In Lviv at the rear of the war, the pride of a people struggling between the pain for the fallen and solidarity with refugees

L’VIV-LEOPOLI – The Russian missile alarm breaks the silence of the night curfew in L’viv, the ancient city heir to the Austro-Hungarian Empire, at 2.45 am and those who are not awakened by the sirens shake in bed for the app, which the government requires downloading to cell phones, and warns, petulantly, of the possible attack. When the ceased danger rings, at 3:49 am, there is an hour left until dawn, in a July that alternates torrid heat with torrential rain, flooding the underground shelters: another couple of hours, then the mother of Yuriy Pliynyk will drink coffee, getting on the yellow tram.