"We're lucky if we can remember our first names!" Raisa hollered.

::

Thrust and parry, retreat and riposte. The pint-sized fencers, faces obscured by protective gear, were immersed in concentration as their instructor called out encouragement.

The sports center's fencing hall was wrecked in an airstrike last spring, but a smaller makeshift studio in an undamaged part of the complex was flooded with natural light — which, together with battery-powered scoring sensors, made it possible for daily practice to proceed even without electricity.

"I like it so much, because when I'm fencing, I don't think about the war," said 9-year-old Ivan Shmetko, waiting impatiently to suit up and get started.

Fencing has long been beloved in both Russia and Ukraine. In the international arena, Ukrainian fencer Olga Kharlan became a national cause celebre when, at the world championships in Milan last year, she offered a saber tap rather than a traditional handshake to a Russian opponent. She was initially disqualified, but fencing officials later allowed her to return to competition.

Instructor Alyona Kalashnik, 30, said fencing was a good outlet for kids' anxieties and fears — and a useful reminder that a clever tactician could defeat a larger and more powerful foe.

"She wants to be an Olympic champion one day," said Nataliya Sokol, 48, watching her 8-year-old daughter, Mia, stylishly dispatch an equally tiny opponent. "It's good for her to dream this dream."

::

The young Kharkiv firefighter fell to his knees, tore off his helmet and buried his face in his hands as he wept. It had happened again: a Russian "double-tap" strike, seemingly meant to deliberately kill rescuers who had rushed to the scene of an attack.

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