On the Old Arbat, one of Moscow's most well-known pedestrian zones, there has been a photo exhibition for a long time: It's called "The Children of the Donbass".

Black and white portrait photos show seriously looking children, short texts introduce them: Katja, ten years old, was in kindergarten when the war broke out and had to run for her life with her grandmother on the way home;

Dima, six years old, has been living in the basement with his mother for years.

The stories, the truthfulness of which cannot be verified, are intended to show why Russia allegedly had to attack its neighboring country at the end of February: because children in eastern Ukraine have been under fire from Ukrainians since 2014.

Until recently, the exhibition was something special in Moscow, namely one of the rare cases when war intruded into the everyday life of Russians.

For almost seven months these were two neatly separated worlds: there the "special operation", which was carried out by professional Russian contract soldiers and went "according to plan", here normal life.

Then, on Wednesday morning, President Vladimir Putin announced "partial mobilization."

And the war suddenly arrived in Russia.

Catherine Wagner

Business correspondent for Russia and the CIS based in Moscow.

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A few hours after Putin's mobilization speech, most pedestrians carelessly stroll past the photos of the Donbass children.

But some stop and read.

Pawel, a tall, lanky man in a hooded jacket and cap, is also looking at the pictures.

He was born near Donetsk in eastern Ukraine, but has long lived in central Russia's Perm, where he works for a retail chain.

He is on a business trip in Moscow, he is supposed to find new business partners: because of the sanctions, some suppliers have lost their jobs, for example for German tools.

Pavel is 36 years old and he served in the army.

He knows that "partial mobilization" can hit him, but he believes that in the "first wave" only men up to the age of 35 will be drafted or those who have already fought, like some of his buddies in the Chechen war.

Of course, his mother is afraid for him, says Pavel, but who isn't afraid?

He cannot say whether the "special operation" is correct or not, he has no "clear answer" to that.

But when the call-up order comes, he's still ready to go.

Just like his friends, with whom he spoke about the news that morning: "Only women are against it," says Pawel and laughs.

On this day, Alyona also strolled across the Arbat, past the tourist shops with their fur hats, Putin and USSR T-shirts, the dubious-looking jewelry stores and stands with kitschy oil paintings.

A pretty woman in her thirties, conspicuously without make-up, who works for a tractor factory not far from Moscow and who, like Pavel, has come to the capital on business.

Asked about the mobilization, Aljona's eyes immediately fill with tears, which she hastily wipes away: she worries about her husband and her brother.

Although both are over 35, the news is still a shock.

She didn't expect it: "Everyone thought it would end much sooner." In the beginning, Aljona says, she thought the war was the right decision.

She falters, actually "but now" should come.

But after a short pause, she says something else: "If we hadn't started, what would probably happen now is what happened in eastern Ukraine on Russian territory." She doesn't sound convinced by what she's saying;

as if the sentence did not come from her.

You could already hear the doubts before Putin's mobilization speech when you spoke to people on the streets of Moscow.

When asked whether they thought the "special operation" was the right thing to do, many wriggled for an answer: nobody could say that.

That is too complicated, nobody knows who is right and who is wrong.

"This is their kitchen" is a saying that came up then, or "I wasn't there", and "Every TV says something different".

It's like people haven't even started to think about why.