Chernobyl

Chapter 33

In the town of Mtino, not far from Moscow, there is a quiet cemetery. Two hundred yards from its gate a special plot has been set aside. It has only a few graves in it now, though there is space for a good many more. It is called the "Heroes' Plot." All the people buried there have one thing in common. They died in the same place — Hospital No. 6—and they came from the same place — the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Station.

There weren't many mourners at the funeral of Simyon Mikhailovitch Smin; altogether there were ten. His two sons, his wife, his mother. Two doctors from Hospital No. 6. His faithful "Comrade Plumber." The Second Secretary of the Communist Party of Pripyat, glad to take a day off from the other reasons he was in Moscow to pronounce the obsequies for Smin. And two others. It was the two others who astonished the doctors and probably the Second Secretary as well, because they arrived in a Zil and a whisper went around the group with their names: Comrades F. V. Mishko and A. P. Milaktiev. Members of the Central Committee. Only old Aftasia Smin had the temerity to walk up to them and greet them by name, though after that they spoke or at least nodded to everyone else, affably enough.

Said Aftasia to the older of the two, "Thank you for coming, Fedor Vassilievitch."

"Ah, but why not?" protested the minister. "Your son was a good man. He died a hero. There is no doubt in my mind that when the investigative commission finishes its work he will be found to have performed in an exemplary way. Also," he added, "there are not so many Old Bolsheviks left that I would not pay honor when a member of one's family dies."

Aftasia disregarded that. "Are you so sure about the results of the commission?" she demanded.

Milaktiev answered for him. "No one can predict the findings until all the evidence is in. Human error is always possible. But I myself have seen most of the depositions. Your son cut corners, Aftasia Israelovna, but always for the good of his plant, never for private gain."

"I agree," Mishko added, nodding. "And you see for yourself: he is being given an honorable funeral."

"But a small one," said Aftasia shrewdly. Then she relented. "It was good of you both to come, in any case. Let me introduce you to his widow and his sons."

Milaktiev cleared his throat, glancing around. They were out of earshot of the others, but he seemed hesitant to speak. "Aftasia Israelovna, may I say that you look extremely well? And yet we have heard so very little of you for many years. One had assumed you must be quite ill, or retired to a home for the aged—"

"Or dead? Yes, it's true. I have lived very quietly for a long time. Why not? I'm an old woman; I have nothing to say."

"I disagree," said Mishko. "I think you have much to tell us all, and this is a time when Old Bolsheviks in particular should be heard."

Aftasia looked up at him appraisingly. Mishko was not a tall man, but he towered over her. "Why this time in particular?"

"It is a time of great change. You know that. I see that your mind is clear, isn't it?"

She said, "There have been a lot of clear thoughts in my mind over the years. I was not the only one to think clearly. A great many of my old comrades had clear thoughts, and spoke them out loud. Most of them have been dead for fifty years now for that reason."

"You are speaking of the excesses of the Stalin years," Mishko said, nodding. "This is a different time."

"Oh? Is Lefortovo empty now? Well," she said, relenting, "yes, the time is different, but old habits are hard to lose. I had a son to raise, Fedor Vassilievitch. He didn't have a father and I couldn't afford to let him lose a mother as well. I kept my mouth shut. I had no desire to sit in a camp for thirty years while Simyon had no one to care for him. I learned to be still."

"We all learned that, for the same reasons."

"And yet," she said, smiling, "I suppose I need not fear thirty years in the camps now, isn't that so? Fedor Vassilievitch, we are not strangers. Your father asked me to marry him in 1944, and if he had not been arrested, I would have looked on you as my own son."

"I wish that had happened," Mishko said sincerely.

"Then why don't you speak frankly to me? Is there something you want me to do?"

Milaktiev said uncomfortably, "Perhaps this is not the place to discuss such matters—"

"Oh, spit it out, man," she said crossly. "Didn't you call me an Old Bolshevik? Well, I am. I'm not a delicate flower who can think of nothing but sorrow at her only son's funeral; my son would not want that of me. Why should you?"

"Well," said Mishko, glancing at his partner, "the fact is, a few of us have certain proposals to make…"

Sheranchuk watched idly as the old woman talked to the men from the Central Committee, impatient for the ceremony to begin. A woman in a smart beige suit walked up to him. "I am Dr. Akhsmentova," she announced. "Blood pathologist for Hospital Number Six. I was in charge of typing blood for you and all of the other patients."

"Thank you for a good job," Sheranchuk said politely. "I didn't recognize you out of your whites."

"But I recognized you. Comrade Sheranchuk. I made it my business to know who you were so that I might speak to you before you were discharged. Tomorrow, isn't it?"

"I hope so," said Sheranchuk, startled. "Speak to me about what?"

The woman pursed her lips. "I had hoped your wife would inform you of this matter, but I believe she has gone."

"She was sent back to her regular duty, yes. What matter are you talking about?"

"You see," the doctor said reflectively, "I take a large view of my work. It is not enough to be technically correct, although I am most careful about that. As I view my duties, they oblige me to call any unusual facts I learn to the attention of the parties concerned."

Sheranchuk was getting annoyed at the prissy woman. "And what facts have you learned about me?" he asked, his tone more ironic than he intended; but she regarded that.

"Not just about you, Comrade Sheranchuk. About your wife and the boy, Boris Sheranchuk."

"Yes?" he prompted, definitely irritated.

"You are blood type O, Comrade Sheranchuk. Your wife is type A. The boy is type AB." She folded her hands at her waist as she finished, regarding him in silence.

"Really, Dr. Akhsmentova," he protested, "I know nothing about such matters. If it is dangerous to my son—"

But she was shaking her head. "Not dangerous to his health, no, but that is not the point. I have had experience testifying in such matters. In paternity suits, for example, where the blood types can shed light on the father of an illegitimate child. And I assure you, Comrade Sheranchuk, if your wife had brought a paternity suit against you when the boy was born, you would not have lost."

The funeral oration was long enough to be decent, short enough so that the Second Secretary would not find he had made some embarrassingly overenthusiastic remark at a later date: ten minutes. Then the casket was lowered into the ground. The mourners took turns, one by one, in tossing clods of earth in after it. Then, of course, it was time for them all to go away and leave the professional gravediggers, leaning impatiendy on their shovels just out of earshot, to get on with their work.

But no one wanted to leave until the two men from the Central Committee made a move to go, and they seemed in no hurry. They moved around the small group, shaking each hand, kissing every member of the family, exchanging polite words with all. Did these high Party officials have nothing better to do with their time? Sheranchuk wondered, sick with shame and rage. Of course it was not those two men that he was shouting at silently inside his head, and when they took his hand, he managed to respond to their questions about his health, and to be surprised that they actually seemed to know his name. "But of course, Comrade Sheranchuk," smiled Mishko, the older and more dapper of the two. "We have read your statement, and those of others concerning the accident. There is nothing but praise for your work and your courage!"

"It is too early to speak of decorations," Milaktiev added warmly, "but if any has earned one, you surely have."

Sheranchuk succeeded in thanking them. He stared after them in surprise until, fully half an hour after the service was over, Minister Mishko glanced at his watch and said, quite clearly enough to be heard, "Oh, but it is nearly three o'clock, and I have an appointment at Gosplan at three-thirty."

"And I must get back to my office," Milaktiev added. "Can we give any of you a lift? No? Then let me drop you at your office, Fedor Vassilievitch. And let us hope we see you all again, in happier times!"

Happier times had not yet arrived when Milaktiev arrived at his office. He nodded civilly to his secretary, pushed open the door of his private room, and paused, looking at his desk.

There was an envelope on it, a large square one, marked in a bold hand: For the personal attention of A. P. Milaktiev ONLY.

Milaktiev left the door open as he moved to the desk and ripped the envelope open, struggling with the triple seals. Then he glanced at the document inside. It had no letter attached. There was no name on it, or on the envelope. There was nothing to say where it had come from, but what it said was very clear. It proposed what it was pleased to call "A Movement for Socialist Renewal" and, although it was couched in formal and impassive language, what it said was astonishing. Each phrase and sentence leaped off the paper:

Our country has reached a limit beyond which lies an insurmountable lag…. The USSR is now on the path to becoming one of the underdeveloped nations.. .

Economic and political reforms must be combined____

We require different competing political organizations, with control by the people in free elections…. We must

comply with such fundamental constitutional principles of the socialist state as the freedom of speech, press, and assembly, of personal immunity, private correspondence and telephone calls, and the freedom to join organizations. ..

It was all there, every word.

Milaktiev read it all through, all seventeen closely typed pages, with his secretary glancing curiously at him through the open door. Then he raised his voice in a roar: "Margetta Ivanovna! What is this thing? Where did it come from?"

She hurried nervously to his side. "It was delivered by hand. A soldier; he said it was urgent, and for your eyes only—"

"And did you get his name? Did you make him show identification? What if it had been a bomb, or something infected with a deadly disease? Would you still have let any criminal walk in here and leave anything he chose on my desk while I am absent and you are charged with protecting it?"

He had her weeping in the next minute, not so much from the violence of his attack but because it was such a terrible contrast with his usual gentle demeanor. Well, he thought, he could make it up to her another time. But it was important that she should be aware that he was wholly astonished, even indignant, that this revolutionary document should have appeared from nowhere… for when people began trying to find out who had sent it, the last place they would look was among those who had received a copy from a stranger.