I’ll remember it all for you. People moved out, but the cats and dogs stayed behind. The first few days, I went and poured them milk, gave each dog a piece of bread. They were standing out in their yards, waiting for their owners. They waited so long. The hungry cats were eating cucumbers and tomatoes. Before the autumn, I mowed the neighbour’s grass in front of her gate. Her fence fell down, I nailed it back up. I was waiting for everyone. My neighbour had a little dog; Beetle, he was called. ‘Beetle,’ I said, ‘if you see people first, give me a shout.’
At night, I dreamed I was being evacuated. This officer was shouting, ‘Hey, missus, any moment now we’re going to burn your place down and bury it. Come on out!’ And they took me away to some strange place. I couldn’t make sense of it. It wasn’t the town or the village. And it wasn’t on earth.
Here’s something that happened. I had a good little cat; Vaska was his name. In the winter, these hungry rats invaded, there was no hiding from them. They got under the blankets, gnawed a hole through a barrel of grain. And Vaska came to the rescue. Without Vaska, I’d have died. We used to chat, have our lunch together. And then Vaska disappeared. Maybe he was attacked and eaten by the hungry dogs? They were all running around famished till they dropped dead; the cats were so hungry they were eating their own kittens, not in the summer, but they did in the winter. Lord, have mercy! And one woman was gnawed to death by rats. In her own house. Ginger rats, they were. I’m not saying it’s true or not, but that’s what they say. The tramps come and snoop around here. In the early years, there was good stuff for the taking: shirts, cardigans, fur coats. Could help yourself and off to the flea market. The tramps liked a good drink and sing-song. They’d swear their heads off. One came off a bicycle and fell asleep in the street. In the morning, they found a couple of bones and the bike. True or not? Who knows, but that’s what they say.
You get everything living here. The lot! There are lizards, the frogs croaking. Worms wriggling. And there are mice. Everything! It’s good in the spring. I love it when the lilac is in flower. The smell of the bird-cherry blossom. While I was firm on my legs, I used to go out for bread, fifteen kilometres each way. When I was a young thing, I’d have flown it. I was used to long walks. After the war, we used to trudge to the Ukraine for seeds. A good thirty or fifty kilometres. People would take sixteen-kilo sacks, while I carried three times that. But these days, I sometimes have trouble crossing the room. Even lying on the stove in summer won’t warm an old woman. The police drive over and check up on the village, and they bring me bread. Only what’s there to check up on? Just me and the cat here. A new cat. The police toot their horn, me and the cat are so happy. We’ll run over. They’ll bring him some bones. And they’ll ask me, ‘What if you’re attacked by bandits?’ ‘Hardly rich pickings for them here, eh? What will they take? My soul? That’s all I’ve got, my soul.’ They’re good lads. They like to laugh. Brought me some batteries for the radio. I listen to the radio now. I love Lyudmila Zykina, but these days she doesn’t sing much. She must have grown old, like me. My good husband liked to say, ‘The ball is over, put the violins away!’
I’ll tell you how I found the cat. My Vaska was gone. I waited a day, a second day, a month. So I really was left all alone. No one to speak to at all. I walked about the village, through other people’s gardens, calling: ‘Vaska, Murka, Vaska! Murka!’ At first, there were lots of them running about, but then they disappeared. They died out. Death isn’t fussy, the earth will take anyone. So I walked and walked. Two days I was calling and calling. On the third day, I find this one, sitting just outside the shop. We look at each other. He’s happy, I’m happy. Only he didn’t say a word. ‘Come on, then,’ I tell him, ‘let’s go home.’ He just sits there. ‘Meow.’ I start coaxing him, ‘You want to stay here all on your own? The wolves will get you. They’ll rip you to pieces. Come on, I’ve got eggs and pork fat.’ Now how are you to get it across? The cat doesn’t understand people’s language, so how could he know what I was saying? I walk ahead, and he’s running behind me. ‘Meow.’ ‘I’ll cut you some fat.’ ‘Meow.’ ‘You and I, we’ll live together.’ ‘Meow.’ ‘I’ll call you Vaska.’ ‘Meow.’ And we’ve already seen through two winters together.
At night, I had this dream someone was calling me. It was the neighbour’s voice. ‘Zina!’ There’s silence. And again, ‘Zina!’
When it all gets too dreary, I’ll have a cry.
I go to the graveyard. My mum is there. My little daughter. She died of typhus in the war. We brought her to the graveyard, buried her, and just then the sun came out from behind the clouds. It was shining so brightly I felt like going back and unburying her. My good husband is there, Fyodya. I’ll sit with them all and sigh. You can talk with both the living and the dead. Makes no difference to me, I hear them all. When you’re alone. And when you’re sad. Terribly sad.
The teacher, Ivan Gavrilenko, lived right by the graveyard. He left to join his son in Crimea. Behind him was Pyotr Miussky’s place, the tractor driver. A Stakhanovite model worker. They all used to dream of being Stakhanovite workers. Was a wizard with his hands, could whittle down wood into lace. The finest house in the village, a real beauty! Oh, it was such a shame, made my blood rise when they brought it down. They buried it. The officer shouted, ‘Don’t grieve, mother. The house is on a hotspot.’ He was drunk. I went up, and he was crying. ‘Go away, mother! Go!’ Chased me away. And past there, it was Misha Mikhalyov’s place, he stoked the boilers on the farm. Misha didn’t last long. Straight after he left, he died. Behind him was the house of the livestock specialist, Stepan Bykhov. Burned down! At night, some wicked people set fire to it. Outsiders, they were. And Stepan didn’t live long either. He’s buried near Mogilyov, where his children live. It’s a second war. The number of people we’ve lost! Vasily Kovalyov, Anna Kotsura, Maxim Nikiforenko. We had good fun in the old days. Singing and dancing in the holidays, accordion music. And now it’s like a prison. Sometimes I’ll close my eyes and walk through the village. How can we have radiation here, I tell them, when there’s this butterfly flying, that bumblebee buzzing? And my Vaska catching the mice. (She cries.)
So, my love, have you understood my sadness? Pass it on to the people, though I might not be around by then. They’ll find me in the earth. Under the roots.
Zinaida Yevdokimovna Kovalenka, returnee
Monologue on a whole life written on a door
I want to testify.
It happened ten years ago, and every day it’s still happening to me now. Right now. It’s always with me.
We lived in Pripyat. That same town the whole world knows about now. I’m not a writer, but I am a witness. Here’s how it was, from the very beginning.
You’re living your life. An ordinary fellow. A little man. Just like everyone else around you – going to work, coming home from work. On an average salary. Once a year, you go on holiday. You’ve got a wife, children. A normal sort of guy. And then, just like that, you’ve turned into a Chernobyl person. A curiosity! Some person that everyone shows interest in, but nobody knows much about. You want to be the same as anyone else, but it’s no longer possible. You can’t do it, there’s no going back to the old world. People look at you through different eyes. They ask you questions. Was it terrifying? Tell us about when the reactor was on fire. What did you see? Can you still, you know, have children? So your wife hasn’t left you? In the beginning, we all turned into some kind of rare exhibits. Just the word ‘Chernobyl’ still acts like an alarm. They all turn their heads to look at you. ‘Oh, from that place!’