KYIV, Ukraine—There were three beds in the hospital room. Two were empty and in the middle bed was my friend Nemo. He was naked except for a white sheet haphazardly draped over his crotch.
A mess of tubes extruded from his chest and torso. A long bandage went down his abdomen where the surgeons had opened him up. His legs were like a Jackson Pollock painting, covered in amorphous patches of red, purple, and black.
I knew Nemo from my time on the front lines in eastern Ukraine, while I was embedded with the Ukrainian army’s 93rd Brigade in Pisky.
Tall and muscular with closely cropped blond hair, Nemo (his nom de guerre) took fastidious care of his body by working out every day in an improvised gym he had constructed in the outdoor garden of an artillery-blasted home. I remember watching in disbelief as he cranked out sets of dips, pullups, and kettlebell workouts while artillery thundered around him.
He had a jug of protein powder for making shakes after each workout. He also grew strawberries in a garden he tended daily, even during battles.
