Before the war, Nathalie Lysenko carried Ukraine’s sparkling wine into the world.

Tall, bright-eyed, and relentless, she introduced Artwine to international markets that often did not even know Ukraine made wine. In early 2020, at a New York trade show, she convinced skeptical importers to taste bottles aged deep beneath Bakhmut’s soil. The wines spoke for themselves.

By 2021, nearly a million bottles were exported abroad. For Nathalie, each cork opened outside Ukraine was more than a sale. It was a story being poured.

But the story she was telling was larger than business.

Nathalie grew up in eastern Ukraine, one of three sisters in a tightly knit family. She often described Kyiv as “our fourth sibling,” a city that felt as personal as family itself. Wine, for her, was not simply a product. It was heritage, pride, and continuity.

When the full-scale invasion began in February 2022, everything shifted overnight.

Air-raid sirens became part of daily life. Explosions echoed across cities that once hosted tastings and trade shows. Nathalie was nine months pregnant when the war began. On March 16, 2022, she answered a call from her American importer while standing in her bathtub for safety, sirens wailing outside.

“The bastards are bombing 10 kilometers away,” she said calmly. “So what are we going to do about your next wine order?”

She did not mention she was about to give birth. Her focus remained steady. Not because wine mattered more than safety, but because preserving what they had built mattered.

As russian forces advanced toward Bakhmut, millions of bottles of sparkling wine rested underground in the limestone caves. Decades of craft. Generations of knowledge. An entire chapter of Ukrainian winemaking.

The team faced an impossible decision: destroy everything to prevent it from falling into enemy hands, or attempt to save it.

They chose to save it.

As soon as pallets emerged from the caves, artillery intensified. Some shipments were destroyed in transit. Others reached warehouses that were later struck by missiles.

Each loss erased years of patient aging in seconds.

And still, they continued.

When Bakhmut finally fell in May 2023 after months of brutal siege, millions of bottles remained trapped in the occupied caverns. The classical music that once filled the underground tunnels went silent.

But not everything was lost.

After an eighteen-month effort, approximately thirty thousand rescued bottles reached safety overseas. When Nathalie learned they had arrived intact, she called it the happiest day of her life.

Those bottles are now among the last remaining from the original Bakhmut collection. To Nathalie, their value is not measured in price or rarity. It is measured in survival.

In late 2024, Nathalie traveled abroad once again, but this time with a different purpose. She became an ambassador not just for wine, but for resilience. While air-raid alerts continued to sound in Kyiv, she poured Ukrainian sparkling wine in cities thousands of miles away, telling the story of the caves, the evacuation, and the people who refused to give up.

At events and tastings, listeners leaned in. They were no longer hearing about a beverage. They were hearing about colleagues who worked by candlelight, about trucks moving under threat, about a winery that refused to disappear.

Today, Artwinery continues its work in Odesa, rebuilding production near the Black Sea while the original Bakhmut cellars remain under occupation. Nathalie helps lead this new chapter, connecting vineyards, partners, and supporters across borders.

For her, this is not simply a career. It is responsibility. It is identity. It is the belief that beauty does not have to vanish in times of destruction.

When someone opens a bottle from the Bakhmut Collection, they are not just tasting sparkling wine aged underground. They are tasting survival, effort, and a story that refused to end.

And Nathalie is still carrying it into the world.

In the cool darkness beneath Bakhmut’s soil, Iryna Kholoimova found her calling.

More than two hundred feet underground, inside limestone tunnels carved decades earlier, millions of bottles rested in silence. The temperature never changed. The air barely moved. Time felt different there.

At twenty-two, Iryna began as a laboratory assistant in those caves. She tested acidity, studied balance, and learned patience from the rhythm of fermentation. Over the years, that patience turned into responsibility. Eventually, the final character of Artwine passed through her hands.

As she grew into the role of head winemaker, she oversaw grape selection, blending decisions, aging times, and final releases. Small adjustments mattered. A few more months on the lees. A different balance in the blend. A willingness to wait when others might rush.

When access to Crimean vineyards was lost in 2014, the winery faced a defining challenge. Grapes had to come from new regions. Styles had to adapt. Quality could not decline. Iryna traveled across southern Ukraine, walking vineyards, tasting fruit directly from the vine, deciding which grapes were worthy of becoming wine.

She believed winemaking required more than chemistry. It required atmosphere.

It was during this period that she introduced classical music into the underground halls. Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart played day and night through the caves. She believed the rhythm mattered. Not because it could be measured, but because it shaped the care people brought to their work.

The wine matured in silence and sound.

Then the silence changed.

When the full-scale invasion began in 2022, Bakhmut was no longer just a city known for deep cellars. It became a frontline.

Explosions replaced routine. Power failed. Roads became uncertain. The question inside the winery shifted from how to perfect the next vintage to whether any of it would survive at all.

Millions of bottles rested underground. Decades of craft. A cultural legacy.

As russian forces moved closer, the team faced a decision that felt unthinkable: destroy everything to prevent it from being taken, or attempt to save it.

“We thought we had to blow it up,” Iryna later said. “But we couldn’t.”

Instead, they chose to preserve what they could.

As soon as pallets emerged from the caves, artillery strikes often followed. Some shipments never reached safety. One load was destroyed in a warehouse. Others disappeared in transit.

Each loss erased years of careful aging in seconds.

Still, they continued.

The war did not only take wine.

Two members of Iryna’s team, her assistants in the cellar, made the decision to join the Ukrainian Armed Forces. They had stood beside her in the tunnels, learning the craft bottle by bottle. Now they were leaving for the front.

She embraced them before they left. She promised to keep the winery alive. They promised to return.

After that, messages became rare. Silence stretched longer between updates. Work continued, but with an absence that was always present.

In May 2023, after months of siege, Bakhmut fell. Millions of bottles remained trapped underground. The music stopped.

But the craft did not.

Artwinery restarted in Odesa.

There were no limestone caves. No deep tunnels insulated from the world above. Only a warehouse near the Black Sea, salvaged equipment, and a smaller team determined to rebuild.

Iryna traveled through dangerous regions to inspect vineyards, sometimes in areas where bombing had recently occurred. She walked rows of vines marked by shrapnel, tasting grapes that had survived the same war as the people tending them.

Production resumed slowly. Smaller volumes. Fewer labels. Limited resources.

When the first new bottles were filled in Odesa, the room went quiet. It was not celebration in the traditional sense. It was recognition. Something fragile had continued.

Today, Iryna oversees production in exile, training new hands and setting aside bottles for a future she believes will come. At times, when the warehouse is empty, she plays classical music again.

It carries the stillness of the caves, the discipline of the craft, and the resilience of the people who refused to abandon it.

When someone opens a bottle from the Bakhmut Collection, they are tasting more than sparkling wine. They are tasting years of patience, the weight of decisions made under pressure, and the quiet determination of a woman who chose preservation over destruction.

One day, she believes, the music will play underground again.

And when it does, the wine will be ready.