Vera is the commander of the "Cowardly Hundred." She has spent a decade serving in a military hospital.

Arrived at the military hospital, say three phrases

“Glory to Ukraine!” — that’s always how she greets. I follow her through the hospital wards, unsure of how to act, standing in a corner and watching as Vera chatters away carefree: “We are volunteers, what do you need? What do you want? Everything is free.”

And she quietly explains to me: “At first, nobody knows what to do or what to talk about. But you should say three phrases: ‘good day,’ ‘thank you,’ and ‘goodbye.’”

On a frosty day last winter, when she first took me around the hospital, they had just brought in young fighters who were exchanged from captivity. They were gaunt (having lost about 30 kg), emaciated, dressed in identical tracksuits that hung loosely on their bony shoulders. However, they were alive and energetic, running out to smoke on the balconies, munching on the treats brought to them, and shining their eyes at the female volunteers who hugged them: “We are glad to welcome you to Ukraine. We have been waiting for you!”

Vera effortlessly blended into the general flow, already unpacking bags and rustling packages filled with t-shirts, patriotic symbols, souvenirs, and flags. The guys eagerly peeked in, reaching out like little children for the underwear and children’s drawings, bracelets, and blankets. Vera was generous: “Take it, you can have everything.” And she called them “heroes,” “titans,” “the best of the best,” thanking them for protecting us with their backs. I looked at those narrow backs, hoping they wouldn’t break, and choked back tears. It was Vera's strict order: no sobbing. The soldiers needed a good mood.

They were genuinely happy to be home, to know they were needed. And they shared their stories. About how for two years they were forced to stand between the barracks for 15 hours every day. Their legs swelled, now feeling like cotton. Or how they were punished for calling their mothers at night in Ukrainian or for refusing to repeat: “Putin is my president.”

I didn’t specifically ask anything. Again, Vera’s directive. She often invites someone to help and distribute the items sent to her by caring individuals. And there are always the curious ones who pester the soldiers: “Were you tortured? How many did you kill?”

“God forbid you ask such things. Their souls are hurting,” she explained. “Once, I walked into a ward, and a soldier said from the threshold: ‘I don’t need a psychologist.’ — ‘I’m not a psychologist, I came to visit you.’ And he replied again: ‘You really won’t ask me about the war?’ I realized: at the front, someone is killing someone, that’s why they went there. Not to attack, but to defend. I don’t pry into their souls; I ask something minimal and that’s it. If they want to share, I will listen.”

That day, I also let go of my shyness and embraced many people.

No one hugs as long, tightly, and gently as former captives. They clung to us as if we were their family.

“In these bags is our home”

At the end of summer, Vera invited me to meet the women from “Azov,” the workers from “Azovstal,” who were also exchanged from captivity. They spent 2.5 years there. Out of ten women, only three found the strength to come down to the street to Vera. She kept pulling out embroidered shirts, paint-by-numbers kits, perfumes, and cosmetics from her bags, and they needed everything.

“Who needs a bag? Free,” the volunteer joked, preparing to throw away the empty ones.

“Me,” eagerly chimed in one brightly made-up woman. She carefully stacked the bags into a pile and shyly explained: “It was so smelly there that we tried to pack every item.”

Another woman with long, loose hair, gray from the roots for about ten centimeters, looked in amazement at a shiny toy owl. She ran her finger over its belly, and the scales changed color. She couldn't take her eyes off it.

When two others recounted how they were hit on the head, how their periods stopped from stress, how they were sentenced for terrorism, this one looked at the clock and got up.

“It’s four now. They’ll be giving out kefir, I’m going,” she said.

When I asked something, she stared with unseeing eyes at something behind: “I can’t hear you; all I have in my head is kefir.” And she left.

Vera helped compile a list of necessary items, thanks to which the hromadske editorial team donated warm clothes and blankets to all the women from “Azov” in October.

The girls, in gratitude, invited us to their ward for coffee. Socks were drying on the rungs of the chairs, a toy bear was carefully placed by the pillow and covered with a blanket. Each had a bag of donated goodies under their bed: “The nurses argue that it’s cluttered, but in these bags is our whole home.”

The former captives were given identical gray suits with the inscription “Azov.” And since they hadn’t received any payments yet, volunteers and relatives provided them with clothes and necessities. The women shared that they were restoring their documents and that they were carefully examined in the hospital. They were “fixing” the essentials: treating teeth, performing surgeries. After two months, during which Vera fulfilled their requests, they were taken to another facility for rehabilitation.

And Vera switched her focus back to the wounded.

Toys on the bed

Vera's mother suffered from severe illness her whole life. She died young. Her father needed care for several months before his death.

“I sat next to him in the ward and watched these old men after surgery: giving water to one, taking the bedpan out for another,” the woman recalls. “People are often helpless, and the nurses either don’t care or want money. One day I woke up: there was a dead person in the neighboring bed. It was such a shock for me; I had never seen anything like it. I cried so hard, feeling ashamed that I didn’t approach him. Maybe he was calling out, maybe he wanted something, and I didn’t help.”

Her father passed away in 2013, and when the war began, Vera knew what to do. The first wounded soldiers arrived at the hospital — hands were needed. And she took the plunge, even though she was terrified of the sight of blood. And indeed: when she saw the first one, all hooked up after surgery, she fainted. Came to — and went home. A week later, the same thing happened. Again, she felt unwell and went home.

“One day it just happened that I started helping with clothes. They were bringing food without me; I don’t understand medicine. I can’t carry bulky items like crutches or wheelchairs because I don’t have a car. Gradually, it turned out that I was dressing the wounded. Not everyone has relatives who can come; there are guys who arrive with nothing. They are brought in wearing disposable gowns.”

She added flags, which they love, and soft toys. Under the code name “bears,” even if they are turtles, rabbits, or monkeys.

The story with the toys is separate. Everyone is surprised: why do adult men need toys? But they all ask for them. They get happy, tucking them under their clothes. Some for their children, and some for themselves. There are enthusiasts who collect, as Vera says, a “zoo.” Ten or more pieces. Once, a young man with the call sign “Little” confessed that he arranges the toys on the bed where his legs should have been. He named them.

“What else can I bring you, son?” — Vera choked back a lump in her throat. — “Are there any that I don’t have yet?” — “Yes.”

She cried when she got home. And she prayed: “Lord, hear us, don’t take these children, don’t maim them. And their parents and mothers too. It’s terrifying. Horrible.”

Once, a hospital guard asked the volunteer: “Why are you bringing them? Are they going to play?” — “Come and see.”

Comedienne and Humorist

“Whether