“What can be done for the children?” asked Marina.
“They’ll give them potassium iodide.”
“Will it prevent illness?”
“It will help,” said Juli.
Vasily turned the corner at Selskom Market, the largest food store in Pripyat. Instead of an orderly line on the sidewalk, today’s line was thick and spilled into the street. The line undulated and wagged its tail as those farther back moved side to side, looking to the front.
Vasily stopped the car across the street from Selskom Market.
“This is insanity. No children on the streets and not even many women means trouble.”
“Mostly men in line,” said Marina. “Angry men.”
As she said this, a man squeezing out the doorway with a package under his arm was shoved to the ground. The man got up and hurried away, turning to curse at the others. When Vasily put the car in gear, a plump young woman squeezed through the crowd and walked quickly, ignoring the angry stares and calls of those in line.
The woman carried two fishnet bags so full they dragged on the ground. A plump woman …
“I know her,” said Juli. “Her name is Natalya. She works in my building. She might be able to tell us something.”
“Should we give her a ride?” asked Vasily.
“Look!” said Marina. “One of the men from the line is chasing her.”
Vasily drove to the other side of the street and pulled to the curb.
Juli opened the back door. “Get in, Natalya!”
Natalya hesitated a moment, looked behind at the approaching man, then squeezed into the back of the car with her load of groceries. The man shouted, “Jewess!” as they drove away.
“What’s going on?” asked Juli.
“Everyone wants … food,” said Natalya, catching her breath.
“It’s best to get food … now before it becomes contaminated.
Canned foods …”
Juli interrupted. “I meant, what’s going on at the plant?”
“Oh,” said Natalya, gathering her bags about her. “There’s a fire in one of the reactors. I talked to a man who was there. He said it exploded, and it’s still burning. He said to stay indoors, seal yourself up. But I needed food. My apartment’s to the left up here.”
“Did this man say anything about injuries?”
“He thinks several may have been injured. The explosion blew the roof off.”
“Did he tell you names of victims?”
“No names. But he said there were many ambulances. People walking around in some streets like nothing’s happened, and at the market there were all these rumors. One man said they were evacuating Kopachi. Another said since Kopachi is the closest village to the plant, there might not be anyone to evacuate. Someone said they saw the Pripyat Party boss driving out of town in his white Volga.
Another said a man who was fishing at the river returned home with his face turned beet red. Slavs … we are of the same mind.
We believe in death.”
Natalya looked out the window and shouted. “Stop here!”
Before she got out of the car, Natalya placed two cans of beans on the back seat. “Thanks for the ride.”
Juli looked out the back window at Natalya scurrying up the walk to her building. Then she looked into the dosimeter.
“What does it say now?” asked Marina.
“Almost sixty,” said Juli.
No matter what Juli or Marina said, there was no way to stop Vasily from leaving the apartment and driving closer to the burning reactor in order to retrieve his mother and sister.
“Won’t they be safer in the house?” asked Marina.
“The house leaks like a sieve,” said Vasily. “I should have brought them with me earlier.”
Vasily tied a scarf about his head, another over his mouth and nose. “Do I look like an old babushka?”
“Be careful,” said Marina.
“I will,” said Vasily. “When I get back, I’ll rip out the seat covers before I come inside. Find some clothes for my sister and Mama.
Have a full tub of water in case there’s no pressure. Gather up food for the trip. We’ll head for Kiev as soon as I get back.”
Vasily paused before opening the door. “Don’t worry, we’ll all go to Kiev for Thursday’s May Day parade and be back here the following week after things have cooled down.”
Marina sat next to Juli on her bed. “It’s the only thing we can do, Juli.
You said yourself we must leave. Especially your little passenger.”
“But I wish I knew what’s become of Mihaly,” said Juli. “And his wife going there, taking her little girls and going there …”
“The old woman said they left when it was dark. Nobody knew about the radiation yet. Maybe Mihaly called and they went to meet him. They could be in Kiev by now.”
Juli and Marina hugged, and Juli stared at the curtains over the balcony door through which she had first heard the explosion, then voices, early in the morning. Not even a full day had gone by, yet it seemed like weeks. When Vasily returned and they left for Kiev, more time would have gone by, and Juli wondered if, somehow, she might be able to forget Mihaly. But even as she thought this, she knew it would be impossible, especially because of the baby. Her baby.
12
Tamara Petrov spent all of Saturday at Lazlo’s apartment. They made love, ate, danced to Hungarian records, made love again. They went to a nearby market, bought ingredients for paprikas chicken, went back to the apartment, and prepared the meal together. They did not watch television or listen to the radio. The phone rang once during the afternoon, but when Lazlo answered, there was simply a hum, the phones broken again.
After they finished dinner, Tamara got up and put on one of Lazlo’s Lakatos Gypsy Orchestra records. The melancholy violin seemed especially sad this night, and Lazlo wondered why. The evening was only beginning, Tamara was wearing nothing but a silk robe, and already the Gypsy was foreseeing its end. Tamara came back to the table, poured more wine. Her eyes were aglow from the candle between them on the table.
“I can’t tell if you’re melancholy from the music or simply relaxed,” said Tamara.
“Relaxed,” said Lazlo.
“The last time we were together you acted this way. Initially you measure our time together with a stopwatch. This morning I expected Olympic judges to rush in and tell us we were late for the gold-medal ceremony.”
“It’s my bachelor life,” said Lazlo. “Our first time together after so long makes me act like a boy on his first encounter.”
Tamara touched her chest above her breasts. “Some boy. Last night you seemed a dozen boys making up for lost time.”
“How do you put up with me?”
“I know you,” said Tamara. “I enjoy our seasonal visits. But you should see other women, Lazlo. Life is too short to wait for what you want.”
“What do I want?”
Tamara laughed. “Like me, you don’t know what you want. We are urban Gypsies, you and I. Instead of traveling from one place to another, we stay in one place. But we still have the need to roam. So we let our desires roam. What do you think, Laz? Is it a good theory?”
“The best I’ve heard.”
“Did you ever come close to marriage?”
The candle on the table reminded Lazlo of church, of candlelight glowing on perspiring faces, of the wedding of Mihaly and Nina. “The closest I ever came to marriage was when I was best man for my brother’s wedding.”
Tamara laughed. “You are a strange man. You fill your life with melancholy. Militia work is like many of our ministries. Gloomy places. The gloominess overflows even into the streets and parks where babushkas sweep sidewalks and watch for unjustified laughter.
But here in your home, you are supposed to shed your gloominess.”
“There must be times when I’m cheerful. I simply don’t show it.”
“Are there times you are able to forget the boy on the Romanian borde
r?”
Lazlo stared into Tamara’s dark eyes. “When I’m with you, of course.”
“I’m serious. Think about it. When are you truly happy?”
He stared into Tamara’s eyes and thought about it.
“Listen to Lakatos on the violin. The way each note stretches to its limit as if he’s reluctant to let go and face silence. Call it melancholy, or blame the incident on the Romanian border. But it’s more complicated. Tonight, for some reason, the silence at the end of the song seems closer.”
Tamara’s eyes glistened in the light of the candle as she stared at him. They stayed this way for several minutes, holding hands and staring as if they could read one another’s thoughts.
Then Tamara blew out the candle and led Lazlo past the phonograph where the violin of Lakatos cried in the darkness. They danced, swayed in one another’s arms until the record was over.
They went into the bedroom where the breeze from the south made the sheets cool and moist and fragrant.
After dark, with windows and even the space beneath the door sealed with damp towels, it was impossible to tell what the weather was like outside. The apartment was warm and stuffy. From her bed Juli saw Marina outlined against the faint glow of night light from the patio door.
“Are candles still lit in windows?” asked Juli.
“Yes,” said Marina. “It reminds me of Christmas.”
“Can you see smoke?”
“No. The sky is too dark.”
“I wonder if it’s still burning.”
“If so, it can’t be as bad as this morning when we could see the glow of flames.” Marina let the parted curtains close and sat on the edge of Juli’s bed. “It’s so quiet. Everyone who has a car has probably left. Do you think it’s still dangerous to be outside?”
Juli touched the dosimeter on the night table. “I looked a few minutes ago. It’s going up about a millirem every hour. Outside it must be higher.”
“Should we shower again?”
“No. Save the water in the tub.” Juli sat up, put her arm about Marina’s shoulder. “Save it for Vasily and his mother and sister because the water pressure is dropping. They’ll be here, Marina.
Vasily knows how to take care.”
There was a rapid hammering above, which grew louder and louder.
“Another helicopter,” said Marina.
“They’re dumping something onto the fire,” said Juli. “At least something is being done.”
Suddenly there was a pounding at the door. Marina lit a candle.
“It must be Vasily.”
But it was not Vasily. It was one of the women from the courtyard. The woman who had assured tenants the church would not burn palms before Palm Sunday. Instead of wearing nightclothes, the woman wore slacks, boots, a coat, and a head scarf.
She looked past Marina to Juli. “My name is Svetlana Alexievich.
I have children … I wanted to know if you knew anything more.”
Juli got out of bed and went to the door. “Are the children in your apartment?”
“Now they are. I did as you said last night. I closed the windows and sealed beneath the door. But later in the morning other children were going to school. One of the teachers is in the apartment next door. She said school was open, so everything must be fine. I let the children go, and now I’m worried. They gave the children pills. My other neighbor says there are buses lining up outside the city. She says we’ll all have to leave. She saw the militia station captain driving out of town and said the plant might have been sabotaged. Why would they have school if it were dangerous? My boy says his friends rode their bicycles to the plant to look at the fire. I don’t understand why some say everything is fine, while others …”
“Please listen,” said Juli. “Keep your children inside. If buses come to take us, it’s best to go. It would be temporary, I’m sure. But children, especially, should not be exposed unnecessarily. Did the school give them extra pills?”
“Yes,” said Svetlana. “They take them every three hours. We have enough for two days.”
“Good,” said Juli.
Svetlana stared at the candle Marina was holding and licked her lips. “The air … it smells like my husband’s clothes from the machine works.” She paused, looked about. “My neighbor says some residents are burying money and valuables in case we have to take the buses in a hurry. Why do we have school on Saturday? Simply to be different from America? Always to be different, always to surpass the Americans. So, if the buses come, we should leave?”
Juli stepped closer to Svetlana. “Even if the officials are overreacting, it would be best.”
Svetlana held both Juli’s hands for a moment, then disappeared down the hall.
After closing the door, Juli replaced the wet towel at the opening beneath it, went to the night table, picked up the dosimeter, and held it up to Marina’s candle. When she went into the bathroom and began vigorously washing her hands in the water they had saved in the sink, Marina watched in horror. And when the sound of another helicopter vibrated the glass of the windows, Marina began to cry.
The buses, having waited outside Pripyat, lined up one after another on Lenin Street in the center of town and shut off their engines. A driver with a handkerchief tied over his mouth and nose got out of his bus, ran to the bus ahead, and boarded. This driver also had a handkerchief over his mouth and nose.
“What did he have to say?” asked the driver from the bus behind.
“Who?”
“The soldier with the Kalashnikov who just got off your bus.
You’re first in line, so I thought he might have told you something.”
“He said it’s the end of the world.”
“You are always the comedian, Yuri.”
“He was trying to find out if I knew anything. He said earlier today he caught a bunch of kids who had gone to the station to watch the fire. They were outside the fence. Crazy kids. I asked when we would load up and get the hell out of here. He said he hadn’t gotten the order yet and didn’t know whether it would be tomorrow or the next day. He said we have to wait.”
“Why the hell did we speed up here if they’re going to wait until Sunday or Monday?”
“What kind of food did you bring?”
“Sausage and bread.”
“I snuck in a bottle under my seat. If you would like to bring your sausage to my bus …”
“I’ll be right back.”
At the crossroads where the roads from the towns of Chernobyl and Pripyat joined, more buses were waved through. Militiamen, who had not covered their faces earlier, did so now. A few even had masks with filters.
The militiamen stopped the flow of buses momentarily to allow through several fire trucks heading for the plant.
“Did you see the insignia on the last fire truck?” said a militiaman wearing a scarf over his mouth and nose.
“Where was it from?” asked a militiaman wearing one of the filter masks.
“It said Borzna. That’s on the other side of the river.”
“They’re coming from all over,” said the filter mask. “I wonder if the KGB guards over there in their car know something.”
“They always do,” said the militiaman, tightening the scarf across his face.
Viewed from the far side of the cooling pond, a flicker of flame could be seen through thick smoke coming from the skeletal remains of Chernobyl’s unit four. A helicopter with lights shining through the smoke dropped a load of sand and sped away. On the ground near the fire, floodlights illuminated several figures in iridescent silver body suits manning hoses trained on the fire and on surrounding buildings. In the distance, the lights of more helicopters appeared.
They looked like airliners lined up for landing at an airport.
It was after midnight, Sunday, April 26, almost a full twenty-four hours since unit four exploded. Waterfowl had settled in for a night in the shallows of the cooling pond. Some waterfowl seemed perfectly healthy, while others appear
ed disoriented.
13
Because it was early Sunday morning, the absence of Kiev’s buses went unnoticed. Spouses or partners did not think it unusual for a driver to be called in for special duty. It happened sometimes.
A spring shower had cleansed Kiev’s streets during the night, the sun filtered through thin wisps of cloud, and smells of rainwater and greenery and breakfast were in the air. Russian Orthodox Palm Sunday had brought out several pedestrians who managed to find a service. They carried palms as they headed back to their apartments.
Lazlo and Tamara walked to a combination cafe and bakery a few blocks from his apartment. They sat at a small table sipping strong coffee and munching on an assortment of strudel while patrons purchased crackling white bags of sweets at the counter.
The proprietress behind the counter was a short, plump woman with skin as white as the powdered sugar abundantly sprinkled on the pastries in the windowed case. Every few minutes the baker, who was the woman’s husband, came through a swinging door to replenish the supply in the case. He was skinny, his baker’s cap making him look as if it might tip him over on his head.
Tamara had pinned her hair atop her head and wore a sweater and short skirt, which attracted glances from the men who came into the bakery. Her earrings, with gold stars dangling from chains, swung from side to side as she chewed.
“I like the cheese filling best. Which is your favorite, Laz?”
“Poppy seed.”
“I don’t usually eat breakfast. Nothing but coffee when I get to the office. Most of the poets who contribute to the journal are skinny as hell. I should bring them here, fatten them up.”
“They’d write poems about pastry instead of politics,” said Lazlo.
Tamara licked cheese from her fingertip. “Ode to a strudel.
Much healthier than politics. Poets are a lot like you, constantly brooding. Sometimes I think they’d all like to go to a labor camp to die the way Vasyl Stus died.”
“How did he die?”
“He was typical of many poets who search for connections between the specifics of politics and the universals of life instead of simply enjoying the here and now.”
Lazlo Horvath Thriller - 01 - Chernobyl Murders Page 14
