Every day, I dreamed about my house. I was returning home: one time I’d be digging in the vegetable plot, another time making the bed. And I’d always find something: a shoe, or some chicks. All good omens, signs of happiness to come. Of a homecoming.
At night, we plead with God, by day we plead with the police. You ask me why I’m crying. I don’t know why. I’m happy to be living in my own dear home.
We survived everything, pulled through it all.
I’ll tell you a joke. The government issues an edict about benefits for Chernobyl victims. Anyone living within twenty kilometres will be addressed as ‘O Beaming One’. Anyone within ten kilometres will be addressed as ‘O Radiant One’. And anyone right near the plant who survived, ‘O Luminous One’. See, O Radiant One, we’re alive. Ha ha.
I finally reached the doctor. ‘My legs won’t carry me, love. And my joints are aching.’ ‘Get rid of the cow, old girl. The milk is poisoned.’ ‘Oh, I can’t do that,’ I said, crying. ‘What with my legs aching and my knees hurting, I’m not giving the cow away. She keeps me fed.’
I’ve got seven children, all of them living in the town. I’m here on my own. Whenever I start missing them, I’ll sit next to their photos, have a chat. I do everything alone. Painted the house on my own, laid on six tins of paint. That’s how I live. Raised four sons and three daughters. And my husband died early. I’m on my own.
I ran into a wolf: he was standing bang in front of me. We stared at each other, and he leapt off to the side. Darted away. My hair went stiff with fear.
All wild animals are afraid of man. Leave the animals alone and they’ll steer clear of you. Before, if you were walking in the forest and heard voices, you’d run over to them, but now people will hide from each other. Heaven forbid you ever meet a man in the forest!
What’s written in the Bible is all coming true. In the Bible it says about our collective farm. And about Gorbachev. It says there’ll be a big leader with a mark on his forehead, and a great power will crumble to dust. And then the Day of Judgement will come. Those in the towns will all die, and just one man will be left in the villages. People will be happy to find a human footprint! Not a human being, just a footprint.
We use lamps for light. Paraffin ones. Ah, the women have already told you. When we kill a pig, we’ll carry it down to the cellar or bury it in the ground. The meat will last three days in the ground. We make moonshine from our own grain. From jam.
I’ve got two sacks of salt. We’ll be all right without the state! Got plenty of firewood – surrounded by forest. The house is warm. The lamps are lit. All good! I keep a nanny goat, a billy goat, three pigs and fourteen hens. There’s land and grass to your heart’s content. Water in the well. Freedom! We like it! What we have here is no collective farm, it’s a commune. Communism! We’ll buy another horse. And then we won’t need anyone. Just one horse.
We didn’t just move home, as one shocked journalist put it, we moved a hundred years back in time. Reaping by sickle, mowing by scythe. We thresh the grain with a flail right here on the tarmac. My good husband makes baskets. And in the winter, I do embroidery and weaving.
In the war, our family lost seventeen members. Two of my brothers were killed. Mum cried and cried. An old woman was going begging from village to village. ‘You’re in mourning?’ she asked Mother. ‘Don’t grieve. The one who lays down his life for others is a holy man.’ I’d do anything for the Motherland. The only thing I couldn’t do is kill. I’m a teacher, and I taught that we should love one another. Good will always triumph. Children are just little, their hearts are pure.
Chernobyl. The war to end all wars. There’s nowhere to hide. Not on land, in water or in the skies.
First, the radio was turned off. We don’t know any of the news, but it’s a quiet life. We don’t get upset. People come here and tell us there are wars everywhere. And they say Socialism is finished, we’re living under capitalism. And the tsar will return. Is it really true?
Sometimes a boar will come into the orchard from the forest, sometimes an elk. People come rarely, though. Just the police.
Come and visit my home.
And mine. It’s so long since I had guests in the house.
Dear Lord, I cross myself and pray! Twice the police smashed up my stove with an axe. They took me away on a tractor. But I came back! If they’d let people in, everyone would come crawling home on their knees. The news of our troubles has spread across the world. Only the dead are allowed back. They are brought here. But the living come in the night. Through the forest.
They’re all longing to come here for Radunitsa. To the last man. Everyone wants to pray for their dead. The police will let in those who are on their lists, but no children under eighteen. People get here, and they’re so happy to stand near their house, near an apple tree in the orchard. First they cry at the graves, then they go to their old houses. And there they cry some more and pray. Light some candles. They lean against their fences as if they were graves. They might put a wreath by the house, hang a white towel over the gate. The priest will read a prayer: ‘Brothers and sisters! Have patience!’
They take white loaves and eggs to the cemetery, many bring pancakes instead of bread. Whatever they’ve got to hand. Everyone sits at their loved ones’ graves. They call out, ‘Sister, we’re here to visit you. Come and eat with us.’ Or, ‘Dearest Mum, dearest Dad.’ They call the souls down from heaven. People whose loved ones have died during the year will cry, while those who lost them earlier won’t. They have a chat, bring up memories. Everyone prays. Even those who don’t know how to pray join in.
You mustn’t weep for the dead at night. Once the sun’s gone down – you mustn’t. May the Lord rest their souls. Grant them the kingdom of heaven!
Laugh and the world laughs with you. There’s a Ukrainian woman sells big red apples at the market. She was touting her wares: ‘Come and get them! Apples from Chernobyl!’ Someone told her, ‘Don’t advertise the fact they’re from Chernobyl, love. No one will buy them.’ ‘Don’t you believe it! They’re selling well! People buy them for their mother-in-law or their boss!’
One of the locals got back from jail. It was under a prisoner amnesty. He lived in the next village. His mum died, and they buried the house. He washed up on our shores. ‘Give us a hunk of bread and some pork fat, missus. I’ll chop your firewood for you.’ He goes begging.
The country’s a mess – and people are coming here to escape. Some folks are fleeing from people, others from the law. And they live here on their own. They’re not from these parts. They’re grim, no light in their eyes. They get drunk and set fire to the houses. At night, we sleep with pitchforks and axes under the bed. In the kitchen, there’s a hammer by the door.
In the spring, a fox with rabies was running about. When they have rabies, they’re gentle as can be. They can’t stand the sight of water. Put a pail of water out in the yard – and fear not! It will run away.
They’ve started coming here. Making movies about us, though we never get to see the films. We’ve got no TV or electricity. All we’ve got is the window to look through. And prayer, of course. We used to have Communists instead of God, but now there’s just God left.
We were honoured citizens. I was a partisan, spent a year with the resistance. And when our side pushed back the Germans, I found myself on the front line. Wrote my surname on the Reichstag: Artyushenko. Hung up my army coat and built Communism. And where is it now, our Communism?