Chernobyl Read online

  Smin stole a glance at his watch. After ten, and they were still sitting around the dinner table. At least, he thought comfortably, it had been, what? three or more hours now when he had not had to think about the problems of the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Station. He thought, with amused sympathy — a little sympathy and a lot more amusement — of the Chief Engineer and the Personnel man, stuck with trying to get rid of the observers who had no experiment to observe. Not for the first time, he thought that his mother's old-fashioned ways were sometimes a convenience. If there had been a telephone in the house, he would have been tempted to call the plant. Since it was out of the question, he could simply relax.

  It was not even difficult to keep up a conversation. Having explained America to his Soviet family, Dean Garfield was now explaining the Soviet Union to them. The)' had already done Leningrad and Moscow — had even, Smin was slightly startled to hear, managed to get tickets to the famous emigre

  Vladimir Horowitz's once-in-a-lifetime piano recital in Moscow just a few days earlier. (And how many Soviet citizens would have given a month's pay for such tickets? But, of course, Intourist gave first priority to tourists — who could, after all, have heard him any number of times in America.) And in Kiev they had seen any number of tenth-century cathedrals, and the bones of the old monks in the Lavra catacombs, and the Great Golden Gate Moussorgsky had made famous with his Pictures at an Exhibition; in fact, they were staying at the brand-new Great Gate Hotel, just across from the Gate itself on the street called the Khreshchatik.

  Garfield had funny stories about their pilgrimages: "So the guide showed us the footbridge to those beaches, you know? The ones across the river in Kiev? And I told her that in New York we had not only footbridges to islands in the river but cable cars. Then she showed us that Rainbow Arch that's supposed to commemorate, what is it, the joining of Russia and the Ukraine, and I told her that we had one that looked exactly like it in St. Louis — the Gateway Arch — only it's two hundred meters tall and it has little cars inside it that take you right up to the top."

  "Yes, everything is bigger in America," Aftasia said dryly. "What, you're not eating the compote? Don't you like it?"

  Then Smin's son, getting braver about practicing English, began telling his cousins about the four great football players on the team of the Chernobyl plant, the Four Seasons, and Dean Garfield responded with stories about his own team, something called the Los Angeles "goats," said Didchuk, although Smin could not quite believe that was the right name.

  Smin yawned as his son went on explaining other things to the guests, until he saw the way the Americans were studying the glassy scars on his face and neck. From the expressions on their faces, distress and sympathy, he knew just what his son was saying.

  Smin placed a gentle hand on his son's shoulder and addressed Didchuk. "Say for me, please," he said, "that Vassili, like all boys, is fascinated by stories about war. Especially he likes to boast about his father's heroic adventures, but in fact I was merely trapped in a tank when it burned. It was more than forty years ago."

  "But you received four medals!" his son cried, distressed.

  "And I hope for you nothing more than that you should never be in a position to earn such medals," Smin said firmly. "Now, whose glass is empty?"

  It was turning into a long evening, and a wearing one after all, with this business of trying to carry on a friendly conversation with new-met relatives through translators. Smin was glad when the talk passed from him. The women were talking among themselves, the young teacher, Mrs. Didchuk, chatting in English with the glamorous American blonde woman, Mrs. Garfield. Aftasia Smin, on the fringes, asked. "So what are you telling her?"

  "Why," said Mrs. Didchuk, flushing with remembered pleasure, "just that yesterday, when I went to the store, I saw that they had hundreds of rolls of bathroom paper. Imagine! All you could want! So I bought twelve, and the clerk scolded me, can you imagine, saying, 'There is no need to hoard, from now on there will always be plenty!' Do you think that is true?"

  "I think," said old Aftasia Smin, "that that is not a proper subject to discuss with our guests at the table." Then, her eyes suddenly gleaming, "I have something else that is interesting. Will you ask my cousin's wife if she will come with us into my bedroom? There is something I would like to show her."

  "She is at it again," said Smin's wife, frowning after her mother-in-law as she led the female guests away.

  "I suppose she is," said Smin, and when the women came back, he was confirmed in his opinion by the new way the American blonde looked at Aftasia Smin. Aftasia had been showing off her war wounds again. Well, she had a right; not every old woman in Kiev had fought bravely in the Civil War, as well as owning a Party membership twenty years senior to Smin's own.

  Surreptitiously Smin glanced again at his watch. Past midnight! And he had been up since six. Of course, the next day, he thought idly, would not be very strenuous. The experiment with trying to get power from a turned-off reactor would probably not take place on a Saturday. Perhaps they could even defer it until the Director came back? It was his baby, after all. But it was just like the Director to conceive the idea and then find "important business" somewhere else, so that

  Smin was stuck with the responsibility of carrying it out. Important business! Shooting ducks outside of Moscow! When, really, if Director Zaglodin desired to kill a few ducks, there were millions of them in the Pripyat Marshes, just north of the plant…. But, of course, it was not the ducks Zaglodin wanted, it was the company; he was hunting powerful connections more than waterfowl.

  Smin yawned and eyed the vodka botde. But it was not yet time for the one drink he allowed himself each day. "Can I at least have some tea?" he asked his mother just as the male teacher, Didchuk, said eagerly:

  "Can you imagine? Mr. and Mrs. Garfield say that their home is only a few kilometers from Disneyland!"

  So it was a happy enough evening, and an interesting one for all concerned. It took Smin's mind off, or nearly off, the problems of Chernobyl and he forgave his mother for her surprises, even for her stubborn decision, at her time in life, to decide to observe Jewish holidays again. By the time Vassili was yawning and the old grandmother had dozed off in her seat, it was too late to try to get a taxi. Smin drove his new relatives back to their hotel, with Didchuk along to interpret.

  Until they had crossed the bridge over the Dnieper River, they were almost alone in the streets of suburban Kiev. The officers in roving militia cars glanced at them as they passed, but few policemen would bother the driver of a black Chaika with yellow fog lights at any hour. Then, as they approached the center of the city, there was activity, even at this hour. In the main square, Army trucks with batteries of floodlights made the scene bright as new banners were hoisted into position for the May Day parade—we will fulfill our plan! and we demand peace and freedom for the world! As they Crossed the square where the great old cathedral stood, Smin said to Didchuk, "Tell them that services are held there every Sunday; if one wishes to believe in God, one may."

  "I already have," said Didchuk proudly. "They were very pleased to hear it."

  The May Day parade would go along the Khreshchatik, of course — there was no more famous street in Kiev. They had to dodge around the Army trucks to get to the entrance of the Great Gate Hotel. Of course, the hotel doors were locked at that hour. When Didchuk had roused the doorkeeper to let them in, they all got out of the car and stood for a moment in the chilly April night air. "I wish," Candace Garfield said earnestly through Didchuk's translation, "that we had been able to get together earlier, Cousin Simyon. It's really too bad that we have to leave for Tbilisi tomorrow. We have enjoyed this very much, and if you ever come to Beverly Hills—"

  "Of course," smiled Smin gallantly, reaching to put his arms around her. In his hug she was even slimmer than he had thought, and there was a scent of France and America that came from her hair. "Ah, well," he said to Didchuk as they drove away, "there is simply one more duty call w
e will have to pay next time we are in California. What a nuisance, isn't it?" But now that they were alone Didchuk appeared to have remembered that he was in the presence of a Deputy Director and senior Party member, and he did not seem to know how to respond to the pleasantry.

  By the time Smin was back in his mother's flat everyone was asleep. He was careful not to wake his son as he poured himself the 150-milliliter nightcap of brandy that was all he allowed himself anymore and gratefully stretched out next to his gently snoring wife. It had been an interesting evening, if sometimes puzzling — what had Dean Garfield meant when he called his wife a "Valley girl"? And certainly it had been a pleasant ending to a day that had been full of irritating worries.

  When the doorbell rang and someone knocked heavily at the same time, Smin woke up with a start. It was after three o'clock! Selena was upright next to him, her face strained. "No, no," Smin soothed, not having to ask what had frightened her because he knew, not having to reassure her that the bad days when a knock at three in the morning meant only one specific, hopeless thing were over, because she knew that too.

  He almost persuaded himself to relax as he listened to the voices outside, until his son burst into the room, a blanket wrapped around him, crying, "Papa! It's the militia! They have brought an important message for you — you must go back to Chernobyl at once!"

  Chapter 4

  Friday, April 25

  Leonid Sheranchuk knows very little of nuclear energy. In this he is like most of the engineers and managers in the Chernobyl Power Station. Sheranchuk's specialty covers piping, pumps, water, and steam, and his work experience has been confined to that outdated peat powered plant north of Moscow. For most of the others their experience has been in coal and oil plants, and what they know is turbines, transformers, and electricity. The mushrooming growth of nuclear power in the Soviet Union has gone faster than the supply of engineers trained in nucleonics can keep up withh — though, of course, the problems of a nuclear power plant are known to be very like the problems of any power plant anywhere — you heat your water into steam, and you turn your steam into electricity— and the specifically nuclear questions, they are taught, have been solved at higher levels long ago. All the same, Sheranchuk wishes he knew more. He has even enrolled in an evening course in nucleonics at the local polytechnic, though it will not begin for another month. Meanwhile he reads texts when he can find time.

  When Sheranchuk got home he thought of tackling the books again, but he was really tired. Maybe later, he thought. He ate something instead, with the nine o'clock news broadcast going on unheeded on the television set. His wife had, of course, eaten with their son, Boris, long since, but she sat companion-ably with him over a glass of wine. "Did anything interesting happen at work today?" she asked dutifully.

  "No," said Sheranchuk; there was no use telling her about the annoyances with the proposed experiment on Reactor No. 4; she was already too likely to worry about the unknown dangers of nuclear power. "Some problems with one of the pumps, but it's all right now." He thought for a moment, and then said, "The Deputy Director said, in general, I was doing a good job."

  "In general!"

  "It's just his way. He calls me his plumber."

  "Plumber!" But she knew how her husband felt about Deputy Director Smin. "Then you won't have to go in tomorrow morning?" she asked. "Because of your dentist's appointment, I mean?"

  "I had forgotten all about my appointment with the dentist," Sheranchuk confessed. Then, grinning, "Do you know what she told me last time? She said, 'It's a shame you keep those stainless-steel teeth. Now we can make you much better ones, porcelain, even better than your own, so that the girls will turn and look at you.' "

  "There's no need to have the girls look at you," Tamara said sharply.

  "Not even just to look? If I don't look back?"

  "They look at you enough already," his wife said. She began to clear dishes from the table in silence for a moment, then remembered to tell him about the young girl who had come to her clinic that morning for an abortion. "Imagine, Leony! She was only sixteen years old. No older than Boris!"

  "At least our son can't get pregnant." Sheranchuk smiled.

  "It is not a joke! She is destroying a life inside her, and so young."

  Sheranchuk said reasonably, "But, Tamara, what else would you have her do? At sixteen she is certainly too young to marry, especially to have the care of a baby when she is only a child herself."

  "I could never do such a thing," Tamara insisted.

  "You have never had to," Sheranchuk said mildly. There was no reason she should; she worked in the clinic and had ample access to such things as diaphragms and sponges. But the look she gave him as she turned to get on with her household chores kept him from saying so. It was not an angry look, but it was definitely an exclusionary one, as if to say, You are a man, what do you know? If not something worse.

  Sheranchuk turned off the television set and rummaged through their literary library for the works on nuclear energy he had set himself to go through. He found himself yawning as he opened his books. To help concentrate he put a magnitizdat tape on the player, and the soft sounds of a Vladimir Vyshinsky satirical song made a background while he tried to study.

  Tamara Sheranchuk paused to listen. She knew the song. It was nothing out of the ordinary for them to play the tapes of Vyshinsky, or of Aleksandr Galich or Boulat Okudzhava — the balladeers who lived in, but not of, the Soviet system. Their records were never pressed by Melodiya. Their songs had no official recognition, but were known by heart by nearly every Soviet citizen, passed from hand to hand in the furtively recorded tape cassettes called "magnitizdat." "A little quieter, please, if you will," she asked. The tapes were not illegal, but all the same they were not what you would go out of your way to have your neighbors hear you playing. Still-

  She had met Sheranchuk at an Okudzhava concert. It was not in a hall or a stadium, or even in a nightclub. The concert had been out in the birch and pine woods, on a spring night not quite warm enough to be comfortable, and not even dry— little sprinkles of rain came now and then. Still, there had been more than two hundred people out there in the woods, listening to the Georgian balladeer play his old guitar and sing of trolleybuses and the road to Smolensk. All young. And among them had been this red-haired young man who had come by himself, and when he looked at her he did not smile. But as the listeners moved around under the trees, trying to stay dry if not warm, she had wound up next to him. She had left the little group she came with, and Sheranchuk had taken her home.

  Tamara had gotten a cold from attending that concert, but she had also gotten a husband.

  In order to be fresh for the morning, when he was determined to get in bright and early, despite the dentist, Sheranchuk gave up his yawning struggle with his studies and went to bed at ten o'clock. But now sleep did not come. He lay listening to the sounds of his wife, ironing Boris's white school shirt for the morning, with the sound of pop music from the television set faint in the background; and he heard Boris come in from his Komsomol meeting, specially called to plan for their May Day celebration, and head immediately for the refrigerator.

  Just as he was dozing off he remembered that he had not checked to see if the automatic pumps had been turned back on after the afternoon's aborted experiment.

  The experiment was not his business. The pumps, however, were. He thought for a moment, then rolled over on his left side, with his elbow under the goosedown pillow, curled up like a fetus in the position that always meant comfort and sleep to him. The duty engineers would certainly have restored the pumps' operation, he reassured himself. There was no point in lying awake and worrying. He tried to think of pleasant things. Of Tamara in the next room, for instance. He thought of calling her to bed; perhaps they could make love, and that would make him sleepy. But there was the boy, no doubt eating an apple at the table with his books spread out all around him, studying for his Saturday examination in geometry. If he had thought o
f it a little earlier, Sheranchuk mused, they could have taken advantage of the boy's being out of the house and it could have been just as it was when they were first married and in an apartment of their own.. He dozed for a moment, and then was wide awake again as someone in another apartment noisily flushed the toilet. He fumbled for the alarm clock and held it in the light from the window. Already after midnight. A new day; and the pumps were still on his mind.

  Sheranchuk groaned and sat up, his feet on the floor, rubbing his chin. After a moment, he sighed, reached for his robe, and went into the living room to call the plant. Tamara passed him in the hall, on her way to the bathroom. "What, still awake?" she chided. He patted her on the rump affectionately as they passed, but did not stop.

  Boris was already asleep on the couch, and Sheranchuk kept his voice down as he talked to Kalychenko, one of the shift operators. "The pumps—" he began, and listened in surprise as Kalychenko told him that the free-wheeling experiment was, after all, already in progress. "Without the Director present? But then surely, Smin—" But, no, Smin wasn't there, either. And was not missed, Kalychenko said, because, apart from small power surges, the experiment was going well. Sheranchuk frowned. "What kind of small surges? From six to eleven percent? But that's not small!" He listened for a while and then hung up. He opened the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of apple juice. He gazed thoughtfully at his sleeping son as he sipped the juice.