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The uncomfortable, pre-emptive grief on display at the gates is yet another facet of the widespread angst Ukrainians live with. It was unclear how many of the men inside had ignored draft notices; some relatives mentioned paperwork issues around exemptions or cited bureaucratic mistakes.<\/p>\n
Ms. Vakar said that she had \u201cdropped everything\u201d when her son Artem, 32, messaged that morning in January to say that he had been picked up and taken to the recruiting center.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat reaction can a mother have?\u201d she said. She threw his West Blue cigarettes, along with some potatoes and eggs, into a white plastic bag, then rushed with Maksym to the gathering point, where they stood waiting anxiously with other families in the dark.<\/p>\n
Every few minutes, a door in the gate would clank open. A soldier would poke his head out to call a name \u2014 \u201cRoman,\u201d \u201cOleg\u201d \u2014 and someone in the crowd would hustle forward.<\/p>\n
More people kept arriving as the clock moved toward 6:45 p.m. Soon there were between 15 and 20 waiting.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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The contents of the bags they carried spoke to how suddenly the men had been taken. Phone chargers. Socks. Underwear. Toothbrushes. A warmer coat. Many at the gate also held plastic containers with food \u2014 borscht, macaroni \u2014 to help ease the abrupt transition to military life.<\/p>\n
Ms. Vakar fed Maksym a snack at 6:50. Soon after, \u201cVakar\u201d was called. They were led through the gate, past the soldier with the list of names and another with an assault rifle, to a small strip of asphalt with benches. That\u2019s where she was able to see her son, for about 20 minutes.<\/p>\n
The gate kept clanking, letting visitors back out. Their bags now empty, many left with tears streaming down their faces.<\/p>\n
The center sits at the end of a winding road, far from any public transport. Some people paced as they waited for taxis; others made calls to relay that husbands or boyfriends had gone missing \u2014 only to be found at the recruitment site.<\/p>\n
Anya, 38, who had come looking for her husband, said it had taken her an hour to get to the closest bus stop, then another hour to find the gate. She asked that only her first name be used out of a fear of retaliation. When she arrived, out of breath, she rushed up to the gate but was told to wait.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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Others were still arriving, and some carried duffels. More than one looked bewildered, asking \u201cWhere do I go?\u201d or \u201cHow does the line work?\u201d<\/p>\n
Time was running out on what might be a last chance to say goodbye. In the mornings, large yellow buses roll through the gates with signs reading \u201cUkrainian Armed Forces!\u201d Visitors can come from 6:30 a.m. to 8 a.m. \u2014 after that, the buses take the recruits away for 45 days of basic training, followed by assignment to a unit.<\/p>\n
More men are brought in by van to replace them throughout the day. And so the evening visiting window, from 4 p.m. to 8 p.m., fills with relatives of those picked up just hours earlier.<\/p>\n
Not all visitors make it in time \u2014 a man and a woman who arrived at 8:14 p.m. were turned away.<\/p>\n
But Anya made it through to see her husband, who works at McDonald\u2019s. When she emerged after 15 minutes, she was a wreck.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s not a soldier,\u201d she said. \u201cI don\u2019t know how he\u2019ll serve.\u201d<\/p>\n
Anya said that she had a bad feeling when her husband called her after she had dropped their 7-year-old daughter at school. It was a call she had dreaded, yet expected, for months, but it was no less devastating when it came.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n