“What does it mean to emigrate?” I asked.
Uncle Victor threw back his head and laughed. “Katya, you were always a bright child. I have a cousin in Canada, and he has helped us get visas. We are moving there to live.”
“So we won’t see you again?”
“We’ll be back to visit,” he said kindly. He glanced at the door. “I have much to do.”
Despite my father’s estrangement from Uncle Victor, I was sad that he was leaving. I would never forget the day that he had patiently explained to me the rules of checkers. Suddenly, I realized that his unexpected visit presented me with a unique opportunity. Victor Kaletnik had always talked to me like an equal. I could say, “Uncle Victor, no one talks about the accident,” I could ask. “Could you tell me what really happened? Why did the reactor explode?” I knew that he would answer my questions and tell me whose fault the disaster was.
“My work keeps me busy,” Uncle Victor was saying. “I am trying to assess the damage to our health. Our government still denies everything.” He smiled at me.
Ask him. Ask him. Did men really bury Yanov? Are we in danger? Are the levels of radiation still high? What are the consequences to all of us in the Ukraine? But to ask Victor Kaletnik these questions would suggest that I didn’t trust my Papa’s answers.
“We do have some good news,” Uncle Victor said, but his voice sounded weary, not happy. “The government has constructed a concrete structure to keep the contamination from leaking out of the damaged reactor. It’s called the Sarcophagus.”[19]
I managed one question, “What does that mean?”
His mouth tightened, and he looked grim. “A sarcophagus is an Egyptian tomb. We were never able to find the body of the poor engineer who died inside the reactor. Ukraine’s Sarcophagus is being called the most expensive tomb in the world.” He spread his hands out on the table. “The Sarcophagus is built to last thirty years, but of course, the contamination from the plutonium will be here for at least 250,000.” His eyes held much suffering as he said, “But by building this shelter and sending a few engineers to prison, the government can pretend that they’ve fixed the problem.”
He gazed at me as if expecting—and in fact, welcoming—some harder questions.
After a long pause, Uncle Victor smiled at me. “The Soviets are constructing a new city, Slavutich, to house the workers at the station. It’ll be right next to the Dead Zone.”
At the mention of the new village being built for families like ours, I felt my heart leap to my throat.
“Your father is still working for the station?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“I bet he will qualify for an apartment there. I hear that the government plans to make the living spaces unbelievably luxurious.”
Although Uncle Victor sounded as though he thought he was conveying good news, I felt only dread. “How close is the new city to this thing, the Sarcophagus?”
“Forty miles.”
“I don’t want to move near the station again,” I told him.
The smile dropped off his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
I didn’t tell him that I had been upset every single day of my life since we moved away from our cottage.
Uncle Victor looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go. Tell your mother I stopped by.”
“I will.”
He stood, and we hugged. “Katya, take care of yourself.”
I’m not an engineer, I thought. I don’t run the Chernobyl Station. How in the world can I take care of myself?
Chapter Nineteen
A FEW MONTHS LATER, as Victor Kaletnik had warned me, Papa told us that we were moving again. It was the summer before the eighth grade. Although I had begun to doubt the wisdom of Papa’s job at the station, I confess I never turned down a single one of the many gifts paid for by his good wages.
“Put it on, Katya,” Papa said, as he handed me a delicate silver chain.
“It’s beautiful,” I cried and slipped it around my neck.
This night, Aunt Olga and her family had gone to stay with relatives. Mama had spent the day preparing a great meal. As a consequence, Papa was dipping his bread into his yushka, a nutritious soup of whole wheat bread, chicken, veal, ham, egg yolks and celery. He was in a wonderful mood, smiling and talking.
I fingered the silver chain on my neck and wished that I didn’t have to hear what he was saying.
“The apartment will be ready in two or three months.” He took another sip of soup. “It’s brand-new with two bedrooms and central heat. The most modern in all of the Ukraine. Cable is piped in free of charge.” Papa directed his dark eyes on me. “Katya, you’re quiet. I thought you hated living in Kiev.”
Somehow, I had endured two featureless years at Kiev Secondary School # 37. Although I had managed to learn a few things, I had a hard time concentrating. Since I no longer took pride in being a good student, my grades had slipped. My attitude might have been improved by a few good friends, but I had none. I couldn’t understand if it was my own unfriendliness that made me stand apart and feel different, or the suspicion that other students had toward me, the Chernobyl refugee. Still, as little as I liked my situation, ever since my conversation with Uncle Victor, I’d known that Kiev wasn’t the worst place to live.
“At least Kiev is two hours away from the station,” I told him. “I don’t want to move closer.”
“The station’s pay is ten times higher than anywhere else in all of the Ukraine.” Papa’s fist hit the table. “How can you fail to understand the opportunity?”
“The pay is great because of the horrible risks,” Mama said quietly.
Looking at her downcast eyes, I sensed that Mama, too, had her reservations. But she never opposed Papa.
Somehow, I found the strength to break through our habit of silence. I had never told them that I had overheard their long-ago conversation. This night, I had grown tired of never speaking about the things that were most important to me as well as hiding my fears. “Boris died at the station,” I said.
Papa and Mama exchanged quick glances. “We know,” Papa said sadly.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
Mama sighed. “Maybe we were wrong. We were trying to protect you. There’s been too much sadness…” Her voice trailed off.
“Boris was a hero,” Papa said firmly.
“But why?” I asked. For so long, I had been groping with the question—why did Boris have to die so young? My head throbbed with memories of Boris and the fishing trips he used to take me on. How patient he had been when he baited my hook. How many fish would he have caught by now if he were still alive? Hundreds of sparkling trout.
My parents sat there looking uncomfortable. When my father continued, his voice was reasonable.
“Katya,” Papa said. “Many of the families who we know are moving to Slavutich. The other day, I saw Comrade Galkina. Your good friend, Angelika Galkina, is moving, too. You want to see Angelika, don’t you?”
I shook my head miserably.
“I talked to Sergei Rudko’s father and Lyudmila Pikalova’s. Your old class will be united again. Aren’t you excited?” Papa asked.
Do I look excited? I wanted to say. But I knew I had already pushed my luck.
“I will be happy to live together as a family again,” Mama said simply.
“I want to move away to a far-off country,” I said. “Like Victor Kaletnik.”
“Victor Kaletnik?” Papa raised his eyebrows.
I picked up the globe that Mama had been using to plan a geography lesson and spun it.