Authors: Michael Beres
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Ukraine, #Chernobyl Nuclear Accident; Chornobyl; Ukraine; 1986, #Chernobyl Nuclear Accident; Chornobylʹ; Ukraine; 1986
“We’ll have a picnic,” said Lazlo, driving again.
“I can smell the sausage from here,” said Juli from the back seat.
“I’ll find a place where the car will be hidden from the road.”
“What kind of car is this?”
“A Skoda. It’s a Czech piece of shit. We’ll see more of them as we head west.”
“From back here it sounds like a dog growling.”
“The muffler’s right below you. I think it has a hole in it. That’s why I’m keeping the windows open.”
“How much longer do I have to stay back here?”
“Not long. We’re almost out of town.”
“Do you see our picnic grove yet?”
“No. But don’t talk now. There’s a militia car behind us.”
In his mirror Lazlo saw only one man in the green and white Moskvich. He was certain it was a local militiaman because republic militiamen normally traveled in pairs. The Moskvich followed closely, the driver obviously trying to read the license plate. Although the registration was expired, Lazlo had smeared mud on that portion of the plate. But if the car was stolen, or if the man who sold it to him had reported it stolen instead of sold …
Railroad tracks ahead and a station to the left. Lazlo turned in, but the Moskvich followed. He parked near the station’s passenger ramp, pretended to yawn so the militiaman would not see his mouth moving.
“Juli. Stay where you are and don’t move. We’re at a train station. I’ll go in and pretend I’m waiting for someone.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. Until I get rid of this fellow.”
Lazlo rolled up the windows, got out of the car, and locked it.
Then he walked up the passenger ramp, trying to look as casual as possible. He found out the next train wasn’t due for a half hour.
Outside the station, he saw the militiaman had gotten out of his Moskvich. The militiaman walked up to the Skoda and bent to look inside.
Don’t move, Juli. Please don’t move.
After looking inside the Skoda, the militiaman went to the back of the car, bent down to wipe at the license plate with his finger, stood and glanced to the station, then walked slowly back to his Moskvich. He did not drive away, but waited.
The stationmaster had a side business selling wine and bottled water. Lazlo bought two bottles of water and a bottle of wine and carried these back to the Skoda.
“I’m back,” he whispered, pretending to examine the wine bottle label.
“Is the militia car still there?”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do?”
“We’ll wait a while. His car is too fast to outrun in this piece of shit, and I don’t want to pick a fight with anybody unless it’s necessary.”
“Why don’t we keep driving?”
“He’ll stop us before we get out of town.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s watching us. I don’t think he’s used his radio. It’s a dull morning, and he has nothing better to do. An expired license plate is one thing, but being covered with mud … He’ll stop us unless he gets another call.”
“And if he simply sits there?”
“A train is due in half an hour. It’s coming from Kiev so the engine and the lead cars will have to stop across the road. We’ll get over the crossing before he does.”
“Sounds dangerous,” said Juli.
But what else could they do? If they tried to outrun the Moskvich, more militiamen would follow. The station was on the south end of town. If they could get out of town, perhaps embarrassing the militiaman in the Moskvich …
Lazlo handed the bottles of water and the wine bottle between the seats and had Juli secure them in back so they wouldn’t roll around. After waiting in silence for twenty-five minutes, Lazlo heard the distant whistle. He reached out and started the car.
Juli whispered from the back seat. “I’m frightened, Laz.”
“So am I. But listen. I’ll turn right when we leave the station, away from the tracks. If he follows, I’ll make a U-turn and go back before the train crosses the road. It won’t be going fast, but we will.
You might get bounced around.”
When he saw the train appear from behind a warehouse building along the track, Lazlo estimated its speed and its rate of decelera-tion. He counted to twenty. He put the Skoda in gear and began moving forward, counting again.
One … two … three …
The Moskvich closed in behind him.
Four … five … six …
He turned right, back toward downtown Berdichev, and the Moskvich followed.
Seven … eight … nine …
In the rearview mirror, the locomotive appeared above the station-house roof.
Ten … eleven … twelve …
Five or six seconds to get back to the tracks once he turned.
Thirteen … fourteen …
Now!
He cranked the wheel left and pressed the accelerator to the floor. The Skoda spun about, its tires squealing, its engine sputtering and missing, but finally roaring like a snarling dog. He didn’t bother shifting out of second gear and kept the accelerator pressed to the floor. In the mirror, the Moskvich was still turning around.
Ahead, the train engine was beginning to cross the road, faster than he had estimated. Too fast! He wouldn’t make it past the gate! Instead he aimed for the gate on the right, a hole to freedom ahead of the massive train engine, which now blasted its whistle.
“We’ll make it, Juli!” he shouted.
The gate smashed into pieces and flew over the Skoda. The front of the locomotive to the left was a moving wall. When the Skoda flew over the tracks, Lazlo felt a slight sideways jump of the Skoda’s tail like the skittering of a cat.
Behind him the Moskvich flashed its lights. But the flashing disappeared as the locomotive and the first few cars of the train filled the rearview mirror.
He couldn’t believe it. They had escaped!
In the side mirror he saw a dent in the rear fender of the Skoda where the locomotive had touched them. A gentle touch for a locomotive, a good-luck kiss.
Lazlo could see the mountains ahead as he shifted the Skoda into high gear and pushed the accelerator to the floor. “You can come out now!” he shouted to Juli in the back seat.
By midday two Volgas sped up to the Kopelovo collective office. Five men got out, three of them spreading out and questioning farmers who had gathered. Another man stayed by the cars and watched the road through the village. The fifth man was Major Grigor Komarov, who went directly to the office of the collective chairman and was told the location of the Zimyanins’ tent. When he left the office, Komarov summoned two of his men.
“What do others say about the Zimyanins?” asked Komarov.
“A man and woman claiming to be from the Opachichi collective near Pripyat,” said one of the men. “The description matches Horvath and Popovics.”
“A woman over there says they took the morning bus going to a collective farther south,” said the other man. “She saw Mrs. Zimyanin leave with a small suitcase.” The man pointed to the smoky yards behind the houses. “Their tent is the third one in over there.”
Komarov sent the men ahead, ducking below a clothesline as he followed. The men drew pistols, and the sight of them entering the tent made Komarov laugh. The flare of the tent reminded him of the massive skirts worn by a Wagnerian Valkyries he’d seen at the opera. His wet-behind-the-ears men entering the tent bent over with pistols drawn were like adolescent boys sneaking a look beneath a woman’s skirt. A toothless old man peeked out from another tent nearby. The old man grinned, his gums glistening pink in the morning sun. The entire scene, with campfires, tents, run-down houses, and peasants wandering about, was an opera.
Komarov laughed with the toothless old man until his own men came from the tent. Their pistols were put away, and one man shrugged his shoulders as the other spoke.
“They’re gone.”
“Of course, they’re gone,” said Komarov. “I expected them to be gone. But at least now we have a trail.”
Komarov sent his men to the collective chairman’s office, where there were two telephones his men were to use immediately. He ordered the bus heading south be searched by regional KGB personnel when it reached its destination and the passengers be thoroughly questioned. He ordered all militia offices within one hundred kilometers be contacted and given descriptions of Horvath and Popovics. He ordered the refugees and residents of the collective be informed they must tell all they know about the Zimyanins and their whereabouts or face penalties of noncooperation. Finally he ordered more men be sent from Kiev.
While his men used the phones at the collective office, Komarov went to the Zimyanin tent and went inside. An army blanket was spread on the floor of the tent. He kicked the blanket into a corner and found a slit cut into the floor. He reached through the slit and found the hard soil loosened. He poked around in the loosened soil. Nothing was there now, but it had recently been used as a hiding place.
After he searched the floor of the tent and found nothing, Komarov flipped the blanket over to see if anything had clung to it. The smell of damp wool was annoying, like sniffing beneath someone’s clothing. He carefully spread the blanket across the floor, lit a cigarette, and sat down. When he examined the blanket more closely, he noticed bits of white thread clinging to the wool. There were long pieces and short pieces, thousands of them, as if a white garment had been reduced to its elements. One piece of thread was attached to a small square of white cloth. He also found several strands of long hair, and holding them up to the light coming through the tent ceiling, guessed they were brown.
If he expected to catch Horvath, he should begin thinking like him. Horvath the fugitive, escaping at Visenka and going back to Kiev, staying at the Hotel Dnieper within blocks of KGB and militia headquarters. Horvath the refugee, remaining for days in one place, living in a tent instead of running. Horvath doing the opposite of what one would expect.
Outside the tent, Komarov could hear children running about, pots banging together. He had been in the tent long enough for life in the camp to return to normal. Family life. He blew cigarette smoke at the ceiling of the tent, imagined he was Detective Horvath with Juli Popovics by his side. If he were Detective Horvath, he would find somewhere to leave Juli Popovics and go to the only place he could go under the circumstances. Komarov threw his lit cigarette out through the narrow opening at the tent flap. Outside, a man began complaining loudly about his precious roll of toilet paper being stolen.
Komarov stood and left the tent. He walked quickly to the collective chairman’s office, waited for one of his men to finish a phone call, then called Captain Azef and ordered that extra men—no matter how green they were—be sent immediately to the Horvath family farm on the Ulyanov collective in the village of Kisbor near the Czechoslovakian frontier.
At a collective farm three hundred kilometers southwest of Kiev, an evening meeting was held in the living room of the chairman. The collective was small and far enough from Chernobyl so no Chernobylites had yet been sent there. The meeting had been called to tell collective committee members that the Agriculture Ministry had designated seven families be permanently relocated there.
The committee argued about where the people would stay and who would build them houses. They argued about what jobs the new members would perform and whether one of them should be allowed on the committee. They argued about the small size of their school. One man on the committee wondered if the new members could bring radiation with them. A woman on the committee spoke against this, saying whatever harmful radiation the people received was locked in their bodies and would affect only them.
“The Chernobylites might have it in their clothing,” said the man.
“These people are checked by technicians,” said the woman. “If their clothes are radioactive, they get new ones. And quit calling them Chernobylites.”
The man waved his hand at the woman. “If technicians told you the reactor never really blew up, I suppose you’d believe them.”
“You’re talking nonsense,” said the woman.
“Ha! We might not be safe from radiation even here.”
“How can you say that? Kiev is much closer. Kievians aren’t dying.”
“Not dying,” said the man. “But they sent all their children to the Black Sea. I spoke with my cousin in Kiev. He said they have special milk only for children, and Kiev is building an aqueduct to bring fresh water into the city. One cannot escape radiation. In a year or two, we’ll all be dying of cancer.”
It was the woman’s turn to wave her hand at the man. “You’re a fool. How can you say such a thing? We have no radiation here!
And you’re a fool for talking about such things to your cousin in Kiev on the telephone!”
The man paused a moment and smiled to everyone on the committee before speaking. “If I’m such a fool, why did I see technicians at the pond today?”
“What pond?”
The man continued to smile. “We have only one pond on the farm, the very same pond where your favorite pigs are taken to drink.”
The woman pretended to spit. “I have no favorite pigs, not even you!”
The chairman stood and asked for order. He told the man to tell about the technicians at the pond and to refrain from sarcasm.
“Very well,” said the man. “I was on my way past the pond with a can of oil for our tractor, which burns more oil than gas, when I saw a car parked and a man and woman picnicking on a blanket.
They looked like doctors, both wearing white coats. I said hello and thought I might get some advice about my arthritis. They said they weren’t doctors but technicians checking for radiation. I asked if they found any. They said no.”