Paddington Bear in Lviv

One fine June morning, Paddington Bear stood at Platform 1 of Paddington Station, wearing his trusty blue duffle coat and red hat, and clutching a small suitcase tied up with string. But instead of marmalade sandwiches, it was filled with bandages, hand-knitted socks, tins of tea, and notes of encouragement written by the children of Windsor Primary School.

He was on his way to Lviv, Ukraine.

Paddington had heard, through the BBC World Service and a kindly nurse he’d met at St Mary’s Hospital, about the brave Ukrainian soldiers recovering from their wounds and the families who had stayed strong through months of hardship. “They could use a little kindness,” the nurse had said. And kindness, as everyone knows, was something Paddington had in abundance.

After many trains, one very long night on a coach with a kind Polish grandmother who gave him pierogi, and a rather confusing moment at the border when the guards weren’t sure where “Darkest Peru” was, Paddington arrived in Lviv.

The city was bustling with summer. Chestnut trees shaded cobbled streets. Despite the war, the people walked with dignity and purpose. Paddington admired how much life and hope there still was.

He was met by a cheerful man named Danylo, who ran a small recovery centre for wounded veterans. “You are really him? Paddington Bear?” Danylo asked, surprised, shaking his paw. “You are smaller than I expected—but very famous.”

Paddington blushed modestly and offered him a marmalade sandwich.

At the centre, Paddington met dozens of people. There was Petro, a young man learning to walk again on a new prosthetic leg, who laughed when Paddington helped him balance and then accidentally tripped over his own suitcase. There was Olena, a mother of three, whose husband was still at the front, and who wept when Paddington sat quietly beside her, holding her hand. And there were the children—so many children—who needed to laugh, to play, and to believe in good things again.

So Paddington told stories. He made hot tea. He helped plant sunflowers in the courtyard garden. He listened. And, of course, he made marmalade sandwiches. Hundreds of them.

One afternoon, he and a boy named Maks painted a sign that read:

“Дякую, що ви не забули нас.”

“Thank you for not forgetting us.”

As the sun dipped behind the rooftops of Lviv, Paddington stood beside the new friends he’d made, holding his hat to his chest. He felt warm and proud, though also a little sad.

That night, in a small room under the eaves of the centre, Paddington wrote a postcard to Aunt Lucy.

Dear Aunt Lucy,

Today I saw great bravery—not just in soldiers, but in families, doctors, and children. I did not know marmalade could mean so much to people.

Lviv is a city full of hearts that keep beating, no matter what.

With deepest respect,

Your loving nephew,

Paddington