up. You’ve just touched me, and I’m already falling into there, falling—into that nightmare. That terror. I’m flying into it. I also remember how, when we were little, the women would take us with them to the sauna. And we saw that all the women’s uteruses (this we could understand even then) were falling out, they were tying them up with rags. I saw this. They were falling out because of hard labor. There were no men, they were at the front, or with the partisans, there were no horses, the women carried all the loads themselves. They ploughed over the gardens themselves, and the kolkhoz fields. When I was older, and I was intimate with a woman, I would remember this—what I saw in the sauna.
I wanted to forget. Forget everything. And I did forget. I thought the most horrible things had already happened. The war. And that I was protected now, that I was protected.
But then I traveled to the Chernobyl Zone. I’ve been there many times now. And understood how powerless I am. I’m falling apart. My past no longer protects me. There aren’t any answers there. They were there before, but now they’re not. The future is destroying me, not the past.
Pyotr S., psychologist
MONOLOGUE ABOUT WHAT CAN BE TALKED ABOUT WITH THE LIVING AND THE DEAD
The wolf came into the yard at night. I look out the window and there he is, eyes shining, like headlights. Now I’m used to everything. I’ve been living alone for seven years, seven years since the people left. Sometimes at night I’ll just be sitting here thinking, thinking, until it’s lights out again. So on this day I was up all night, sitting on my bed, and then I went out to look at how the sun was. What should I tell you? Death is the fairest thing in the world. No one’s ever gotten out of it. The earth takes everyone—the kind, the cruel, the sinners. Aside from that, there’s no fairness on earth. I worked hard and honestly my whole life. But I didn’t get any fairness. God was dividing things up somewhere, and by the time the line came to me there was nothing left. A young person can die, an old person has to die . . . At first, I waited for people to come—I thought they’d come back. No one said they were leaving forever, they said they were leaving for a while. But now I’m just waiting for death. Dying isn’t hard, but it is scary. There’s no church. The priest doesn’t come. There’s no one to tell my sins to.
The first time they told us we had radiation, we thought: it’s a sort of a sickness, and whoever gets it dies right away. No, they said, it’s this thing that lies on the ground, and gets into the ground, but you can’t see it. Animals might be able to see it and hear it, but people can’t. But that’s not true! I saw it. This cesium was lying in my yard, until it got wet with rain. It was an ink-black color. It was lying there and sort of dripping into pieces. I ran home from the kolkhoz and went into my garden. And there’s another piece, it’s blue. And 200 meters over, there’s another one. About the size of the kerchief on my head. I called over to my neighbor, the other women, we all ran around looking. All the gardens, and the field nearby—about two hectares—we found maybe four big chunks. One was red. The next day it rained early, and by lunchtime they were gone. The police came but there was nothing to show them. We could just tell them. The chunks were like this. [She indicates the size with her hands.] Like my kerchief. Blue and red . . .
We weren’t too afraid of this radiation. When we couldn’t see it, and we didn’t know what it was, maybe we were a little afraid, but once we’d seen it, we weren’t so afraid. The police and the soldiers put up these signs. Some were next to people’s houses, some were in the street—they’d write, 70 curie, 60 curie. We’d always lived off our potatoes, and then suddenly—we’re not allowed to! For some people it was real bad, for others it was funny. They advised us to work in our gardens in masks and rubber gloves. And then another big scientist came to the meeting hall and told us that we needed to wash our yards. Come on! I couldn’t believe what I was hearing! They ordered us to wash our sheets, our blankets, our curtains. But they’re in storage! In closets and trunks. There’s no radiation in there! Behind glass? Behind closed doors! Come on! It’s in the forest, in the field. They closed the wells, locked them up, wrapped them in cellophane. Said the water was “dirty.” How can it be dirty when it’s so clean? They told us a bunch of nonsense. You’ll die. You need to leave. Evacuate.
People got scared. They got filled up with fear. At night people started packing up their things. I also got my clothes, folded them up. My red badges for my honest labor, and my lucky kopeika that I had. Such sadness! It filled my heart. Let me be struck down right here if I’m lying. And then I hear about how the soldiers were evacuating one village, and this old man and woman stayed. Until then, when people were roused up and put on buses, they’d take their cow and go into the forest. They’d wait there. Like during the war, when they were burning down the villages. Why would our soldiers chase us? [Starts crying.] It’s not stable, our life. I don’t want to cry.
Oh! Look there—a crow. I don’t chase them away. Although sometimes a crow will steal eggs from the barn. I still don’t chase them away. I don’t chase anyone away! Yesterday a little rabbit came over. There’s a village nearby, also there’s one woman living there, I said, come by. Maybe it’ll help, maybe it won’t, but at least there’ll be someone to talk to. At night everything hurts. My legs are spinning, like there are little ants running through them, that’s my nerve running through me. It’s like that when I pick something up. Like wheat being crushed. Crunch, crunch. Then the nerve calms down. I’ve already worked enough in my life, been sad enough. I’ve had enough of everything and I don’t want anything more.
I have daughters, and sons . . . They’re all in the city. But I’m not going anywhere! God gave me years, but he didn’t give me a fair share. I know that an old person gets annoying, that the younger generation will run out of patience. I haven’t had much joy from my children. The women, the ones who’ve gone into the city, are always crying. Either their daughter-in-law is hurting their feelings, or their daughter is. They want to come back. My husband is here. He’s buried here. If he wasn’t lying here, he’d be living in some other place. And I’d be with him. [Cheers up suddenly.] And why should I leave? It’s nice here! Everything grows, everything blooming. From the littlest fly to the animals, everything’s living.
I’ll remember everything for you. The planes are flying and flying. Every day. They fly real-real low right over our heads. They’re flying to the reactor. To the station. One after the other. While here we have the evacuation. They’re moving us out. Storming the houses. People have covered up, they’re hiding. The livestock is moaning, the kids are crying. It’s war! And the sun’s out . . . I sat down and didn’t come out of the hut, though it’s true I didn’t lock up either. The soldiers knocked. “Ma’am, have you packed up?” And I said: “Are you going to tie my hands and feet?” They didn’t say anything, didn’t say anything, and then they left. They were young. They were kids! Old women were crawling on their knees in front of the houses, begging. The soldiers picked them up under their arms and into the car. But I told them, whoever touched me was going to get it. I cursed at them! I cursed good. I didn’t cry. That day I didn’t cry. I sat in my house. One minute there’s yelling. Yelling! And then it’s quiet. Very quiet. On that day—that first day I didn’t leave the house.
They told me later that there was a column of people walking. And next to that there was a column of livestock. It was war! My husband liked to say that people shoot, but it’s God who delivers the bullet. Everyone has his own fate. The young ones who left, some of them have already died. In their new place. Whereas me, I’m still walking around. Slowing down, sure. Sometimes it’s boring, and I cry. The whole village is empty. There’s all kinds of birds here. They fly around. And there’s elk here, all you want. [Starts crying.]
I remember everything. Everyone up and left, but they left their dogs and cats. The first few days I went around pouring milk for all the cats, and I’d give the dogs a piece of bread. They were standing in their yards
