to protect the school’s basement windows.
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