When the Russo-Ukrainian War intensified with the invasion and occupation of Ukraine starting in 2022, the conflict not only permeated the news but also people’s lives. The stories of the Ukrainians affected by the war are what historian Danielle Leavitt tells in her new book, By the Second Spring: Seven Lives and One Year of the War in Ukraine.

By the Second Spring begins with a preface in which Leavitt describes how she found the stories and corresponded with the storytellers. She shares that through an online platform provided by her parents’ project, the Leavitt Institute for International Development, Ukrainians wrote online diary entries. Leavitt got in contact with some of the diarists, who then began communicating about their lives directly with her.

As Leavitt writes about her subjects and the book, “They would recount, in intimate detail, their first reactions to the invasion, why opposition to Russia was so fierce, and why and how such a sudden and shocking spirit of mass volunteerism arose. I concern myself less with the movement of military forces and more with exploring the daily realities of war in a relatively developed country.”

Leavitt’s time growing up partly in Ukraine and studying Ukrainian history informs her book, too. To give context as the events of the year unfold around her subjects, Leavitt intersperses the history that led to this moment in time.

After the preface is the “Dramatis Personae” listing the seven names and descriptions of the subjects who are featured by Leavitt: Anna. Maria. Polina. Tania. Vitaly. Volodymyr. Yulia.  

Each Ukrainian in By the Second Spring makes their choices of how to respond to the war. Some maintain a semblance of life before the invasion:

In the 1990s, as newlyweds with a young baby, [Tania and Viktor] had staked their future on two piglets and one ton of grain when Viktor was laid off. They’d worked nonstop, learning how to cut and package meat and stuff sausages, both of which for two decades had remained in high demand throughout their region. They built their house and farm with their own two hands, Tania mixing cement and carrying stones and nailing slate to the roof, and over time they proved something to themselves, which even during war they struggled to give up: a belief that they had some control over how they lived, and if they worked hard and stayed the course, they could earn the life they wanted, far from the impoverishment of their childhoods. Somehow, even while wringing her clothes in an ice hole in the river, Tania believed that if they persevered and didn’t leave, once things were quiet, they could build it all again.

Keeping hope for a more peaceful time, among other reasons, drives them to take care of their farm.

Maria is a young mother with a husband, Leonid, who fights in the war, and a baby, David. She processes what happened when she fled the violence in Mariupol. She realizes that her options were limited: “Only after a full year was she able to accept that there was no reasonable counterfactual narrative for her; leaving behind her husband in the city she’d known her whole life had truly been her best option.” Still, the separation from her husband and loss of home weigh heavily on her.

Others find that their perspectives have been altered:

Polina and John were inspired in the first few days of the war to join the civil movement they saw millions of other Ukrainians joining, and, like many Ukrainians, after just a few months of war, Polina said: “I became unafraid. I started to sort out what I’m scared of, what matters and what does not. I lived through war, and now I live my life differently.”

Some experiences never leave you, and all the individuals in this book could say that about the war.

Leavitt, who lives in Ann Arbor, earned a Ph.D. in history from Harvard University. She will speak at Literati Bookstore on Wednesday, May 28, at 6:30 pm, with U-M Professor Emeritus Ronald Suny.

We talked about her new book prior to her event.

Q: You have studied at Harvard’s Ukrainian Research Institute and lived around the United States and in Ukraine. What drew you to Ann Arbor?
A: My husband, Kramer Quist, got a job at Ross School of Business at the University of Michigan, so we moved to Ann Arbor for that job. But we couldn’t be more delighted that fate placed us here: my sister and her husband also live in town, we’re surrounded by a very neighborly community, and now that it’s spring, we keep pinching ourselves that we ended up in such a special place. I hope we stay forever!

Q: Your preface to By the Second Spring says, “…most Ukrainians remain unknown and faceless, represented only abstractly in diminishing news coverage and political discourse.” When you gained access to an online platform where Ukrainians shared their stories about the Russian invasion, you were able to read these stories and then correspond with individuals themselves, seven of whom became the subjects of this book. When and how did you know that this would be a book?
A: At first, I didn’t know. I just knew I had to read, which I did—obsessively. I wasn’t looking for material; I was looking for connection and understanding. And the diaries took me by surprise. They were staggering, insightful, and vulnerable. Over time, I began to sense that the stories people were writing in their diaries really mattered. That, somehow, those diary entries were actually central to what this war is and how we might make sense of it. The longer I read, the clearer it became that I needed to write this book. I reached out to several of the diarists, and those conversations grew, turning into months of back-and-forth, and into relationships of trust. Their voices brought a human depth that was so often missing from the headlines, and I felt a responsibility to help preserve those voices in a form that would last longer than a social media feed or a fleeting news cycle. The choice to write the book was more like a quiet realization that this was something I truly had to do—a responsibility—not just a project. It came from the sense that I was being entrusted with something rare, and I needed to honor it in a form that could last.

Q: In this book, you have created a narrative and seamlessly intertwined the stories with the long historical background that precipitated the start of the Russo-Ukrainian War in 2014 and the invasion of 2022. In some ways, you break the fourth wall by including occasional sentences in the first person. For example, you write, “Of all my interlocutors, Yulia wanted to know the most about me. She asked me often about myself, my opinions, my daily life. I could tell she grew tired of talking about the war, and she often changed the subject to other aspects of life she enjoyed….” How did you decide to add your perspective and experiences?
A: That choice didn’t come easily. As a historian, I’m trained to step back, to prioritize the voices of others. But in this case, I wasn’t an invisible observer—I was in conversation with the people I was writing about. I didn’t want to overshadow the people at the center of the book, but I also didn’t want to pretend I wasn’t there. This wasn’t a detached research project; I was part of the relationships I was documenting. Especially with someone like Yulia, who insisted on knowing me as a full person, the relationship was often reciprocal. So, when I included those glimpses of myself, it wasn’t to center my experience, but to acknowledge the texture of the relationships. I think readers deserve to know how a story was shaped, who was asking the questions, and what dynamics existed behind the scenes.

Including moments from my own life in the book, sparingly and carefully, was a way of being transparent about the relationships I had with my subjects and showing how storytelling can be mutual. It also gave readers a window into the process—not just what was said, but how it was shared.

Q: Speaking of being a historian, you researched extensively for your book, in addition to corresponding with the Ukrainian subjects. What did your research for this book involve? Did it include traveling to Ukraine, or did you work from the U.S.?
A: The core of the book came from primary, real-time material: the diary entries and message exchanges with the seven individuals at the book’s heart. But I also drew on years of historical research—my own and others’—to provide context. I leaned on the work of many other historians, archival material I’d studied during my doctoral work, as well as memoirs, oral histories, government documents, and news coverage, both Ukrainian and international. I didn’t travel to Ukraine for research, largely because I could not have written the book I did if I had tried to do it in person. Many of my subjects lived in the war zone, and I could not have safely traveled to them. But even if I could have traveled to them, I could not have simultaneously followed seven people in person—so closely—for such a long period. The text message methodology ended up being extremely powerful for that reason. I stayed connected daily—sometimes hourly—through our digital communication. In a way, that constant contact created a different kind of presence: not physical, but persistent, and often very emotionally close. And the distance between us also achieved something: I was separated from their world, which gave me a lens that was very distinct and important for translating their experiences to those far removed.

Q: The seven featured individuals show how the paths that people take in wartime may diverge or bring pain, whether they remain at home or leave. Anna, who was evacuated with her mother and whose grandmother stayed back, asks herself, “Why had they left Luhansk, especially when so many stayed?” Others continue living in their home, such as Tania and her husband Viktor on their pig farm, despite the threats to their lives in Russian-occupied Ukrainian territory. What do you hope readers see in these experiences?
A: I hope readers see that there is no single or “correct” way to live through a war. Some people stay. Some leave. Some resist. Some survive quietly. All of those choices are shaped by circumstance, identity, obligation, fear, love. I hope readers come away with a deeper respect for the complexity of civilian experience—that they stop looking for purity or heroism, and instead see the human weight of these decisions. For Anna, the pain of leaving was just as real as the danger others faced by staying. For Tania and Viktor, staying wasn’t about denial—it was about duty, about land, about the animals they cared for. These stories ask us to hold contradictions without rushing to resolve them.

Q: After following these individuals closely for a year, and as the war continues, have you remained in contact with them?
A: Yes, I’m still in touch with most of the people in the book, except one. We speak less frequently than when I was actively writing, but our relationships didn’t end when the manuscript was turned in. In some cases, we grew even closer after I was finished drafting the manuscript. Of course, we’re still living through the story: despite talks of peace deals, this war shows no real ending in sight. They’ve continued to share updates—some joyful, some devastating. The trust we built over those years didn’t evaporate, and I still feel a deep sense of responsibility to them. I’m continually struck by their generosity—not just in sharing their stories initially, but in remaining connected through such long and difficult years.

Q: For those who read By the Second Spring and would like to keep reading about Ukraine, what books or other content would you recommend?
A: There’s a growing body of powerful work that helps illuminate Ukraine’s history, culture, and the stakes of this war. For a grounding in Ukrainian history, Serhii Plokhy’s The Gates of Europe or The Russo-Ukrainian War is essential. Timothy Snyder’s Bloodlands and Kate Brown’s A Biography of No Place are searing and brilliant books. Andrei Kurkov’s Diary of an Invasion offers a writer’s perspective on the war’s early months. Kurkov is one of Ukraine’s most internationally recognized authors, and he writes with the eye of a longtime observer who understands the stakes deeply. Serhiy Zhadan is one of Ukraine’s most important living poets and novelists, and his work captures the texture of eastern Ukrainian life with extraordinary lyricism and grit. His novel The Orphanage, which has been translated by Reilly Costigan-Humes and Isaac Stackhouse Wheeler, is a haunting and urgent portrayal of the Donbas during wartime. Victoria Amelina’s work—especially her essays—offers piercing insight. She was killed during this war, and her death is a devastating loss. I really admire the journalism of Stanislav Aseyev, especially his collection In Isolation: Dispatches From Occupied Donbas, which are very useful essays for understanding what happened in 2014. And, just a note: it’s worth seeking out Ukrainian literature in translation—not just nonfiction or war writing, but poetry, fiction, essays. The war is part of Ukraine’s story, but it’s not the whole of it.

Q: By the Second Spring is your first book. Would you write another book? Where is your research taking you next?
A: Writing this book was a deeply meaningful experience for me, and I can’t wait to write another book. I’m naturally drawn to questions about how ordinary people experience history, and how they document it, or don’t, and I find myself continually curious about the overlap between historical research and literary nonfiction, wondering how we can responsibly preserve the texture of lived experience without sacrificing rigor. My next project will be fundamentally concerned with those questions, and it will likely grow out of my experience in By the Second Spring, though I anticipate it will move in a slightly different direction. I’m already in its early stages of planning.

Martha Stuit is a former reporter and current librarian. 

Danielle Leavitt will discuss "By the Second Spring" with U-M Professor Emeritus Ronald Suny at Literati Bookstore, 124 East Washington Street, Ann Arbor, on Wednesday, May 28, at 6:30 pm.