“Let’s go,” Boris said, and started out the door.
I wondered if happiness could be a kind of balloon, floating to the heavens and carrying me along with it.
Boris and I were heading past the vegetable garden on a shortcut to the lane when the Kaletniks drove up in their old black Volga. The Kaletniks were my parents’ closest friends. Like my parents, they were the children of peasants, who had graduated from high school. But while my Papa went into the army, Uncle Victor attended college. He was now an assistant engineer at Chernobyl Nuclear Power Station.
Victor Kaletnik stuck his head out the window. Unlike Papa, he was already losing his hair.
I waved and called out, “Uncle Victor.”
“I know you just turned eleven, Katya. But even in a country as modern as the Soviet Union, don’t you think you are a little young to have a boyfriend?” he teased me.
Boris and I had reached the red Yava with silver spokes. I blushed as I swung my leg up behind him. Embracing Boris’s waist, I thought how wonderful it would be if Boris were my boyfriend. I liked him much more than Sergei Rudko. While Boris had always been purposeful in his activities and interests, an expert in everything he attempted, Sergei was a dreamy boy who seemed restless with the requirements of school.
“Ready?” Boris called.
“Yes,” I said, but my answer was drowned out by the roar of the motorcycle.
I knew I would never forget the engine’s power surging through my body, or the wind rushing through my hair that night. The ride felt mysterious, as if we were setting out on an adventure. Looking into the sky, the stars reminded me of the boy in the woods; the constellations overhead burned as brightly as his blue eyes.
That boy had known my name! He had known it was my birthday. Did he know my mother’s and father’s names, too? Could he say how many chickens we had? My full heart answered the most important question of alclass="underline" Did I trust him?
On my eleventh birthday, I trusted life. This was the only answer.
Chapter Three
BORIS AND I SPED DOWN OUR LANE past the Ancients and turned onto the highway.
Ahead of us, I spotted the bold concrete sign for Pripyat. Although this modern city was less than a half-mile from our sleepy village, I never ceased to be amazed at the differences between them.
Unlike Yanov, which was basically a collection of a few homes, Pripyat had wide streets, a hospital, tall office buildings and apartments, public statues, manicured flower gardens and many schools, including my own Pripyat Primary School #2.
As we drew closer, I longed to go down Lenin Street. I wanted to pass Angelika Galkina’s apartment and have her look out the window and spot me roaring by on a red Yava. Since both of Angelika’s parents were scientists at the power station, her family lived in the newest apartment complex in town, with an indoor bathroom and an electric oven, not gas. But since Angelika was probably on her way to my party, I wasn’t too disappointed when Boris turned around and headed back.
My hair was windblown, and my skin tingled with excitement when we pulled up in front of my cottage a few minutes later. The Kaletniks’ car was still the only car parked on the lane. This wasn’t surprising as the guests were mostly our neighbors and a few relatives, all of whom were walking. Peering towards town, I searched in vain for Vitaly Galkina’s car.
Angelika Galkina was the prettiest girl in my class, but only the second smartest. We had been best friends since kindergarten, but ever since Sergei had passed me the note, I had been nervous in her company. The truth was that, as much as I wanted to be her friend, I had never been relaxed around her. Like my practical parents, Angelika had no patience with my make-believe world in the forest.
I jumped off and thanked Boris.
“Laskavo prosimo,” he said. “You’re welcome.”
Watching Boris remove a cylinder from the satchel that was strapped to the back of his motorcycle, I stood there mesmerized. As I followed him up to the front door, my eyes stayed fixed on the gift-wrapped object, trying to guess its contents.
Boris opened the door, and the party exploded into greetings:
“Happy Birthday, Katya!”
“S dnem narodzhennya!”
“Here’s our birthday girl!”
My gaze passed over the group, and I spotted the many dear faces of people I had known all my life. As I stepped into the room, my great-aunt and uncle, the Krykos, raised their glasses. They were toasting me with horilka, a strong spicy vodka common in our village.
Uncle Pavel Kryko, a war veteran and our family jokester, had a peg leg and used a walking stick. His red nose had earned him the nickname, ‘Father Frost.’ Aunt Maria Kryko had the biggest breasts that I had ever seen, and her apron always smelled of boiled cabbage.
The next few minutes of hugs, kisses and endearments were a blur, as the happiest times usually are. I do remember that I got my ears pulled so many times that they felt as if they had dropped to my chin. In the Ukraine, it’s our custom to pull a birthday girl’s ears the number of years that she has been alive, and—as if this weren’t enough—one to grow on.
Finally, I wrenched my aching earlobes away from Aunt Maria’s tight grasp. When I turned around, I found myself facing Sasha Boiko, Boris’ younger sister and my babysitter. She had tied her honey-colored hair back in a big green bow. She was handing my mother a jar of the Boikos’ strawberry jam. As strawberry season was months away, I knew my mother would prize this gift.
Aunt Olga Pushko, my mother’s cousin, bumped into me. She wore thick glasses that exaggerated her watery eyes. I didn’t notice if her husband, Uncle Alexander, was standing in a corner somewhere. His wife always overshadowed him. She had a reputation for never staying still and, in fact, she was carrying a tray of food outside to the table and benches set up next to the summer kitchen.
“Katya, could you go see what mischief Yuri is up to?” Aunt Olga pleaded with me over her shoulder.
Aunt Olga’s three little girls were quietly playing dolls on our kitchen floor. Next to them, her son, Yuri, an active six-year-old, was being scolded by my ancient neighbor, Oksana Evtushenko. Yuri was always catching bugs or trying to ride on Noisy’s back. In our family, we referred to him as chertneya, or the little devil—not always kindly. As Granny Vera liked to say, “Boys will be boys.” Or sometimes if a piece of mischief was particularly bad, “The snake was always in the garden.” By the time I reached them, though, Yuri had slipped away. Oksana Evtushenko wanted to complain to me about her new cow. “Katya, she’s the most stubborn animal that I’ve ever known.”
In the entranceway, I noticed Galina Galkina. Standing stiffly and still clutching her large, square purse, she was the only woman in the whole room who was wearing the fitted suit of an office worker, rather than the loose skirts and blouses of Yanov. Angelika Galkina gripped her mother’s hand.
Angelika wore a brown smocked dress that matched her eyes and was so beautiful that, for a moment, I was surprised that she was my best friend. I ran to greet her.
After the guests each accepted a glass of horilka, and the children collected cups of kompot, homemade juice, the party began to move outside. I touched Angelika’s hand. “Do you want to see my room?” I whispered. I hoped that she liked my new furniture as much as I did.
Angelika nodded. Although she usually wore her blonde hair loose on her shoulders, tonight her mother had plaited it into pigtails and tied neat brown ribbons at the ends. With china-doll features and big brown eyes, I thought she was a pretty girl, but Mama disagreed. I had never noticed her small, slightly crooked teeth until Mama, who didn’t like her, pointed out how unattractive they were.