HROZA, Ukraine—When the Mamon brothers were growing up in this farming village near the border with Russia, Andriy Kozyr would occasionally stop by the family’s house. Once, returning from a construction job abroad, he brought them a scooter and a toy gun, plus cognac for their parents. That’s how people got along in Hroza before the Russians marched in early last year.
The invasion split the village into enemy camps. Kozyr enlisted in the Ukrainian military and was killed in action. The Mamon brothers went to work for the Russian forces occupying Hroza.
After Ukraine retook the village just over a year ago, residents eyed each other with suspicion, no longer sure which of their neighbors they could trust. Their distrust wasn’t misplaced. On Oct.
5, dozens of residents gathered in the cemetery at the edge of Hroza for Kozyr’s funeral, then walked to the village cafe. At 1:25 p.m., a missile ripped through the building, killing 59 people in and around the cafe. For days afterward, white body bags lay in the playground beside where the building had been.
The strike was so specific in its timing and location that surviving families were convinced one of their own had called in the strike. How else would Russians have known about the funeral? Why else would they target a tiny village with little military presence, killing a fifth of its population? Yet the idea seemed beyond belief. Hroza’s 320 inhabitants had maintained close ties for generations.
Villagers grazed their animals on each others’ land, helped repair neighbors’ metal roofs and chipped in when someone needed expensive medical care. Many were related, by marriage if not blood. In the graveyard, the same handful of names appear over and over on headstones.
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