The no-nonsense doctor offering glimmer of hope to the tearful orphans of war
EVERY day brings new despair in Severodonetsk, a town close to the Russian border in a distant pocket of eastern Ukraine. Beyond the reach of international media, its daily horrors go largely unrecorded.
Little remains untouched: apartment blocks, schools, churches and warehouses – all reduced to rubble. When the town’s orphanage for babies and under-fives was shelled, its supporters – who had followed its progress in happier times on social media – posted anxious messages: ‘What happened to the children?’
They were reassured by staff that all 40 had escaped unharmed and, after travelling hundreds of miles, were being cared for at another orphanage, in Lviv in western Ukraine, by a ‘guardian angel’ – Dr Halyna Kachanovska.
The Mail on Sunday found Dr Kachanovska
‘Keep the noise down – some of the children are sleeping’
last week supervising the arrival of donated goods. She projects a mixture of benevolence and calm authority and doesn’t suffer fools. ‘No, not down there, put them over here in the corner,’ she says as we help to carry towers of disposable nappies into the main entrance.
Commanding and cajoling, she soon has half a dozen men organised into a streamlined unloading team. ‘That’s better,’ she says. ‘See, more efficient. But keep the noise down, some of the children are sleeping.’
Half an hour later she leads us down a long corridor. On one side runs a wall painted with cartoons, above cots and high chairs and bags of toys; on the other, rows of sandbags protect high windows. Lviv has been markedly more tense of late and Dr Kachanovska isn’t taking any chances, not with her precious charges.
Outside one room stands a straight line of toddler-size boots, all facing the wall. If it wasn’t obvious before, it is now. Dr Kachanovska is a stickler for discipline. As she glides around her domain, arms behind her back, she appears out of step with modern times, like a character – a hospital matron perhaps – from a 1950s British film.
The arrival of the tots from Severodonetsk doubled the number of children under her care. Almost all need specialist attention for long-term medical conditions. She is devoted to her work and wishes there ‘were more hours in the day’. Leaving her home outside the city at first light each day, she arrives at her desk two buses and 90 minutes later. Some nights she wants to work late but must be home before the 10pm curfew.
We are directed to a kitchen area. ‘All the children are divided into groups. Here you will find the ones aged between one year and 18 months,’ she says.
It is lunchtime and the younger children sit in high chairs while others are grouped around a wooden table. In all there are eight children and four nurses. In any similar-aged group of children this would be a noisy affair, but what is striking – and unutterably sad – is the silence, broken only by one or two whimpering staccato cries.
‘Some of the children were born with different forms of brain damage,’ explains Dr Kachanovska.
In another room, its walls decorated with pandas and bears, a
toddler in a polo-neck jumper stands as if guarding the doorway. He is tearful and puts his fingers in his mouth. Dr Kachanovska bends to console and kiss him. Another boy, wearing a top proclaiming ‘Don’t Let the Bed Bugs Bite’, is slumped against a cot, his hand clinging to one of the bars.
Walking back to her office, Dr Kachanovska says the new arrivals have generally adapted well despite their displacement. ‘The hardest thing for all the children is being woken by nurses when the air-raid siren sounds and being taken to the basement in the middle of the night. It is distressing for everyone. The children do not understand.’
To her staff, Dr Kachanovska is known as ‘The Boss’. She scoffs at the idea that she is some kind of heroine. ‘We are a team,’ she says. ‘Everyone here plays their part.’
Nevertheless, she is held in awed reverence. In comical fashion, one porter removes his cap and bows his head as she passes.
‘Don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine’
She shows us hundreds of photos taken before the war: children playing outside; visits from local dignitaries; a boy, now grown up, returning to the orphanage in 2019; children opening their presents from Santa last year. ‘Look, we hide the presents under their pillows,’ she says beaming, oblivious to the pictures’ throatcatching impact.
Finally we say our goodbyes and The Boss resumes her rounds, striding down a corridor and saying over her shoulder: ‘Don’t worry about us. We will be fine!’