Chernobyl

Chapter 21

Except perhaps for the anniversary of the October Revolution (which occurs in November, because of the changed calendar), the paramount public holiday of the Soviet Union is on the first day of May. It is called International Labor Day, or more frequently simply "May Day." There is no village in the USSR so small that it does not have at least a celebration on May Day, and in the largest cities the event is an immense production.

"But we can't watch it on the TV," Candace Garfield told her husband reasonably, "because we don't have one in this delightful little toilet you found for us, and they'll just charge us extra if we want to use the one in the living room, and it's in black and white anyway."

"Well, hell, hon," said her husband, also reasonably — it was only eight in the morning, and they were both still being reasonable—"who wants to watch it on TV? We might as well be home in Beverly Hills if that's all we want to do. We'll go on into town, and—"

"And walk to the subway, right? Because those buses don't ever run?"

"They were running all right yesterday, honey. It was only like on Sunday and Monday that we couldn't find one."

"And today's a holiday, right? So they probably won't be running at all."

Garfield opened his mouth to respond a touch less reasonably, because his own temper was beginning to run short after four days on their own in Kiev. They were saved by a knock on the door. "Oh, poop," said Candace, "that's Abdul for the rent. Wait a minute till I get something on."

Abdul was who it was, although his name was surely not Abdul. He was some sort of Arab in some sort of diplomatic post at some Arab consulate — for four straight days he had managed to avoid telling them which nation paid his salary.

He was a constantly smiling slim young man, no more than thirty. This time, as always, he greeted them with a cheery "Good morning to the both of you!" and an outstretched hand. As always, he took Garfield's hundred-dollar traveler's check, and returned the change in rubles. He had every reason to smile, Garfield thought. The agreed-on bed-and-breakfast rate was sixty-five dollars American each day. The thirty-five dollars' worth of rubles Garfield got back in change were always calculated at the official rate, and Garfield was quite certain the man got his own rubles from one of the furtive young men who hung around the tourist hotels, at no more than twenty-five cents apiece instead of the official rate of over a dollar and a half.

Of course, they hadn't had much choice. It was not really that bad a room — in fact, it was reasonably nice, especially by Soviet standards — even though they didn't have a bath of their own. It was in a new and attractive building. They were in a sort of diplomatic ghetto; you got into it through a gate, and when you arrived in a taxi a militiaman peered in to make sure no locals were sneaking into the place reserved for foreign residents of Kiev. There did not, unfortunately, seem to be any Americans or even English or Canadians in the compound, and their host had urged them (still smiling, but very emphatically) to avoid contact with the neighbors as much as possible. "Is not against Soviet law exactly, no, but still is a matter for discreetness, please."

That May Day morning, though, when he had carefully paid out Garfield's twenty rubles and some odd kopecks in change, he lost the smile. Looking at them seriously, he said, "I am very sorry to bear ill tidings, but all things must end. Tomorrow must be last day of you to be here. Due to the changed circumstances, I am required to leave and must close down my flat."

"What changed circumstances?" Garfield demanded. The man only shrugged.

"Now, come off it," barked Candace from the table. "Where are we supposed to go? You've got to let us stay here just for a couple of nights, anyway!"

"But it is impossible," he explained, once more smiling broadly. "Your luggage? Yes, if you like, you may leave it here until you call for it — no later than six tomorrow evening. And now I must leave at once to prepare for our May Day reception, and then we must pack for departure. My good wife will now have your breakfast ready. It has been very great pleasure to know you, really. And, oh, yes, for the extra hours in your room due to leaving the luggage, that will be additionally twenty-five dollars American."

Breakfast was like each of the other three mornings they had spent in the diplomatic flat, with the silent, pregnant wife serving them the same soft-boiled eggs, thick slices of bread, and strong tea, except that this time while they were still at table a swarthy man knocked at the door. He and the diplomat's wife talked in low voices for a while — it was not an Arabic language, Garfield thought, but almost certainly not Russian, either. Then the man handed her a thick wad of currency. The woman counted it all over twice, then fished a set of car keys out of her apron pocket and gave them to the man. A moment later the Garfields heard the sound of a car starting in the courtyard below. Through the window Garfield saw the man driving away in Abdul's huge old canary-yellow Mustang convertible.

As they walked out of the compound, nodding familiarly to the cop at the gate, Garfield said, "Abdul's not going to come back here at all. He sold his car."

"So?" asked his wife, peering toward the avenue where there might have been, but was not, a bus.

"So nothing," said Garfield cheerfully, deciding on the spot not to press the question of what "changed circumstances" caused Abdul to flee with his wife. "Look, there's no use trying to get a bus, and it's only about a twenty-minute walk to the Metro."

"Next time I go anywhere with you," Candace said grimly, "I pack my Adidas. Dean? This little adventure is beginning to get bor-z «g. I think it's time to go home."

"Honey, you know what they said at Aeroflot. No space available to Moscow until the seventh."

"So are we going to sleep in the airport for the next week?"

Garfield winced. But when they got out of the Metro station on the far side of the river, even Candace began to show signs of excitement.

For one thing, it was a meltingly beautiful spring day. The city was full of roses and chestnut blossoms, and it was in a holiday mood. The streets around the Kreshchatik were full of people getting ready to parade past the dignitaries on the stands. Trade unions, schools, Army detachments, government workers — every group seemed to have a detachment of its own to strut past the great billboard of Lenin, six stories high, with his chin thrust resolutely forward to challenge the hostile, encircling world.

There seemed to be thousands of people crushing toward the route of the parade along with the Garfields — not just marchers, but no doubt the families of people in the line of march as well. There were children carrying little flags, mothers with string bags — not on this day in the hope of finding something wonderful to buy, but only to hold picnic lunches for the children. There was a barricade at the entrance to the streets nearest the reviewing stands. The Garfields could not hope to enter the square, or even get very close to it, but they could see that it and all the surrounding streets were gay with banners and posters. The face that dominated the event belonged to V. I. Lenin, but Marx and Engels had their huge portraits too.

Candace gazed uneasily at the scores of uniformed militiamen keeping the throngs in order. "I keep thinking one of them's going to ask us what we're doing here," she fretted.

Garfield grinned. "We're doing what everybody else is doing, right? We're watching the parade. Listen, if they were going to give us a hard time, they would've done it long ago."

"Yes, but I'm getting real itchy. What are we going to do tomorrow?"

"Well," said Garfield slowly, "I've been thinking about that. See, today's the holiday, right? So I bet that along about checkout time tomorrow the hotels're going to empty out pretty fast, and probably we'll be able to get anything we want."

"Probably," his wife repeated flatly.

"What do you want from me?" he demanded. "All right, as soon as the parade's over we'll go around the hotels and see if they're going to have a room. How's that?"

His wife only sighed. "I wish we could sit down somewhere and watch this," she said.

Garfield took her hand. "Aw, but honey," he pleaded. "How many Americans get to do anything like this? Think about the stories we're going to tell. Think about Comrade Tanya. Why, when we get back— Hey!" he cried, pointing to a group of children surrounding their teacher on the far side of the barrier, girls in cocoa dresses with sparkling white pinafores, boys in navy blue jackets and caps, every third child with a banner to pass to the next child in rotation as small arms grew weary. "Isn't that what's-her-name? The teacher that speaks English, from Smin's party?"

Oksana Didchuk didn't see the Americans, didn't even hear them calling to her or notice the little argument they had with the militiaman when they tried to cross the barricade. Oksana was busy with her class, rehearsing them in the slogans they should chant, reminding them to march in step, cajoling, warning, telling them stories to keep them quiet until their turn to march. "Look," she said, pointing at the contingent of tall young men in gold-braided black uniforms, swords at their sides as they swung past, "those are cadets from the Kiev Naval Academy. Someday some of you may go there!"

But the girls were looking at the folk dancers twirling in their bright traditional Ukrainian costumes, and most of the boys were gazing popeyed at the huge T-60 tank that was shuffling up the avenue toward them, a trail of smart Soviet Army soldiers goose-stepping along behind. Oksana sighed, peering around to see if she could get a glimpse of her own daughter, but there were too many groups of schoolchildren, too many floats and bands and military vehicles, too many people entirely.

Oksana Didchuk wondered if it could possibly be true that this thing at the Chernobyl Power Station could be dangerous even to people here in Kiev. What was one to believe? The voices had been more strident than ever that morning. The Didchuks had even managed to catch a few minutes of Radio Free Europe before the jammers discovered the wavelength they had switched to and the warbling tweeweeiveeweep had drowned it out. But what was one to do? At school the authorities had been quite firm: "There is certainly no cause for panic. If any extraordinary measures are required, of course we will be informed at once!"

And yet the rumors grew — twenty-five thousand dead and buried in a mass grave on the banks of the Pripyat River, one colleague had whispered, or so he had heard one of the voices say. Almost certainly that was untrue, Oksana thought staunchly. Especially considering the source. No one believed Radio Free Europe… but what a pity that they could not get the calm, trustworthy voice of the BBC.

And then the signal came for their unit to. begin the march. Oksana gathered up her group and they took their places in line. What angels they were being this day! Every one of them, little as they were, unruly as sometimes they could be, marched along bravely; and as they passed the reviewing stand, each did a perfect eyes-right and shouted together: "We will defend the motherland of Socialism!"

Her eyes were moist as they passed under the great posters of Marx (the size of the head demonstrating the immense power of the great brain that lay inside it) and of Lenin (sharp gaze ever alert to seek out those who sought refuge in the twin enemies of the working class, God and vodka). And then, at the very edge of the square, was a tiny poster of Khrushchev. Oksana stole a quick look around as they passed it to see if any of her class had noticed that a new face had been added this year. None of the children seemed to. So there would be no difficult questions — although, Oksana told herself, it was, after all, quite proper that the man who had held the city of Kiev together in those terrible days of 1941 while the Germans hammered past it on both sides should be recognized on Kiev's May Day.

One must always remember that it was Khrushchev who, years later, had insisted on adding Kiev to the short but illustrious list of the USSR's "Hero Cities" for that desperate resistance. . though, of course, at the time of that resistance a good many Kievans, listening to the traitorous words of defeatists and saboteurs, had not been nearly as eager for their tasks as the people of Moscow and Stalingrad. Nevertheless! The delay at Kiev had cost many thousands of lives, but it served a purpose. It had slowed the Hitlerite drive toward Moscow just long enough to make it fail. And of course—

One of the little girls was tugging at her sleeve. They were out of the square now, stopped, waiting for the signal to be dismissed. Oksana said sharply, "What is it, Lidia?"

"Those people," the girl whispered. "They're calling to you." And when Oksana turned, she saw the American couple, waving urgently at her from behind a pair of scowling militiamen. "Mrs. Didchuk!" the woman cried. "Help us! Please!"

It was nearly dark by the time Oksana Didchuk had finished with her responsibilities and could take the Americans to the apartment house. They found Mrs. Smin and her son with Smin's old mother on the roof, waiting for the fireworks to begin.

"Are we ever glad to see you," grinned Dean Garfield. "We got thrown out of our hotel, and we've been staying at some Arab's apartment ever since, and we're about to get thrown out of that" But he was surprised to see that Selena Smin did not seem really delighted to see them again. The expression on her face as she listened to Oksana Didchuk's translation of their adventures was hooded — no, worse than that, worried; she was not at all the same gracious hostess who had pressed them to eat just a little more just a few days before.

Selena Smin thought for a moment before she spoke, then she watched the Garfields gravely as Oksana translated. "You have heard nothing of the accident at Chernobyl?" And when Garfield shook his head, she began to speak rapidly, so rapidly that Oksana could hardly keep up. It was not just that, either; Garfield saw that Oksana Didchuk was hearing some of this for the first time herself, as Selena Smin told of the explosion, the radioactive gases that were repotted from many parts of Europe, the injuries, the evacuation of the town of Pripyat, the dead. "And my own husband," she finished, "is now in hospital in Moscow, perhaps gravely ill — they cannot be sure yet.

Our son, Vassili, is to be sent to a Komsomol camp for the summer, but first — first I suppose he will accompany me. I will go to Moscow tomorrow, to be with my husband."

"Oh, my God," whispered Candace, gripping her husband's arm.

Garfield said thickly, "I bet that's the 'changed circumstances' that Arab son of a bitch was talking about. But he wouldn't tell us a word!"

Candace wasn't listening to him, but to a quick soft-voiced exchange between Selena and the translator that made Oksana look suddenly pale. "What's she saying now?" Candace demanded.

Oksana hesitated. "I only asked her what I should do about my own little girl," she said. "She said she didn't know." Selena Smin spoke sharply again. "But as for you and your husband," Oksana translated, "there is only one thing to do. You must go home quickly. Mrs. Smin or her mother-in-law will arrange everything; you will fly out to Moscow or Warsaw or Bucharest in a few days, and then home. Many foreigners have already left."

Vassili Smin had been listening to every word, but now he turned away. "Look now, please," he said in English. "The— ah — the pyrotechnicals is begun."

Off toward the skyline of the city, rockets were blossoming over the Dnieper River, red and gold and white. Below, hidden by the buildings between, was a huger, steadier glow. "That is a Soyuz spacecraft in pyrotechnicals," said Vassili, carefully rehearsing each word. "We cannot view it properly because— because" — he fumbled for the words, helped himself out with gestures—

"Because it's turned to face the city instead of us?"

"Exactly," he said, beaming. "It is turned face to the city instead of to us. I think it will be quite beautiful."

Candace said gently, "And what are going to do now, Vassili?"

He said proudly, "Tomorrow I fly to Moscow!" Then he swallowed and added, "It is that my father, he has — a failure of the blood? And they think that out of my — bones — they can get something which will make him better."

"I'm sure it will!" Candace said, pumping confidence into her voice. And then, "Ah, Vassili—?"

"Yes, Mrs. Garfield?"

"My husband was so distressed at your news that he forgot to mention it, but we don't have a place to live after tomorrow. So if we could live with you—"

"One moment, if you please." The boy talked quickly with his mother and grandmother, and then turned to the Americans, smiling happily at being able to oblige them. "You will have a hotel room, of course."

"But there aren't any hotel rooms!"

"What nonsense!" the boy scoffed. "Believe me, a room will be found. After all, my grandmother is still Aftasia Smin."