Yuri pretended to drive a truck. “Beep. Beep.”
“Hush, Yuri,” Aunt Olga scolded her son. “Uncle Ivan is on the line.”
“Ask him when we can go home,” Yuri demanded. My young cousin was the only one who still questioned the adults about when we could return. I noticed that Mama and Aunt Olga never answered him.
I was beginning to grow impatient when Mama handed me the phone.
“What have you been doing, Katya?” Papa said. Through the brightness in his voice, I could hear the exhaustion.
“I hate school,” I began. In the village, I had belonged. Here, I was an outcast.
“You remember Oksana Evtushenko, who lived at the end of our street?” Papa interrupted my complaints.
“Yes,” I answered. Our elderly neighbor always wore black dresses and black shoes.
“I saw her yesterday. She was kneeling in front of the cemetery. She was holding her crucifix, like your Granny Vera’s. One of the captains told her that she had to leave.”
“She’s so old, Papa. Why can’t she stay?” I said.
“Listen, Katya,” Papa said. “I’m trying to make a point.”
I desperately missed Papa and wouldn’t see him for several weeks, so I was quiet.
“‘I won’t leave,’ Oksana Evtushenko insisted. ‘You’ve got to leave, Babushka. This is a war,’ the soldier said.”
It was a war, I thought. I longed to tell Papa about the older girls who for the past year had picked fights with me. Today, one of them had pushed me into the gutter, and I had gotten another bruise. I could feel the ache on my side, just under my rib cage. I wanted to tell my strong father that I, too, fought.
“Oksana Evtushenko said, ‘You call this a war? There are white clouds in the sky. The apple trees are blooming. This isn’t a war. I was in the Great Patriotic War. I remember the planes and the soldiers, the blood and the bullets.’”
Out the window, I stared down at St. Petersburg Street at the pedestrians rushing past with their packages and at the cars racing by.
“The soldier told Oksana Evtushenko, ‘This is a war, and its name is Chernobyl.[17] And we will do what has to be done.’ I want you to remember what the soldier said, Katya.”
I wanted to make Papa proud of me. I would be strong. “Yes, Papa,” I gripped the phone tightly, wanting him to know that I understood.
Chapter Seventeen
In such cramped quarters, my cousins and I fought often. But as an only child, I was mostly glad to be surrounded by their noise and love. Papa and Uncle Alexander appearances continued to be rare highlights.
Our second fall in Kiev, Papa was home for one of his monthly visits. He always showered me with trinkets—inexpensive rings and necklaces—and Mama new fabrics. Although we could afford to buy all the food that we could eat, sometimes the markets in Kiev were nearly empty. On this particular windy day, Papa and I were returning from shopping. We had hoped to purchase meat for dinner but had ended up with only a few jars of pickled beets and a loaf of chorni khilib—a black bread made of buckwheat and rye flour that tastes slightly of vinegar.
The leaves swirled around us in beautiful patterns of red and orange. Papa kept his hands thrust deep in his coat pockets and his head down. I could tell that his spoiled dinner plans had not put him in a good mood.
At the corner, we came upon another line. This one held so many people that it bent and twisted around the corner. To jolly him up, I joked, “Oh, Papa, maybe we were in the wrong line. Maybe that’s the meat line.”
He answered sharply, “That’s not a market; that’s a medical clinic.”
I noticed a woman in the line wearing a colorful scarf. The purple and blue wool wrapped around her head for warmth contrasted with her sallow complexion.
I had the young person’s usual fascination with someone who looked a little abnormal. I guess I gazed at the woman too long because, keeping her eyes fixed on me, she began shaking her head and clucking noisily. Embarrassed, I turned away.
“Those people have radiophobia,” Papa said.
“What’s radiophobia?” I asked.
“The fear of radiation sickness.[18] We have an epidemic in this area.” I recognized the special scorn in Papa’s voice that leaked out when he was referring to people who weren’t as tough as he was. “Victor Kaletnik’s organization is stirring people up, making everyone afraid. That man is a traitor to the Ukraine.”
Although I was surprised Papa had called his oldest friend a traitor, I didn’t dare ask about Uncle Victor. Instead, I asked, “You mean that woman isn’t sick?”
“That’s right.” He frowned. “It’s all in her head. She has just convinced herself that she is sick.”
I nodded and deliberately kept myself from turning to look at the bad woman. Papa worked at the station. He knew what was really happening.
Chapter Eighteen
ONE NIGHT AFTER THE BITTER UKRAINIAN COLD had passed, our second spring in Kiev, I was alone in the apartment. Enjoying this luxury, I had turned up the volume on the radio.
“Now for the latest news,” the announcer said. “The Nuclear Ministry today announced the implementation of new safety protocols…’”
I quickly changed the channel. I didn’t like to be reminded of the accident.
Hearing a knock on the door, surprised, I ran to open it. Unlike in Yanov, where our house was a meeting place for neighbors and friends, here in Kiev we rarely got visitors.
It was Uncle Victor. He was holding his hat in his hand. I had not seen him since the night after the accident, which was not so strange considering the disaster had scattered our close-knit community. Maria Kryko had told us that traveling from place to place, “We feel like trees out of the ground without roots.” But something different was happening with the Kaletniks.
“Katya,” Uncle Victor cried. Strands of gray intermingled with his black hair. “You look so beautiful.”
Hugging him, the familiar feel of his soft waist reminded me of other better times. “How old are you now?” he asked.
“Thirteen,” I told him.
“Is your mother here?” he asked.
I shook my head. Since Mama had been unable to find customers in Kiev, she had enrolled in night school to get her teacher’s certificate. Aunt Olga had taken her kids to the laundry.
His friendly face fell. I remembered Uncle Victor’s estrangement from my father, but Papa didn’t live with us, and Mama set the rules now. I asked myself: what would my mother do? “Come in. Come in,” I said, opening the door wide. “Mama will be home from her classes soon.”
When Uncle Victor stepped inside, I saw the disorganized apartment through his eyes. Despite all our hard work, the room was always messy. Diapers, baby blankets, and puzzles littered the floor. A globe that my mother used for her studies sat on the table.
“Would you like some tea?” I asked in my most grown-up voice.
He shook his head. “I can’t stay. We’re in Kiev only for a short while. Julia and I are emigrating to Canada next week.”
“Canada?” I cried. Since my father had called him a traitor to the Ukraine, I was not surprised that Uncle Victor was moving. But Canada was so far away.
Following me into the kitchen, he sat down at the table. I was embarrassed my guest had to push a plate of old toast out of the way.