Monologue on how we can talk with both the living and the dead
A wolf came into the yard in the night. I looked out the window and it was standing there, eyes blazing. Like headlamps.
I’ve grown used to it all. Seven years I’ve been living alone. It’s seven years since everybody left. At night, sometimes I’ll sit till dawn, just thinking and thinking. Spent the whole of last night hunched up on the bed, then went out to see the sun. What can I tell you? The only righteous thing on the face of the earth is death. No one has ever bribed their way out of that. The earth takes us alclass="underline" the good, the evil and the sinners. And that’s all the justice you’ll find in this world. I’ve slogged my guts out honestly all my life, lived with a clear conscience, but not much justice has come my way. God must have been doling out everyone’s share, and when my turn came the pot was empty. For the young, there’s a chance death might come knocking, but for us old ones it’s a sure thing. We’re none of us immortal, not even the tsars or merchants. At first, I was waiting for everyone, thinking they’d all be back. They weren’t leaving forever, it was just for a while. But now I’m waiting for death. Dying might not be difficult, but it’s scary. There’s no church, and the priest doesn’t come to these parts. There’s nowhere to take my sins.
The first time they told us we’d got radiation, we thought it was some sort of disease, anyone who caught it would drop dead. No, they said, it’s something that lies on the ground and gets right inside the ground, but can’t be seen. The animals can probably see it and hear it, but people can’t. But that’s not true! I saw it. This caesium was lying in my vegetable plot until it got wet in the rain. Sort of inky blue, it was. It lay there shimmering in these little lumps. I’d just run back from the collective-farm field and gone to my vegetable plot. And there it was, this blue lump, and a couple of hundred metres away, there was another, as big as the scarf on my head. I yelled to my neighbour and the other women and we all ran around looking for them. Checked all the vegetable plots and the nearby field, a good two hectares. We found maybe four large pieces. One was red. The next day, it was pouring with rain, right from early in the morning. By lunchtime, they were gone. The police came, and there was nothing to show them. We could only describe it all. This big, they were. (She measures with her hands.) Like my headscarf. Dark blue and red ones.
We weren’t all that scared of the radiation. If we hadn’t seen it or known about it, maybe we’d have been frightened, but once we’d had a look, it wasn’t really so scary. The police and soldiers stencilled some numbers. By one of the houses, somewhere in the street, they wrote, ‘70 curies’, ‘60 curies’. We’d been living on our potatoes, our spuds, forever, and here they were saying we couldn’t eat them! And they wouldn’t let us have onions or carrots, either. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. They told us to work on the vegetable plots in gauze masks and rubber gloves. And to bury the ashes from the stove in the ground. Well I never! And then we had some big scientist come to speak at the village club, says we should wash all the firewood. Come off it! Ordered us to launder all the bed linen and curtains. But they’re inside the house! In the wardrobes and linen chests. How could radiation get inside the house? What, past the windows? Past the doors? Barmy! Go and find it in the forests and fields. They locked all the wells shut, covered them in plastic sheeting. The water’s ‘dirty’, they tell us. What do they mean, ‘dirty’? It’s as clean as clean can be! They came out with some right rubbish. ‘You’re all going to die.’ ‘You have to leave.’ ‘We’ve got to evacuate you.’
People were scared. Had one heck of a fright. Some folks began burying their valuables in the night. I stashed away my clothes, my certificates of merit for my hard work, and the savings I was keeping for a rainy day. It was so sad! My heart was bursting with sadness! Swear on my life I’m telling you the truth! Then I heard how in one village the soldiers evacuated the people, but an old couple managed to stay behind. The day before they rounded people up and brought the buses over, that couple got their cow and took to the forest. Sat it out, there. Just like in the war, when the Germans burned the villages down. Where’s it come from, all this misery? (Crying.) It’s fragile, our life. I’d rather not cry, but I can’t help it.
Hey! Look out the window: a magpie’s come. I don’t shoo them away. Though sometimes I get the magpies thieving eggs from the barn. All the same, I don’t shoo them away. We’re all suffering from the same trouble these days. I don’t shoo anybody away! Yesterday, I had a hare run in here.
Now if only I had folks in the house every day. There’s a woman lives not far from here, in the other village, all alone like me. Told her to move over here, I did. She could help me with things, maybe not with everything, but at least there’d be someone to talk to. To invite in. During the night, I’m aching all over. Get these twisty pains in my legs, like a tingly feeling, it’s the nerve shifting about. So I grab something. A fistful of grain. Crunch, crunch … and the nerve calms down. I’ve worked myself to the bone over the years, had my fill of sorrows. Seen enough, I have, don’t need anything more. If I died, it would come as a rest. There’s no telling how my soul would take it, but my body would be at peace. I’ve got daughters, I have, and sons. They’re all in the town. But I’m not budging from this place! God has granted me long years, though He didn’t give me a good lot in life. I know us old ones are a right bother, the children put up with it for a while, then they snap and blurt out something hurtful. Your children only bring you joy while they’re little. Our women who moved to the town, they’re all in tears. One day they’re upset by their daughter-in-law, the next day by their daughter. They want to move back. My good husband, he’s lying in the graveyard. If he wasn’t lying there, he’d be somewhere else. And I’d be there with him. (Suddenly, she livens up.) But why leave? Everything’s fine here! It’s all lush and blooming. From the gnats to the beasts – everyone’s alive and well.
I’ll remember it all for you. There were aeroplanes flying non-stop. Every day. They were flying really low over our heads. Flying to the plant, they were. The nuclear reactor. One after the other. And we had the evacuation, they were doing the resettlement. Storming the houses. People were locking themselves in, hiding away. There were cattle mooing and children crying. Like in the war! And the sun kept shining. I plonked myself down and wouldn’t go out of the house, though I didn’t lock the door. The soldiers knocked: ‘Ready to go, missus?’ I ask, ‘You going to tie up my hands and feet, take me by force?’ They were silent for a bit and then left. So young, just children, really! The old women were crawling in front of their houses on their knees. Praying. The soldiers grabbed them by the armpits, lifted them up, one by one, and hauled them into the bus. But I warned them, touch me or use force and I’ll clobber you with my cane. Oh, I had a right go at them! Swore at them! I didn’t cry. Didn’t shed one teardrop that day.
So I sat indoors. There was screaming. Screaming! And then it went quiet. All died down. That first day, I didn’t leave the house.
They say that people were marched off in file. And the cattle were marched off too. Like in the war!
My good husband liked to say that man pulls the trigger, but God carries the bullet. We all get our different fates. Some of the youngsters who left have already died in their new place. But here I am, walking with my cane. Still on my feet. When it all gets too dreary, I’ll have a cry. The village is empty, but there are all kinds of birds flying here. And the elk wander about calm as anything. (She cries.)