Voices From Chernobyl: The Oral History of a Nuclear Disaster Read Online Free PDF Page A

He's—what? A murderer? A criminal? Who are we burying?” My mom: “Quiet. Quiet, daughter.” She’s petting me on the head. The colonel calls in: “Let’s enter the cemetery. The wife is getting hysterical.” At the cemetery we were surrounded by soldiers. We had a convoy. And they were carrying the coffin. No one was allowed in. It was just us. They covered him with earth in a minute. “Faster! Faster! ” the officer was yelling. They didn't even let me hug the coffin. And—onto the bus. Everything on the sly.
    Right away they bought us plane tickets back home. For the next day. The whole time there was someone with us. He wouldn’t even let us out of the dorm to buy some food for the trip. God forbid we might talk with someone—especially me. As if I could talk by then. I couldn't even cry. When we were leaving, the woman on duty counted all the towels and all the sheets. She folded them right away and placed them in a polyethylene bag. They probably burnt them. We paid for the dormitory ourselves. For fourteen nights. It was a hospital for radiation poisoning. Fourteen nights. That’s how long it takes a person to die.
    At home I fell asleep. I walked into the place and just fell onto the bed. I slept for three days. An ambulance came. “No," said the doctor, “she’ll wake up. It’s just a terrible sleep."
    I was twenty-three.
    I remember the dream I had. My dead grandmother comes to me in the clothes that we buried her in. She's dressing up the New Year's tree. “Grandma, why do we have a New Year’s tree? It's summertime." “Because your Vasenka is going to join me soon." And he grew up in the forest. I remember the dream— Vasya comes in a white robe and calls for Natasha. That's our girl, who I haven't given birth to yet. She's already grown up. He throws her up to the ceiling, and they laugh. And I’m watching them and thinking that happiness—it’s so simple. I'm sleeping. We're walking along the water. Walking and walking. He probably asked me not to cry. Gave me a sign. From up there.
    [She is silent for a long time.]
    Two months later I went to Moscow. From the train station straight to the cemetery. To him! And at the cemetery I start going into labor. Just as I started talking to him—they called the ambulance. It was at the same Angelina Vasilyevna Guskova's that I gave birth. She'd said to me back then: “You need to come here to give birth." It was two weeks before I was due.
    They showed her to me—a girl. “Natashenka," I called out. “Your father named you Natashenka." She looked healthy. Arms, legs. But she had cirrhosis of the liver. Her liver had twenty-eight roentgen. Congenital heart disease. Four hours later they told me she was dead. And again: we won't give her to you. What do you mean you won't give her to me? It's me who won’t give her to you! You want to take her for science. I hate your science! I hate it!
    [She is silent.]
    I keep saying the wrong thing to you. I’m not supposed to yell after my stroke. And I’m not supposed to cry. That's why the words are all wrong. But I'll say this. No one knows this. When they brought me the little wooden box and said, “She's in there," I looked. She'd been cremated. She was ashes. And I started crying. “Put her at his feet," I requested.
    There, at the cemetery, it doesn't say Natasha Ignatenko. There's only his name. She didn't have a name yet, she didn’t have anything. Just a soul. That’s what I buried there. I always go there with two bouquets: one for him, and the other I put in the corner for her. I crawl around the grave on my knees. Always on my knees. [She becomes incomprehensible .] I killed her. I. She. Saved. My little girl saved me, she took the whole radioactive shock into herself, she was like the lightning rod for it. She was so small. She was a little tiny thing. [She has trouble breathing.] She saved . . . But I loved them both. Because—because you can’t kill something with love, right? With