"I can’t say,” Alexandr Dolgopolov responds succinctly over the phone to the question as to where he currently is and what he is doing. He has also declined to do a video call, for security reasons. He only says that he has a single room with heating and a shower. "Not necessarily expected in wartime,” says the former Ukrainian tennis professional who has been helping defend his country against Russian aggression for the last three years.

The 36-year-old from Kyiv was once ranked 13th in the world. In 2011, he reached the quarterfinals of the Australian Open and later defeated Spanish star Rafael Nadal twice. Due to a wrist injury, Dolgopolov ended his career in spring 2021. Ten months later, Russia invaded Ukraine, and Dolgopolov volunteered for military service. As a drone pilot, he helped coordinate Ukrainian attacks, came under artillery fire and feared for his life.

During our conversation, he doesn’t mention the name of Russian President Vladimir Putin even a single time.

DER SPIEGEL: Mr. Dolgopolov, the war in your home country will soon enter its fourth year, with no end in sight. What is left of the former tennis player Alexandr Dolgopolov?

Dolgopolov: Not much. My life couldn't be further removed from that of a professional athlete. It's not just because of the war. I loved competing, playing in front of a crowd. I don't miss the training, the constant traveling or the injuries.

DER SPIEGEL: What do you miss?

Dolgopolov: Inner peace and a day without news of the deaths of children, civilians and fellow soldiers. It's difficult to miss peace when you've never known what it's like to lose it. Today, I want nothing more than peace.

DER SPIEGEL: Do you sometimes dream of the carefree days when you were a tennis pro?

Dolgopolov: It happens, but it doesn't change my new reality. It's not like I wake up from the dream and want to be somewhere else. Or that I'm upset that it was just a dream. You have to deal with the difficult times. I am essentially happy to be able to defend my country.

DER SPIEGEL: Hundreds of Ukrainian athletes and coaches have followed the example of the boxing brothers Vitali and Wladimir Klitschko and are supporting the Ukrainian armed forces, with many fighting at the front. Did the Klitschkos serve as a role model for you as well?

Dolgopolov: Yes. They are famous Ukrainians, great boxers, and Vitali is the mayor of my city. They use their fame and influence to talk about Ukraine and do everything they can for the survival of our country.

DER SPIEGEL: When Russia invaded Ukraine in February 2022, your career had been over for just 10 months. You were in Turkey with your family at the time. How long did you think about joining the war effort?

Dolgopolov: Not long. My conscience drove me, telling me: This is something you now have to do. But I was completely unfamiliar with weapons. So I looked for the nearest shooting range in the region of Antalya. By chance, I met a former soldier from a Turkish special forces unit there. When he heard that I wanted to go back to Ukraine, he spent a week teaching me how to shoot.

DER SPIEGEL: And then you traveled directly to Kyiv?

Dolgopolov: Yes. That was more difficult than I thought, because at that time the city was half surrounded by the Russian army. I bought an AR-15 rifle, camouflage clothing and a protective vest, and joined a few friends who were already serving in Kherson. They taught me the basics of military tactics, how to move in unfamiliar terrain, how to throw grenades, things like that.

DER SPIEGEL: What did your family think about it?

Dolgopolov: They were extremely worried and tried to talk me out of it. But once I've set my mind on something, it's hard to dissuade me.

DER SPIEGEL: You had no doubts yourself?

Dolgopolov: Of course I did. I was nervous and had heard about the atrocities committed by the Russian army. Once there was no turning back, though, it seemed less bad than I had expected. The situation in Ukraine was threatening, but you get used to it.

DER SPIEGEL: Compared to your previous life as a professional tennis player, what was the biggest adjustment for you?

Dolgopolov: The lack of comfort. I was used to a cozy home, hotels during tournaments, massages, healthy food. I wanted to continue living that way after my career. I had no intention of becoming a soldier. Today, I sometimes sleep in the destroyed houses of abandoned villages, where the toilet is a hole and where cockroaches and mice abound. In such moments, I am grateful for every little thing. Once an old woman gave us grapes on the street. God, they were delicious.

DER SPIEGEL: How do the problems of your earlier life appear to you today?

Dolgopolov: Inconsequential, though that’s not surprising. I used to be upset when I lost at tennis. Sure, it was my job, it was important to me. But sport isn't important. It's just a game. When a comrade has a leg blown off in front of you, your perspective on life completely changes. I wouldn't wish that experience on anyone.

DER SPIEGEL: You were deployed as a drone pilot for almost a year, serving in a unit that reports to the Ukrainian military intelligence service. What was your job?

Dolgopolov: Gathering information. I operated civilian Mavic drones behind the front lines, taking aerial video of the terrain and of Russian weapons and positions. This allowed our command to follow what was happening in the combat zone in real time and to determine which targets the artillery should fire on.

DER SPIEGEL: It sounds a bit like a computer game.

Dolgopolov: The enemy is often invisible, hiding somewhere in the distance. But you still want to kill him because he wants to kill you too.

DER SPIEGEL: Did you use the drones to transport explosives?

Dolgopolov: Yes, grenades. But it would occasionally come to pass that we would shoot down our own drones. Or that the Russians would find us. It almost cost me my life once.

DER SPIEGEL: What happened?

Dolgopolov: In late summer 2023, my unit was traveling in the Zaporizhzhia region. We were taking drone footage of the terrain when we were suddenly fired on with 120-millimeter mortar shells. We jumped into a trench, but the detonations kept getting closer and closer, shaking us violently. You have to understand: If shells of this caliber strike less than eight meters away from you, it can rip your guts out.

DER SPIEGEL: What did you do?

Dolgopolov: At first, we joked around and cursed at the Russians. Then we wanted to run back to the car, but that was too dangerous. So we counted the seconds between the explosions and figured out how long they needed to reload. In the end, we just hoped that we wouldn't get hit. We were scared shitless. After about 20 strikes, it stopped.

DER SPIEGEL: And then?

Dolgopolov: We went back to our car and did a few more reconnaissance flights with the drones. It's crazy when I think about it now.

DER SPIEGEL: You weren’t injured?

Dolgopolov: Not quite. We all had concussions from the shock waves from the explosions. I had severe headaches and earaches and had to go to the hospital for a week. Still, we were incredibly lucky.

DER SPIEGEL: In such situations, do you start wondering why you are doing all this?

Dolgopolov: No. I knew that I could be injured or even killed in the line of duty before I enlisted.

DER SPIEGEL: How afraid are you of death?

Dolgopolov: To be honest, I'm more afraid of being injured and having to live as an invalid. If I could choose, I would rather be dead.

DER SPIEGEL: Why?

Dolgopolov: I've had a great career, a good life, I've always been active, and I'm still physically fit. Eking out an existence as an invalid is not my idea of a fulfilled life.

DER SPIEGEL: Have you made preparations in case something happens?

Dolgopolov: I've discussed everything with my family. My estate is in order.

DER SPIEGEL: Is money less important to you now that you could die at any moment?

Dolgopolov: It's still important, even more so in war. It can make life more bearable. You can rent a better-equipped apartment at the deployment site, I can afford better drones, higher-quality gasoline for the car.

DER SPIEGEL: You played tennis at the highest of levels for many years. How much does that experience help you now as a soldier?

Dolgopolov: Tennis prepared me for war. The skills you need as an athlete and as a soldier are similar: You have to be able to react quickly, concentrate and adapt to new situations.

DER SPIEGEL: You beat Rafael Nadal twice, once in 2014 in Indian Wells, California, and once in 2015 in London. Did you learn anything from those matches that you can draw on today?

Dolgopolov: To keep your nerve at the decisive moment. In the matches against Nadal, the biggest challenge was to stay cool and play my game right through to the end, just before victory, when the adrenaline is pumping through your body. To do that, you need a certain amount of confidence in your own strength, and you can't let yourself get nervous.

DER SPIEGEL: The trick is not to think?

Dolgopolov: It's a fine line. You can't completely shut out your thoughts. You have to weigh up how you play, what you risk and when, and which shots you feel confident about at the moment. On the other hand, the longer the match lasts, the less it's a matter of psychology and more a matter of physical endurance.

DER SPIEGEL: How do you keep a clear head during dangerous missions?

Dolgopolov: Similar to when I played tennis. I try to stay calm, focus fully on my operation and get into a kind of flow state. This means that I block out everything around me and become one with my task, so that every movement feels easy and fluid. It helps to remind myself that any lapse in concentration could cost me my life. It sharpens your senses.

DER SPIEGEL: It sounds like tennis and war are comparable.

Dolgopolov: They are! On the court, you are fighting to win; on the battlefield, you are fighting for your life. You sweat, you exhaust yourself, you get injured. Is war physically harder? It's hard to say. It's more psychologically challenging. And I haven’t even been directly involved in the fighting. I have only seen people die through the drone camera.

DER SPIEGEL: Are you haunted by such images?

Dolgopolov: Not so far. It would likely be different if I were there live on the ground during combat operations.

DER SPIEGEL: What do your days look like?

Dolgopolov: That depends on my tasks. During operations, we are often in our position from 4 a.m. and you sometimes work 15 or 16 hours at a time, sleeping only two hours or not at all. It's hard, sometimes you feel like a zombie. Often one day is like the next – like in the movie "Groundhog Day.” Do you know it?

DER SPIEGEL: The one where the weatherman gets caught in a time loop and has to experience the same day over and over again.

Dolgopolov: That's what war feels like. Another rocket attack, more dead people, more suffering. You're trapped in a seemingly endless downward spiral.

DER SPIEGEL: How do you switch off?

Dolgopolov: When I'm on leave in Kyiv, I go to the movies, eat out, meet up with friends. But I can never really switch off. I spend too much time scrolling through the news and social networks for that.

DER SPIEGEL: Doesn't what you see on these channels weigh on you?

Dolgopolov: Maybe, but I can't help it. I want to know what's happening in the world and in Ukraine. This war is now my life.

DER SPIEGEL: What frustrates you the most?

Dolgopolov: Stagnation. When you've been watching the enemy for weeks, gathering information, waiting, hoping that the big counteroffensive will finally start. But in the end, nothing happens. When you see your comrades dying, it's demoralizing.

DER SPIEGEL: How many comrades have you lost so far?

Dolgopolov: It’s less than 100, but people I worked closely with and liked.

DER SPIEGEL: How do you deal with that?

Dolgopolov: There is no recipe; you just have to learn to live with the pain. After a while, you toughen up and let it get to you less. A commander once advised me not to become too attached to my comrades in order to make the loss more bearable.

DER SPIEGEL: Do you feel the need for revenge?

Dolgopolov: Of course. You feel empty and angry at your enemy. You want to work better, take revenge, kill the enemy. That's the meaning of war. But that doesn't bring back the lost men. And the longer the war lasts, the more people die.

DER SPIEGEL: How has the war changed you?

Dolgopolov: I've become more serious and have lost the lightness I used to have. I don't know if it will ever come back. Besides, the war has made me more aggressive.

DER SPIEGEL: In what way?

Dolgopolov: If someone says something stupid to me on the street or online, I react more strongly than I used to. I get angry quickly. My nerves are probably fragile from all the operations, I have no other explanation.

DER SPIEGEL: A few weeks after the attack began, you accused the Russian tennis pro Andrey Rublev on Twitter (now X) of not taking a clear enough stand against the Russian invasion. Would you do it again?

Dolgopolov: At the time, I thought it was justified. Today, I wouldn't do it again because it doesn't change anything. Getting involved in all the debates and criticism only takes up time and wears on your nerves.

DER SPIEGEL: Have you become more indifferent?

Dolgopolov: As far as the hatred on the internet is concerned, yes. I had to learn to manage my energy. That also means ignoring discussions, otherwise I get annoyed unnecessarily.

DER SPIEGEL: Have you ever spoken to Rublev or any other Russian athlete in person?

Dolgopolov: No. A Russian tennis player sent me a WhatsApp message shortly after the Russians bombed a Ukrainian children's hospital and asked how I was doing, with a smiley face. I sat there for two hours and didn't know what to say. I mean, was he serious? How can you be so uncaring, so cynical, so ignorant?

DER SPIEGEL: What did you answer?

Dolgopolov: With one word. Funny!

DER SPIEGEL: The debate about banning Russian athletes from international competitions seems to have largely died down. Tennis players like the Russian Daniil Medvedev were allowed to compete in the Olympics and at Grand Slam tournaments like the recent Australian Open.

Dolgopolov: It is a sad indictment of the tennis community and the Olympics organizers. It shows that sports cannot escape global politics and the decisions of the powerful. Yet the complete exclusion of Russian athletes would be a good way to put pressure on Moscow.

DER SPIEGEL: Because economic sanctions are hardly effective?

Dolgopolov: At least they are not having the effects the West had hoped for. And they are easy to get around. You get the feeling that for Russia, everything is business as usual.

DER SPIEGEL: The morale of the Ukrainian armed forces is being tested more and more with each passing month. What keeps you going?

Dolgopolov: My motivation is that I have no choice. If we want to free ourselves from the Russian invasion, we have to fight.

DER SPIEGEL: Do you feel any support from the West?

Dolgopolov: I think that decision-making processes and aid deliveries are moving much too slowly. This war has been going on for three years, but we still have to beg for everything. Tanks, missiles, airplanes. Russia has enough reserves and allies to continue the war. The shells that North Korea recently delivered are just one example among many. We, on the other hand, lack materiel at every turn.

DER SPIEGEL: What does that mean for you personally?

Dolgopolov: Instead of armored vehicles, we sometimes advanced using Nissan SUVs. One time, one of these cars hit an anti-personnel mine and was hurled through the air by the explosion. Fortunately, everyone survived, but one man lost his leg.

DER SPIEGEL: How does that make you and your comrades feel?

Dolgopolov: That we are just a tool meant to weaken Russia. But no ally is doing everything in its power to help us. They send us outdated equipment or what NATO no longer needs. We only get small amounts of newer equipment, and sometimes it arrives far too late.

DER SPIEGEL: That doesn't sound particularly hopeful.

Dolgopolov: I don't have much hope.

DER SPIEGEL: What expectations do you have of U.S. President Donald Trump?

Dolgopolov: That the U.S. will send additional military equipment. On the other hand, Trump is unpredictable. That worries me. Without the U.S. at our side, it will be difficult to stand up to Russia in the long term.