by Jeremy Bates
“What happened to her?” Disco asked.
“She was one of the last four to be discovered. She’d been buried under fifteen feet of snow for a couple of months. When some of it started to melt…” I shrugged.
Finished at the sink, Vasily returned to the table. Nodding at the photographs, he said solemnly, “No matter how many times I see them, they disturb me. How nine people could be so young and vital in some, and so…dead in others. Still, I would give anything to see the rest of them.”
“The rest?” I said, surprised. “There’re more that haven’t been released?”
“These all I retrieved from Lev Ivanov’s archives in 2009. But, yes, I’m positive there are more being withheld.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Deduction, Mr. Smith,” he said simply. “The inventory of the contents of the tent on Kholat Syakhl included three cameras. A fourth camera was introduced into evidence in March, 1959. It had been taken by one ambitious search-party student intent on solving the case on his own. In any event, the official position was that there were a total of four cameras. They belonged to Yuri Krivonischenko, Nicolai Thibeaux-Brignolles, Rustem Slobodin, and Semyon Zolotaryov. Nevertheless, this has been proven false, as Zolotaryov was found with a camera around his neck. You can see for yourself in one of the photographs there.” He pointed to the bundle in Disco’s hands. “The film from it remains unaccounted for.”
Disco skipped through a few photos.
“That one,” I said.
“Bon dieu,” he said.
The photo showed Zolotaryov on a bed of snow in the ravine where he’d perished, his face sunken, his eyes gaping black orifices. Yet Vasily was right. A camera was clearly visible around his neck.
I was stumped. “Why would Zolotaryov have brought two cameras?”
“The group fled the tent in obvious terror and panic,” Vasily said. “It is possible he grabbed someone else’s camera by mistake.” He shrugged. “But the question you should be asking, Mr. Smith, is not why he took someone else’s camera, but why he took any camera at all? What did he want to capture on film so badly that he would spend precious seconds searching in the dark and confusion for a camera when no one else had time to put on their boots?”
⁂
“The lights in the sky,” I said after a few moments of thoughtful silence.
“What lights?” Disco asked.
“In one telegram to Ivdel, the head of the search party mentioned that some other hikers who’d shadowed Igor’s group along the Auspiya River saw ‘celestial phenomenon’ in the sky over the Northern Urals.”
“Their leader was Vladislav Karelin,” Vasily said, nodding. “I used to know him well. He was a good man, and immediately joined the initial search volunteers.”
“So his word is legit?”
“Oh certainly. And his testimony to investigators was quite detailed. He was woken by the cries of his fellow hikers on breakfast duty, rushed out of his tent, and saw a light in the sky that grew larger and larger, moving from northeast to southwest. He first believed it to be the moon, but it was morning, and the moon would have been on the other side of the sky.”
“Prison guards in Ivdel saw the same light,” I told Disco.
“Don’t tell me this is what you saw last night?”
I shook my head. “Like I said, that was more like a flashlight. This was a slow-moving orb that pulsed in the sky for a number of minutes.”
Vasily nodded. “There is no question there were lights observed in the sky in the Northern Urals. The Ivdel prosecutor’s office became swamped with eyewitness accounts reporting similar sightings. But they have no bearing on the fate of the Dyatlov group, because they were all sighted on either February 17 or March 31—dates the Soviet military tested R-7 combat missiles from Baikonur Cosmodrome, the space facility that launched Sputnik 1 two years earlier. There are no records of any sightings of lights on the night of February 1, nor are there any records of rocket launches on that date either.”
I knew all this and said, “But the weather was reportedly clear on February 17 and March 31. On the contrary, there was a blizzard on February 1, which would have obscured the sky. And the fact the military didn’t confirm any rocket launches—well, if their rocket misfired and blew up over the hikers’ tent, scaring them to their deaths, would they admit this? Especially if it wasn’t an R-7 rocket. Maybe it was something they didn’t want to disclose, something nuclear? That could explain the radiation.”
“Radiation?” Disco said, surprised.
“Radiation was tested two or three times higher than normal on some of the hikers’ clothes.”
“If there had been a nuclear explosion, Mr. Smith,” Vasily said, “the corpses would have been radioactive, as the hikers would have been breathing radioisotopes. But the radiologist only found surface radiation, not penetrative. Moreover, a nuclear explosion would have led to a more or less uniform contamination of the clothing of all members of the group, not just a select few pieces.”
“Nevertheless, there was radiation.”
“Yes, yes, but I have talked to many experts, and by today’s scientific understanding of radiation levels, the beta particle decays that the radiologist discovered were nowhere near abnormal range. The slight positive result in the clothing could be explained by the camping lanterns they used. The mantles at the time contained thorium, which is mildly radioactive. They were fragile and could crumble and turn to dust unless handled properly, and that dust could easily have gotten onto their clothing.”
“That’s still speculation—”
Vasily shrugged. “Then here is a fact. From November 1958 to September 1961 the Soviet Union, the United States, and the United Kingdom agreed on a temporary moratorium on nuclear tests. Their compliance would have been strictly monitored by the participating countries. There is no way the Soviet Union conducted a nuclear launch in 1959.”
“Then a different type of weapon, something top secret—”
Vasily waved dismissively. “If there was any kind of explosion, Mr. Smith, any kind at all, there would have been a depression in the snow somewhere, blast damage, wreckage, none of which was observed. Not to mention dead animals. But there were none. The May thaw did not reveal a single dead bird or rodent or fox, only the last four unfortunate hikers.”
CHAPTER 8
NORTHERN URAL MOUNTAINS, USSR, 1959
SEVEN DAYS TO LIVE
The train pulled into Ivdel at a little past midnight. Once again the Dyatlov group disembarked with stiff joints and long yawns, their breath billowing in front of their faces in the frigid air. Unlike the train station in Serov, this one remained open throughout the night, and they, along with Blinov’s team, promptly found space along the walls to catch some shuteye.
Doroshenko slept fitfully. The floor was hard and cold. He must have laid awake half the night, staring into the dark, playing over the next twelve days of their journey in his head.
Don’t complain, he told himself. This is luxury compared to the Siberian nights in the tent that await us.
Everybody woke at dawn. Unfortunately they would no longer be able to travel by the relative comfort of the train, as the tracks veered east from Ivdel, which meant they needed to catch a bus north to Vizhay. So they gathered their rucksacks and skis and took a tram to the bus station in the center of town.
While purchasing tickets, they learned the bus didn’t depart until midday, giving them a whole lot of nothing to do in the unheated station.
Igor and Blinov spent the time comparing maps and charts, while most of the others found a quiet spot to sleep. Zina and Lyuda joined Blinov’s group, no doubt reveling in the fresh attention.
Doroshenko, sitting nearby, could hear Zina instigating discussions on love and romance. He gritted his teeth. This seemed to be the only subject on her mind these last few months. Love this, love that, blah blah blah.
Her excessive curiosity on the topic wasn’t what bothered Doroshenko,
not really; it was her hypocrisy. While they had been dating, she would talk about such things with anybody who would listen—Igor, Georgy, Rustem, anybody. She would recite poetry to them and gush about the more romantic verses. Yet for all this enthusiasm for love, all this talk, she didn’t want to experience it herself.
She and Doroshenko had been together for close to a year by then, and she still hadn’t let him do anything more than kiss her. He wasn’t confusing love and sexuality. He knew they were opposite ends of a stick—but the same stick.
It wasn’t like he wanted to have sex with her. Well, he did. But he would have been satisfied with foreplay. Feeling a breast, say, or slipping a hand down her pants. Even better, her slipping a hand down his pants.
But they participated in none of that. She wasn’t shy. Zina was anything but shy. She was simply prudish. And hypocritical. Hence the reason he finally decided to end their relationship.
He’d taken her aside one day at UPI and told her it would be best if they took a break from seeing each other. The surprise on her face had been satisfying. She’d cried and pleaded for him to reconsider. He almost did. However, he’d had a plan. He’d let her stew on her own for a couple of weeks. Only then, after she realized how much he meant to her, how much she needed him, would he take her back—for which she would be so grateful she would most certainly loosen up.
Only Zina got over him much faster than he anticipated. In fact, she bounced back to her cheerful self within a few days. She didn’t seem to miss him at all; at least she didn’t show this.
And then came the rumors she and Igor harbored feelings for each other.
That had been almost too much for Doroshenko to bear. Not only was he losing Zina—but he was losing her to Igor, one of his good friends.
Doroshenko fell into a dark funk. He didn’t blame Igor. Zina was a beautiful woman, and to Igor’s knowledge, to everyone’s, he no longer had any feelings for her.
Even so, Igor was a gentleman to a fault, and Doroshenko knew he wanted to keep his feelings for Zina hidden out of respect for Doroshenko.
So what was he to do?
Keep quiet and pretend all was fine for the benefit of his friendship with Igor?
Or let on that he did not approve of Igor courting Zina—and see what Igor did with that knowledge?
He didn’t know. He really didn’t.
He did know, however, that joining this expedition was probably a very bad idea.
⁂
At a little past noon the GAZ-651, a medium-sized bus with a wooden frame and metal plates, rattled up to the bus station. The passenger compartment held a number of benches which could seat about twenty-five people. Nevertheless, with the ten members of Igor’s group, and the ten members of Blinov’s group, along with about a dozen locals seeking transport, not everyone could fit, especially with the cargo of rucksacks and skis.
Consequently, the driver refused to let Igor’s group board—that is, until Zolotaryov had a quiet talk with him. Doroshenko would have loved to have known what Zolotaryov said to make the driver change his mind. The truth was, he didn’t trust the ex-soldier, and he still didn’t understand why the man wanted to travel with them in the first place.
Given the limited seats in the cab, Doroshenko and the others sat one on top of the other. Initially Doroshenko sat on Yuri Yudin’s lap, but due to Yudin’s smaller size, they swapped positions. Zina, Doroshenko noticed grimly, had settled on Igor’s lap.
Georgy, squished somewhere near the back, promptly took out his mandolin to help pass the two-hour ride. Zolotaryov, who seemed to know more songs than everyone else put together, taught Georgy a new one, and soon everyone sang along in high spirits.
Everyone except Doroshenko. He didn’t sing.
About an hour later the driver pulled over to the side of the road so the passengers could relieve themselves. As custom dictated, the men went to one side of the bus, the women to the other. At the second stop, a small roadside shop, Lyuda, who controlled the group’s money, bought snacks for them all to share.
As the bus pulled away, Yudin said, “Hey, where’s Alex?”
Frowning, Doroshenko looked around the cramped passenger compartment.
“He’s not here!” Rustem said.
Doroshenko threw open his window and stuck his head out into the icy air. He saw Kolevatov engaged in a flat-footed sprint after the bus.
“Stop!” he shouted to the driver. “You forgot our friend!”
The driver pulled over to the side of the road. Everyone had their heads stuck out the windows now, encouraging Kolevatov to hurry up, or laughing at the sight of him huffing and puffing and slipping in the slush.
When he boarded, the driver gave him a stiff dressing down. He retook his seat atop several rucksacks, still panting, his eyes bugged out in fear at the prospect of almost being left behind.
“Where did you go?” Lyuda demanded. It would have been odd for any member of the disciplined ski group to do something so careless as miss the bus, but especially Kolevatov, who was usually as reliable as clockwork.
“I—” He shrugged. “I was just looking around.”
“You were smoking your pipe, weren’t you?” she accused him. He had an antique pipe, which before this trip he would smoke all the time.
“I—no—yes.” He seemed to deflate with shame. “I’m sorry.”
“We made a pact, Alex!” Zina said.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I won’t smoke it again. Here, you hold it.” He removed the pipe from his pocket—black wooden shank, ram-horn mouthpiece, silver chamber—but nobody wanted to take it.
“Dammit, Alex,” Igor said, shaking his head. “If Yuri hadn’t noticed you were missing so quickly, we would have had to turn back for you. We would have had to catch the bus tomorrow. We would have wasted a full day.”
“I apologized, didn’t I? What more do you want?”
Igor grunted and looked out his window.
Zina leaned forward and whispered something to Kolevatov. He smiled wanly and nodded. Then Georgy began playing his mandolin in the back of the bus again, conversations resumed, Zolotaryov sang a new song, and the incident was forgotten.
Lyudmila “Lyuda” Dubinina and Yuri Doroshenko on a previous hiking trip
Zina on a previous hiking trip in the summertime
CHAPTER 9
Stripping to our underwear in the middle of the room, we dressed again in layers of clothing more appropriate for the freezing climate. In my case this included two pairs of wool socks, thermal long johns and top, wicking shirt, and sweater. Over the Patagonia mid-layer fleece I wore all of yesterday, I pulled on my brand-new white camo heavy jacket. By the time I was yanking on my Baffin extreme cold winter boots—I’d purchased them one size too large to accommodate the extra pair of socks—I found myself sweating. The gear was all top of the line, and I suddenly felt guilty, like I was somehow cheating on this excursion. I had set out to relive the Dyatlov group’s expedition in 1959, or at least approximate it. However, they hadn’t had the luxury of Gore-Tex or Polartec; they’d had wool-knit sweaters and hand-sewn boot covers.
“Soft,” I guess described how I felt.
Vasily was dressed similarly high-tech to me, while Disco, in his blue-and-orange down-filled suit, was caught somewhere in the eighties.
He held his arms out before him. The sleeves shrank back a good two inches from his wrists. Scowling, he said, “I’m Steve Urkel.”
“It’s not a fashion contest,” I said.
“I knew I shoulda bought a new one.”
“It makes you look taller.”
“I ain’t got a height complex, neg. I got a I’m-wearing-a-too-small-Mickey-Mouse-snowsuit-in-the-middle-of-Siberia complex. It’s giving me the cabree.”
“Enough complaining,” Vasily said tartly. “What’s important is that it will keep you warm.”
Grumbling to himself, Disco bent over to repack his rucksack—and with a loud ripping noise tore the seat of t
he ski pants clean down the seam.
⁂
Vasily spent the next fifteen minutes schooling Disco and me on survival know-how. First, and most importantly, we needed to retain a pocketknife, two DD batteries, and a box of waterproof matches on our persons at all times. The knife and matches were self-explanatory; the batteries, backups for our flashlights. Next, we organized our rucksacks with the lighter items in the bottom and the heavier ones on top. This sounded counter-intuitive until Vasily explained it allowed the chest and waist straps to bear more of the load, while preventing the shoulder straps from digging into our shoulder blades. So up on top went my share of pots and bowls and other odds and ends, with whatever didn’t fit left to dangle by carbines. Then Vasily instructed me to walk a few turns around the room with the pack on my back, to make sure the weight had been distributed evenly and would not throw off my balance.
All seemed good and so I went outside for a long-overdue cigarette. The overcast sky hung low and oppressive above the mishmash of hoarfrosted cabins, drunken fences, icicled telephone wires, and frozen vegetation.
Aside from a hawk circling lazily in the distance, and smoke drifting from a couple of chimneys, nothing moved in the implacable landscape, not even the wind. The stillness didn’t make me feel at peace; rather, it bothered me in an undefined, unrealized way. Nothing should be so still.
It was unnatural, almost predatory.
I lit up a smoke, then added a healthy jigger of whiskey into my lukewarm coffee. “To the top of the world, Denny,” I said, raising my mug in an imaginary toast.
I wished all my memories of my time with Denise could be pleasant ones, like they’d been for the first six months of our relationship. During those days I didn’t think we’d had a single fight or bad moment, or at least none that I remembered. We were the couple that other couples hated, wonderfully compatible, as lucky as two needles finding each other in a haystack.
