There are black roses all over Irpin—the remnants of fire damage on the fronts of apartment blocks. There are shell craters hastily filled in and boarded up buildings waiting to be pulled down. The bridge over the Irpin River still slumps from its supports. But in the vehicle graveyard on the edge of the city, among the three-high stacks of rusted, burned-out cars, there are splashes of bright yellow. Someone has been painting sunflowers.
Inside his café in Irpin’s tree-shaded central park, Borys Yefimenko points to the bullet holes that splinter the polished wooden walls. Over coffee at a table outside, he has to pause, fingers pinched on the bridge
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