Kievians had fled south, this simply resulted in locked and empty apartments. There was not enough room in Kiev for Chernobyl refugees. Therefore, collectives were put to work. Day and night, Lazlo and his men sent refugees on their way to collective farms to the west and south. Day and night, militiamen shrugged their shoulders when asked obvious questions.
“When will we be able to return?” “Where will we live in the meantime?” “Will it be safe where we are going?”
When Lazlo and his men asked about the situation at and around Chernobyl and Pripyat, the answer was always the same.
Except for being told to evacuate, except for knowing a nuclear plant had exploded, these poor souls knew only rumors. Do not drink milk because it stores radiation. Stop eating leafy vegetables. Drink vodka and wine to purge radiation.
When a vehicle or its passengers caused a technician’s Geiger counter to chatter, a tanker-truck team gave them a shower. Day or night, the scene at the roadblock was surreal. The refugees in line reminded Lazlo of wide- eyed schoolchildren on inoculation day, imagining an enormous needle in the hands of an unpracticed nurse plunging into their bones.
Because of sixteen-hour shifts at the roadblock, Lazlo lost track of time. Tuesday or Wednesday night-he wasn’t sure which-he went to his car and rolled up the windows so he could think, so he could assure himself he had done everything in his power for Nina and the girls. What more could he do? Asimov said they had already been examined at Hospital Number Six and taken to temporary housing. They were, according to Asimov, in perfect health.
Lazlo would have felt better if he could have spoken to Nina, but the overtaxed phone lines made it impossible.
During his last break, Lazlo went to the Ministry of Energy again, and, having received no further news on exactly how Mihaly died, he drove to see Juli Popovics at her aunt’s house. Lazlo felt un-easy because of Juli’s connection to Mihaly. It was a strange unease, similar to deja vu, like returning to his boyhood home. Both Juli and Aunt Magda spoke Hungarian, Aunt Magda’s cooking reminded him of his mother’s cooking, and Juli reminded him of Nina.
After telling him the Kiev hospital had called to say Juli’s blood test showed radiation levels “within the range of acceptability,” Juli and Aunt Magda inquired about Nina and the girls. Not the way someone asks who is simply being kind. They wanted details-the color of hair and eyes, the height of the little girls in relation to him.
When he spoke of Nina and Anna and little Ilonka, he saw motherly love in Juli’s eyes. More than once she referred to future generations and how children needed to be protected from this disaster.
Back at the roadblock, whenever Lazlo saw a woman holding a child, he thought of Nina. But he also thought of Juli. He had to admit this to himself. He thought of Juli many times during the long night as he recalled her tender kiss on his cheek when he saw her last. Amid cars and buses and green and white militia vehicles and crowds at the roadblock, he felt his deep-seated urge to make things right, and linked with the urge, he kept seeing images of Juli Popovics in the faces of the refugees.
Early in the morning before dawn, as his holstered Makarov rubbed against his side, and as more refugees assailed him with questions, he heard a new term. The refugees had a name for themselves. They called one another Chernobylites.
Tuesday, April 29, 1986, three days after Chernobyl’s unit four exploded and two days before May Day, transportation out of Kiev was difficult. Buses were almost nonexistent because so many had been sent north. Trains and planes to other major Soviet cities were full, with long lines at stations and terminals. But there was always priority. There were always people of status or authority able to bypass lines.
The Aeroflot jet was supposed to take off from Kiev at dusk.
But it was late, and a few minutes into the flight, Komarov could see nothing but blackness out his window. Every seat had been occupied when he arrived, forcing Komarov to use his credentials to have a window-seat passenger removed.
The chain of events beginning with the Chernobyl explosion had led to this. Major Grigor Komarov of the Kiev KGB flying to Moscow on official business, but also invited to join Deputy Chairman Dumenko and other high officials as they celebrated the revolution.
He would mix business with pleasure and, if all went well, begin his climb to chairmanship. He would deliver the letter he carried with him, and he would attend May Day festivities.
Deputy Chairman Dumenko had asked if Komarov wished to bring his wife along. Although Komarov’s wife enjoyed the prestige and advantage of his position, she did not like traveling to Moscow.
Getting iodine delivered to their home shortly after the Chernobyl accident was one thing, she had said, but traveling to Moscow was quite another. “There will be turmoil in Moscow, Grigor. Dmitry and I will stay here where it is safe.”
“What do you think of all this reactor business?”
The woman in the seat next to Komarov had spoken. He could see her reflection in the window as she leaned forward to get his attention. A fat, middle-aged woman who had, until now, been content with her Pravda.
“I beg your pardon?” said Komarov, turning to look at her.
The woman held the paper open to an inside page with a story about Chernobyl. “This reactor business at Chernobyl, what do you think of it?”
“It must be of little consequence,” said Komarov. “It’s not on the front page.”
The woman stared at him, her jowls expanding, her eyes becoming narrow slits. “You’re joking. The news has been coming from everywhere. The only reason it’s not on page one is because they don’t know what to say.”
“What do you think?” asked Komarov.
The woman hesitated, inspected his suit, perhaps looking for a lapel pin sometimes worn by officials. “I’ve seen people arriving in Kiev. I’ve seen crowds and heard foreign broadcasts. As a mother, I’m frightened for the children. There are rumors about avoiding milk and eating only canned food. Do you have children, comrade?”
“I have a son.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty.”
“How nice. Is he in the army?”
Komarov imagined Dmitry in a crisp army uniform instead of the tight-fitting slacks he always wore. “Yes, he is in the army.”
“One of my sons is in the army,” said the woman. “He’s a guard on the western frontier. Where is your son stationed?”
Komarov imagined how life might have gone. “He’s in a military hospital. He was wounded in Afghanistan.”
“How terribly sorry I am. Your wife must be distressed.”
“She is.”
“And here I am, worrying whether they’ll recruit my son’s unit for some kind of evacuation or cleanup at Chernobyl. While waiting at the airport, I spoke to a woman who said a freight train was sent back from Moscow because it was contaminated with radiation. She said there was meat on the train from the Ukraine and it would have to be buried.”
“Perhaps,” said Komarov, “it will need to be buried because it will have spoiled by the time it leaves the train.”
“With so much going on, it’s difficult to think of everything,” said the woman. “First we have war in Afghanistan, now this.”
“Foreign cultures and foreign workers make life difficult for all of us.”
The woman opened her eyes wider so they were no longer slits.
“Do you think foreign workers are to blame for the disaster?”
“Anything is possible when openness is allowed for its own sake.”
The woman stared at Komarov for a moment, then proceeded to tell him about all her children. Komarov turned and stared out the window as she continued speaking. He leaned against the window, looking forward ahead of the wing, watching the horizon for the lights of Moscow. He wanted a cigarette badly but had left his cigarettes
