There were no children at Oksana Sukhorukova's funeral on Tuesday, January 21. Yet Oksana loved children, and all the kids from Kryvyi Rih who passed through her class loved Oksana. She taught music in this large industrial town in south-eastern Ukraine, but also read poetry and extended her lessons with drawing sessions. "For Cossack Day, but also the first and last days of school, all the big occasions, she was the one who led the choir," said her colleagues. They came without their students. The sudden death of a schoolteacher is not for children.

The tribute took place in the southern suburb of Kryvyi Rih, at the foot of the concrete building where, on the third floor, Oksana's mother lives. There were former classmates, 45 years old like the deceased, local neighbors and teachers from school 114. About 100 or so people were bundled up, wearing down jackets and fur-lined boots, with a chrysanthemum or carnation in hand. The coffin was placed on three small chairs. As per tradition, it was open. When, at the appointed time, an umpteenth air alert came to provoke the audience, they didn't blink, too crushed by weariness. Oksana's chalky, made-up face, her hair imprisoned in a scarf, continued to stare up at the dangerous sky.

"You sang so well... Parents should never have to bury their children." Oksana's mother's noisy grief drowned out the priest's slow psalmody, even drowning out the wooden-handled school bell that accompanied the mortal remains to one of Kryvyi Rih's cemeteries. Her sobs swelled again in front of the gaping grave and prevailed over the entire tribute. Another sentinel, bouquet of red roses in hand but silent, also watched over the grave. A burly, handsome man with blond hair and pale blue eyes stood as lost and lonely as he was earlier at the foot of the building, with no one really seeking his company. "My children were just starting to call her 'mama,'" he said, before slipping away discreetly.

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