Antonio Pompa-Baldi in Kyiv: Chronicle from a City Under Siege

From the safety of Poland, I would like to share with you my experience of the past two days in Kyiv—a city under attack. 

I had received and accepted an invitation to perform with the National Philharmonic Orchestra of the Ukraine from his Chief Conductor, the extraordinary artist and dear friend, Maestro Theodore Kuchar. The concert was scheduled for Saturday (Nov. 29) at 6pm. The timing itself already hinted at a different reality: because of the curfew, all evening events now begin at 6, allowing people the chance to experience something uplifting and still return home safely before the city falls silent under wartime restrictions.

My stay was short, yet I was told—repeatedly and with a mixture of fatigue and disbelief—that these two days and one full night brought to Kyiv a concentration of ballistic missiles and drone attacks unlike anything they had seen in nearly four years of war. I was fortunate not to be close to any explosions. My hotel stood in the very center of the city, likely in a more heavily protected zone, not far from government buildings including, I believe, the Presidential Palace. Yet even there, safety was relative. The wail of air raid sirens, followed by loudspeaker announcements urging everyone to seek immediate shelter, would pierce the illusion of normality. This happened several times—one of them during my very first rehearsal with the orchestra. We were just closing the exposition of the first movement of the Grieg Concerto when the alarms erupted and everything stopped.

But let me proceed in order.

The Journey to a War Zone

My trip began in Cleveland and continued through Chicago, Munich, and finally Warsaw. I spent the night near the Warsaw East Railway Station, and early the next morning boarded a train to Chełm, near the Ukrainian border. The distance from Chełm to Kyiv is only about 500 kilometers, yet the journey takes thirteen hours—another small reminder that this is no ordinary border crossing. By 3:30pm, Chełm was already enveloped in darkness. The station, under reconstruction, offered neither a hall nor proper signage, and English was nowhere to be found. A small prefabricated structure served as waiting room to stay out of the cold. I waited there until I started getting antsy because there were no English announcements, and barely any announcements at all. No one seemed to know the platform from which my train would leave. After several attempts, I found it. My obsession with being early saved me from missing the train entirely. 

My compartment had a small bed but no WiFi. After half an hour of travel, we stopped for ninety minutes for the Polish border check: passports examined, photos and fingerprints taken. On the Ukrainian side, the process repeated, this time with agents in military uniforms. Only then were we officially in Ukraine—and I cannot deny that a quiet anxiety began taking hold of me. In the preceding days and weeks, I had read of yet more atrocities: a bombed train, a residential building destroyed with seven people killed just the day before my trip.

Between the two trains, the journey from Warsaw to Kyiv lasted a full sixteen hours. I could not sleep for even a moment, which—unfortunately—I had expected. I can never seem to fall asleep on any means of transportation.

First Rehearsal Under Sirens

I checked into the Maidan Palace hotel around 7am, grabbed a couple of hours to settle in, realized that sleep wasn’t forthcoming, fueled myself with espresso, and went to the Philharmonic Hall for a warm-up and an 11:30 rehearsal. 

There, in my dressing room, the staff explained the apps Ukrainians rely on: one alerts them to air raids, indicating whether missiles or drones are coming, and even from which direction; another predicts electricity shutdowns necessary for rationing. The city looked deceptively normal when I arrived, but inside the building it was impossible to forget that this was a nation at war.

And then the sirens sounded.

The musicians, seasoned by experience, reacted calmly. Many went for coffee; no one headed to a shelter. “Downtown rarely gets hit,” they said, “but the alarms go off anyway.” Their composure was surreal to me. Unsure of what else to do, I stayed with them and practiced on the excellent Steinway in the hall. After about 45 minutes, the app signaled all clear, and we resumed. We played through the concerto once; everything went smoothly. The hall was beautiful, the piano warm and resonant—perhaps a bit soft in action for my taste, but a truly fine instrument nonetheless.

Walking Through Memory and Loss

After rehearsal, I was shown around by Angelica Buiko, a gracious and talented master’s student at the Kyiv Conservatory, soon to graduate as both a choral and orchestral conductor. She took me to the memorial across from the Conservatory—hundreds of flags and photographs honoring soldiers killed defending their homeland. The memorial began as a small spontaneous gesture, she said, but with every passing month it grew. Now it stands as an overwhelming, sobering field of loss.

She also explained how the great arc, once named the Arch of Friendship Among Peoples, is now the Arch of Ukrainian Heroes. A black mark painted across it symbolizes the betrayal of Russia, and the impossibility of friendship with that particular nation. 

We climbed the hill to the glass bridge overlooking the Dnipro. It was beautiful, peaceful even—but in a way that felt almost fragile. We laughed briefly when I noticed a “Museum of the Jellyfish,” whose name struck me as so incongruous that it felt surreal. I didn’t go inside; rehearsal and practice awaited.

Kyiv by Night, Under Fire

Since the moment I arrived, everyone—from musicians to hotel staff to strangers—thanked me for coming. I felt genuinely moved. I know I cannot do much; I cannot end this nightmare, and I cannot contribute even a millionth of what those fighting on the front are doing. But I can share what I have to give: music, art, a moment of beauty.

They tell me that theaters, museums, and concert halls are fuller now than ever before. People seek beauty as sustenance. They want to experience something together, to feel that life—real life—still exists.

I fell asleep Friday night like a stone, utterly exhausted. When I woke up, messages awaited me: “Are you safe?” “Did you hear what happened?” I had slept through it all: one of the largest attacks on Kyiv since the war began. Thirty missiles and 600 drones had been launched; three people were killed, and 40 seriously injured. The air alarms did not cease until shortly before 10am, and our dress rehearsal had to be postponed so musicians could arrive safely.

Life Under the Sirens

Walking between my hotel and the Philharmonic, I began to understand more profoundly how people here live. For them, the constant need to seek shelter is now routine. For me—born in Italy during peace, living in the United States where no war has touched the homeland since the 19th century—this was entirely new. I couldn’t help thinking of stories from my grandparents about World War II. And now, in the 21st century, in Europe, people are still forced to endure this horror—because of the greed, delusions, and imperial fever of a Russian president who is both war criminal and mafia-style tyrant.

In such circumstances, the quality of performance becomes almost secondary. Yet I must say: the Orchestra is exceptional. They are consummate professionals—prepared, dedicated, passionate. Working with Kuchar is always a pleasure. He is not only deeply professional but an artist of the highest rank. 

The audience gave me an amazing ovation which once again warmed my heart. I played an encore, and not a random one: the Chopin Revolutionary Etude, Op.10 No.12. It is said that Chopin, already living out of Poland, wrote it upon learning that the Russians had occupied Warsaw. It is a cry to battle but also a deeply moving example of dignity in suffering, and resilience. It seemed truly fitting, here. 

After the concert, I boarded the train to Chełm at around midnight and retraced my steps exactly, connecting in Chełm and arriving at Warsaw East Station earlier Sunday evening, exactly 16 hours after departing. Just as I was waiting for the train doors to open, though, the air raid alarms sounded one more time, but this time only for a few minutes. Even at the train station, I looked around to see if people would go to a shelter, but nobody moved. So I stayed there with them, hoping to hear no explosions. None happened near us. Soon, the doors opened and we all boarded.

Closing Thoughts

I hope with all my heart that this nightmare ends soon for Ukraine. I hope to return whenever life and career allow. 

For now, I offer my deepest thanks—to the musicians of the National Philharmonic, the staff, the administration, Maestro Kuchar, and every audience member who showed such warmth and courage simply by showing up.

Stay safe, Kyiv. And I hope to see you again soon.