Oksana hadn’t been afraid of Babulya or Valentina, after she’d lived with them for a while. Maybe Feruza was right.
“We are put on this earth to be kind to one another.” Feruza began putting the toaster back together. “Human beings are Allah’s language.”
“I don’t understand,” Oksana said.
“People talk about miracles,” Feruza said. “But there are miracles around us all the time that most of us don’t see. Your friendship with Valentina, mine with Rifka—those are miracles. When we are kind and loving and generous, we become miracles ourselves.” She gestured at the partially assembled toaster. “Rifka told me you’re an artist. You must be good with your hands. Would you like to help me fix this? Once we’re done, we can have lunch.”
“All right.” Oksana picked up a loose screw. She liked what Feruza had said. Maybe they were miracles, every single one of them.
As they fitted the pieces of the toaster back into place, Oksana glanced around the shed. It was shabby but comfortable. And the house was filled with good people, and the school she would start next week might have lots of friends waiting to be met. She looked at Feruza’s sweet, wrinkled face. Best of all, this place had Feruza, and since Babulya loved her, Oksana knew she could trust her.
Oksana unbuckled Valentina’s father’s watch from around her wrist and set it on the table. “Feruza,” she said, “would you please help me do something? It’s for my best friend.”
“Of course,” Feruza said, and together they bent over the broken watch while outside the wind blew, but inside they were cozy and warm.
40
LENINGRAD, RUSSIA, SOVIET UNION
DECEMBER 1986
Valentina
VALENTINA STARED AT the front steps of her apartment building. She and Babulya had almost made it safely home, and now they wouldn’t be able to get inside without Comrade Popov seeing them. From this distance, she couldn’t hear what her mother and Comrade Popov were saying, but it was clear from the way they were talking in each other’s faces that they were arguing.
“We must go,” Babulya said. She hurried around the corner, away from their building. Valentina rushed after her.
“Where are we going?” Valentina asked.
“I don’t know.” Babulya picked up the pace. “There’s no way we can bluff our way out of this. Comrade Popov will see us returning, and it will be obvious we haven’t been ill at home. He’ll report us to the authorities, and once they start investigating, they’ll figure out we’ve been to Minsk. They’ll put all the pieces together, and then . . .”
She let the words trail off. Valentina didn’t need her to finish. She knew what would happen.
“Can’t we hide somewhere and wait for him to leave for work?” she asked. “We can sneak inside while he’s gone.”
“Your mama said he was going to the authorities,” Babulya said softly. “He was in his coat just now. He’s probably on his way to report our disappearance. The police will check our apartment. We can’t go back, in case someone is watching and sees us return.”
For a moment, they didn’t speak. Valentina felt like crying. What could they do?
Suddenly, Babulya stopped walking. “The courtyard,” she whispered to Valentina. “We’ll have to go through another building and sneak into the courtyard.”
Valentina understood at once: an apartment tower on the street behind theirs shared their building’s courtyard. Their building had a single door that led directly to the courtyard—and to a back stairwell. She used it herself when she took out the rubbish.
Leningraders had begun leaving their buildings. Soon the streets would fill with people.
“Come.” Babulya seized her hand again.
Together they hurried down the street. The street lamps were still on, and by their light Babulya counted buildings under her breath. “Six, seven, eight . . . That must be it.” She nodded at a massive apartment tower. Made of crumbling brick, it rose at least ten stories into the sky. “That’s the building that shares our courtyard.”
Valentina hoped she was right. Just then, a woman came out of the building’s front door. Babulya hustled forward to catch the door before it closed. She held it open for Valentina. “Quickly,” she said, and she and Valentina went inside.
In silence, they entered the lobby. Like theirs, it was lined with doors—the ones on the right and left probably led to stairs or communal rooms. A single door on the opposite wall might lead to the courtyard.
Together they crossed the room. Two men walked past without even glancing at them. Babulya opened the door. A wave of cool air rushed over them. Outside air. They had made it to the courtyard.
Without a word, they went outside. The hour was so early it was still dark, and the night’s stars had vanished, leaving the sky black. Only the illuminated windows in the building opposite told Valentina that they had made the right choice—across the courtyard stood their apartment tower.
They rushed across the empty courtyard. Babulya yanked open their building’s back door, and they ran up the stairs. Valentina could barely breathe. What if Mama couldn’t distract Comrade Popov? What if he had already fetched the police, and they were waiting for them at the apartment?
At the sixth floor, they left the stairwell and rushed down the corridor. The overhead lights were left unlit during the day to conserve electricity, and in the gloom Valentina could scarcely see anything. But she didn’t see any shadowy forms. The police weren’t here yet.
Babulya unlocked their door. They hurried inside, with Babulya easing the door shut behind them. Valentina’s mother had left a lamp on, which provided just enough light for them to see by. The curtains had been opened, the bed made, the table left cluttered with books and dishes. There was no indication that only one person had lived in this room for the last few days.
“Into your nightdress, quickly,” Babulya said. “We must look as though we’re ill in bed.”
Valentina’s hands shook so badly, it seemed to take her forever to unbutton her coat. Finally, she had it off and hung it on a hook. Then she ripped off her skirt and sweater and blouse. She shoved them under the bed. Babulya grabbed their nightgowns out of the wardrobe and threw Valentina’s to her.
Hastily, they put them on. Valentina flung herself onto the sofa, sat up to grab the blanket hung across the back of it, and then lay down. Across the room, Babulya was climbing into bed.
Then silence. Valentina lay still, her heart racing.
Footsteps sounded from the corridor. Lots of footsteps. Valentina’s eyes met Babulya’s. Her grandmother managed a weak smile. “Let me speak to the police, Valyushka. You lie there and look ill.”
The door opened. A young man stood in the entryway. A policeman. In the dimness, Valentina could see the buttons shining on his tunic. His eyes traveled over the room, stopping on Babulya. “Are you Rita Grigorievna Goldman?” he asked.
“Yes.” Babulya sat up, clutching the blankets to her chest. “May I ask what the trouble is?”
“I’ll tell you what the trouble is!” Comrade Popov squeezed around the police officer and came into the room. “You and your granddaughter haven’t been seen in days, and your daughter won’t give me a proper explanation of your whereabouts!”
“They’ve been ill!” Valentina’s mother shouted from the corridor.
“Let’s go into the apartment and clear this up,” the police officer said.
They all filed into the room. In the pale lamplight, Valentina thought her mother looked nervous.
“The poor things have been sick in bed,” her mother said. “Comrade Popov, surely you’ve seen me carrying their suppers to them every night.”
Comrade Popov held up his hand. “They haven’t been seen in the bathroom. They haven’t been heard walking about this room. You know the walls are as thin as paper.”
“Oh, for pity’s
sake!” Babulya appealed to the policeman, who was watching them without expression. “My granddaughter and I haven’t been heard walking about because we’ve been lying in our beds. I hardly wonder our neighbors, the Kozlovs, haven’t noticed us using the bathroom since their boys monopolize it.”
The policeman aimed a stern look at Comrade Popov. “Making unfounded accusations is a serious matter.”
Comrade Popov turned red. He muttered something under his breath, spun on his heel, and left the room, banging the door closed behind him.
Valentina’s mother turned to the policeman. “May I help you with anything else?” she asked him politely. “My mother and daughter aren’t well and need to rest.”
“One more question,” the policeman said. “Comrade Popov said you and your daughter recently moved here. Why did you come to Leningrad?”
Her mother folded her hands. “We used to live in Pripyat. My husband was one of the plant engineers at Chernobyl.”
The policeman’s gaze flew to her. “Was?”
“He was on duty the night of the disaster,” Valentina’s mother said quietly. “He died soon afterward.”
The policeman shuffled his feet, looking uncomfortable. He glanced around the room. “All three of you live here?”
Valentina knew what he saw: a bed against the wall, a sagging sofa, a table crowded with dishes and schoolbooks and Babulya’s sewing machine, and laundry hanging from the lines stretching from one side of the room to the other. The place looked desperately poor, even to her eyes.
“Yes,” her mother replied. “It’s the best we can manage.”
The policeman took off his cap, turning it over and over in his hands. “It doesn’t seem right,” he said to himself. “The widow and orphan of a hero of the state being stuck in one tiny room.”
Babulya lifted her chin. “I’m afraid it’s all I could offer them. I’ve been on a housing list since 1968, but you know how it is.”
The policeman nodded. “I’ll have a word with your neighbor before I leave. He needs to understand he can’t run to the police every time he takes a dislike to someone.” He made a funny little bow. “Good day to you, ladies.”
“Good day,” Valentina’s mother echoed, ushering him out.
Then she went to the table and scribbled something on a piece of paper. She held it up. Sorry, read the message. Popov had already gone for police by time I returned from talking to you in the street. Held them off as long as I could.
“You did well,” Babulya said softly.
Then the three of them went to one another so they could embrace and say everything they needed to without saying a word—for the walls were thin, they knew, and they couldn’t chance being overheard.
And that, Valentina thought, was that.
* * *
- - -
Only it wasn’t. Five days later, they received a notice that Babulya’s housing number had finally been called. A two-room apartment in the center of Leningrad was available. They would have to move in quickly or the place would be assigned to another family.
“Did the policeman arrange this?” Valentina’s mother asked, rereading the notice.
“Perhaps it’s a coincidence,” Babulya said, opening the wardrobe door. “What does it really matter? Let’s pack!”
During their final days in the apartment, Valentina listened for footsteps on the stairs all the time. She was afraid the police might have connected them to Oksana’s disappearance. But the police never came. They must have decided Oksana was a runaway, she thought.
Although her mother and Babulya worried, too, they still played music in the evenings, after Valentina had finished her schoolwork and Babulya had put aside her sewing. Valentina’s mother had borrowed a flute from the music department at her school, and she and Babulya played songs together. The music was so sweet it made Valentina’s heart soar.
They moved into their new apartment on the last day of the year. Although Valentina was sad to leave her friends and teachers, her gladness outweighed her sorrow. Thanks to their new home’s location, she would attend the school next door to the one where her mother taught. This place’s rent was cheaper than their old room (again, her mother suspected the policeman of pulling a few strings in the local Communist Party on their behalf). Because the apartment wasn’t as expensive, Babulya wouldn’t have to work at the market anymore. She could sew clothes, which she liked, and, as Valentina’s mother said, take a well-deserved rest for her weary bones.
Darkness fell early. The sky was black by the time they had finished putting their things away. Babulya turned on the lamps. Their golden warmth filled the large room that would serve as the sitting area, kitchen, and Valentina’s bedchamber.
Valentina pressed her nose to the window. From here, she could see the bright, twinkling lights of Nevsky Prospekt, the most famous street in the city. It had been decorated in honor of the new year. When she had walked it earlier that day, she had seen its shop windows were crowded with books and chocolates and gifts and figurines of Grandfather Frost.
This new year wouldn’t be like other years, she knew. In the past, her father had taken her to a children’s show at a theater, where she and the other kids in the audience were given podarki gift bags, filled with candy and pictures of Grandfather Frost and the Snow Maiden. Her mother had spent the day cooking. They had eaten caviar with blini, and her parents had sipped champagne. Valentina had been allowed to stay up until midnight.
The best part, though, had been finding presents under the tree. Her parents had said that in other countries, people put trees in their houses to celebrate Christmas, but here it was to usher in the new year. She had always had several gifts waiting for her under an evergreen. She could still remember the crinkle of wrapping paper and the sharp scent of pine needles.
Nothing, though, was like before. There were no presents, no tree, no bag of podarki, no dish of caviar.
No Papa. No Oksana.
The colored lights of Nevsky Prospekt blurred. Valentina turned away from the window.
Her mother put an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry we don’t have a tree this year.” She kissed the top of Valentina’s head. “You do, however, have a present.”
“I do?” Valentina looked in the direction her mother pointed. There, sitting on the table, was a package.
“Go on, open it.” Babulya stood in the doorway to the bedroom, smiling. “It arrived in the post yesterday. You didn’t notice because you were so busy packing your things. Your mother and I saved it for today. We thought you’d like opening it on the eve of a new year and in our new home.”
“I don’t know anyone who would send me a gift,” Valentina said.
Babulya raised her eyebrows. “Don’t you?”
Oksana. No, it was too much to hope for . . .
It couldn’t be, could it? Babulya had said there should be no contact between them for a long time, maybe forever.
Like someone in a dream, Valentina reached for the package. It was small and square, fitting in the palm of her hand. It was postmarked Uzbekistan.
Valentina’s heart beat fast. It was from Oksana. She knew it, even though there was no return address. She tore open the package. A box tumbled out. With shaking hands, she opened it.
Inside lay her father’s watch. The glass face had been polished until it sparkled, and the leather band had been rubbed with oil so it felt as soft as butter. The minute hand ticked as it made an orderly revolution around the numbers.
Joy flooded Valentina’s heart. She couldn’t speak. All she could hope was somewhere, thousands of kilometers away, Oksana could magically know she was thinking of her and thanking her.
A paper that had been rolled around the wristband fluttered to the floor. Valentina picked it up. There was no message. No signature. But she understood exactly what it meant.
It was a dra
wing of two blackbirds soaring through the sky, the feathers of their outstretched wings touching like a pair of clasped hands.
Author’s Note
THE CHERNOBYL DISASTER was the worst nuclear accident in history.
In the early hours of April 26, 1986, the night-shift workers at reactor number four ran what was supposed to be a routine safety drill. What they didn’t know was that the emergency alert system had been temporarily shut off to prevent it from responding to the test as if it were an accident. Turning off the alert system disabled the pumps that sent water into the reactor’s cooling system. The reactor overheated, the temperature skyrocketing to five thousand degrees Fahrenheit, one hundred times its normal level.
At 1:23 a.m., the pressure burst the cooling system pipes. A second later, a blast ripped the one-thousand-ton roof off the building. Radioactive dust and debris shot up miles into the sky. Glowing lumps of metal rained down on the grounds of the power plant, sparking more than twenty fires.
Incredibly, there were no emergency plans in place at the nuclear plant. To prepare for disaster was to admit that disaster was possible, which went against Communist Party attitudes. At first, the government tried to keep the explosion a secret.
Therefore, the residents of Pripyat began that day, a Saturday, as usual. Despite the red sky and the ambulances and police officers and soldiers flooding the city, everyone continued about their business, certain that if they were truly in danger the government would rescue them. Children went to their half day of school on Saturday, little kids played outside, and gardeners weeded, unaware that their plants were coated with radioactive fallout. Some people sunbathed, and others fished in the river that ran through the city and past the plant, not realizing that anything they caught would be contaminated.
Soon, however, residents grew suspicious. Because the Soviet government had convinced the public how safe nuclear power was, though, many people thought folk remedies would save them. People ate cucumbers and drank milk, mineral water, or vodka, believing they would be fine.
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