There was a geometric theorem that could be used to show that the cases were the same, and therefore the hope Vassili had drawn from the doctor's words was without basis in reality.
Vassili Smin untangled himself from the table and got up. There were too many worries. Even a sixteen-year-old couldn't sleep with his brother in prison and his father dying a few meters away. He peered into his father's room. The engineer Sheranchuk was snoring lustily, one hand thrown over his face. Behind the screens Vassili could see his father, also asleep. The boy thought of quietly taking a chair there, next to his father's bed. He rejected the thought — because he might wake his father; more than that, he was beginning to feel stifled in the hospital atmosphere. It was not merely that people were sick— well, what were hospitals for but to hold sick people? It was not even that his father was among them. What was hard to bear was how young these dying people were — boys, some of them; younger than his brother, but bald and bright-eyed, almost like babies. They didn't even have eyebrows anymore!
He slipped down the stairs, nodded to the sleepy guard at the door and stepped out into the mild spring night. Why, cars were driving along the streets! There were even people standing at the corner, shouting to try to stop a taxicab, just as though the price for the Chernobyl disaster were not being paid by so many, so horribly, only a building-wall away! Yet it was almost comforting to be on a street with people who were not involved in the tragedy; Vassili could almost feel himself free and safe among them. He walked easily down the block, toward the old church with its white and gold towers, turned left, kept going around the corners. It was a good long walk. It should have tired him out. It didn't. The sudden wave of weariness didn't hit him until he was back at the entrance, climbing the stairs again to his father's floor.
When Vassili peered into his father's room, Smin's eyes were open. He put a finger to his lips and beckoned Vassili inside.
When Aftasia Smin came to the dining room, angry and triumphant, pushing the limping and sullen Senior Lieutenant Nikolai Smin before her, she woke everyone up. Vassili rubbed his eyes, staring at his brother, as Aftasia demanded: "Your father, how is he? Why won't they let us in his room?"
The two wives of patients sitting side by side at one table whispered to each other, and the sister of the fireman with the Lithuanian name looked up at the man in the Air Force uniform with some interest. Vassili said, "They sent me away too, Grandmother. They said he must sleep."
Aftasia lowered her voice. "Then we will stay until he wakes so that he can see that this criminal son of his has been spared the penalty for his crimes."
She glanced around the room with eyes that told the other women to mind their business as the lieutenant sat himself carefully down next to his brother, wincing at the hard wood of the chair.
"But what happened?" Vassili asked plaintively.
His grandmother's expression was grim. "I got him out," she said. She didn't detail what old Party comrades she had called, or what luck it was that the prosecutor was the son of someone who had served under her dead husband. She only said, "At least they did not find any of his disgusting filth, which he says he did not have."
Nikolai said stubbornly, "My ass hurt where they studc that sewer pipe into me. I merely took some pain relievers."
"Ah, yes," Aftasia nodded, "so you told the organs, and of course they laughed in your face. Dr. Akhsmentova is so foolish that she mistook aspirin for hashish — not to mention that the blood test was taken before you donated bone marrow." Nikolai shrugged. "At any rate," she went on, "if you will be intelligent enough to go to the place where you have hidden that stuff which you do not have, and throw it down a sewer before you are caught with it, then perhaps all of this will be forgotten. Otherwise, it will not be the flimsy evidence of a blood test that they arrest you on."
Nikolai ignored her and turned to his brother. "And our father, is he any better?"
Vassili hesitated, then said unwillingly, "A little worse, I think. They've put plastic drapes all around him now, and it is hard even to see him. We talked for a while, though."
"About what?" Aftasia Smin demanded.
Vassili puffed out his cheeks for a second, then made a clean breast of it. "We talked about political things, Grandmother. I–I'm afraid he got quite excited, and it wasn't good for him. And it was all my fault."
"Little idiot!" his brother scolded.
Vassili hung his head. "I know I was wrong," he apologized. "You are right. I was an idiot for troubling him when he was so sick, but at least—" He swallowed the rest of the sentence. It would have ended, but at least I did not get arrested for smuggling dope, and he didn't want to say that. "At least," he said instead, "he went to sleep then for a while. I saw him again later." "And?"
"And he asked me to do something for him, but at first I could not understand what it was he wanted. It was to mail a letter."
"A letter?" his grandmother demanded. "What kind of a letter?"
"How should I know? It was quite thick. And it was addressed to himself, at your house, Grandmother. And then when I came back—" He hesitated. "Well, he talked quite a lot, but I think he was delirious. He looked at me, but he addressed me as 'Comrade Central Committee member.' "
Aftasia Smin frowned and looked around. When she spoke her voice was much lower. "Oh? And what did your father have to say to a member of the Central Committee?"
Vassili was near to tears. "He was saying really strange things, Grandmother. I couldn't really understand him. But he was telling me — or telling this member of the Central Committee that he thought I was — that he approved the suggestion of free elections to the Supreme Soviet. He said he agreed it would be excellent to have more than one candidate for each office, even perhaps running under the designation of another political party or two!"
"Ah," said Aftasia sadly, "I see. You are right, then. He was quite delirious."
Chapter 32
Wednesday, May 14
It is eighteen days after the explosion at the Chernobyl power plant. Every television set in the Soviet Union is turned on for an important address, and Mikhail Gorbachev appears on the screen. His face is grave but his bearing assured. He begins to speak.
"Good evening, comrades," he said. "As you all know, a misfortune has befallen us — the accident at the Chernobyl nuclear power plant. It has painfully affected Soviet people and caused anxiety in the international public. For the first time ever we have had to deal in reality with a force as sinister as nuclear energy that has escaped control.
"So what did happen?
"As specialists report, the reactor's capacity suddenly increased during a scheduled shutdown of the fourth unit. The considerable emission of steam and subsequent reaction resulted in the formation of hydrogen, its explosion, damage to the reactor, and the resulting radioactive discharge.
"It is still too early to pass final judgment on the causes of the accident. All aspects of the problem — design, construction, operational, and technical — are under the close scrutiny of the Government Commission.
"It goes without saying that when the investigation of the accident is completed, all the necessary conclusions will be drawn and measures will be taken to rule out a repetition of anything of this sort."
Thirty kilometers from the reactor, Private Konov was bent over his meal, but his eyes were fixed on the little television screen. He hardly knew what he was eating. A pity; it was a chicken, bought from a local farmer, and pronounced fit by the technicians after they had run their detectors over its feathers and even up into its opened belly. "He sounds like we'll be here a long time," the soldier beside him grumbled.
"We'll be here until the job is done, Miklas," Konov snapped. "Please be still! I want to hear this." And Gorbachev's voice went on.
"The seriousness of the situation was obvious. It was necessary to evaluate it urgently and competently. And as soon as we received reliable initial information, it was made available to the Soviet people and sent through di
plomatic channels to the governments of foreign countries.
"In the situation that had taken shape, we considered it our top priority duty, a duty of special importance, to insure the safety of the population and provide effective assistance to those who had been affected by the accident.
"The inhabitants of the settlement near the station were evacuated within a matter of hours and then, when it had become clear that there was a potential threat to the health of people in the adjoining zone, they also were moved to safe areas.
"Nevertheless, the measures that were taken failed to protect many people. Two of them died at the time of the accident — an adjuster of automatic systems and an operator at the nuclear power plant.
"As of today two hundred and ninety-nine people have been hospitalized, diagnosed as having radiation disease of varying degrees of gravity. Seven of them have died. Every possible treatment is being given to the rest."
In their flat in Kiev, the Didchuks and the old parents were clustered around their set. "He has not mentioned the children who were evacuated," Mrs. Didchuk fretted.
"But none of those are suffering from radiation disease," her husband said soothingly. "After all, you spoke to our daughter on the telephone just yesterday."
"I do not want to speak to her on the telephone! I want to hold her in my arms!"
"Soon, my dear. And now, look! Comrade Gorbachev is angry!"
He was at least scowling as he said harshly, "I cannot fail to mention one more aspect of that affair. I mean the reaction abroad to what happened at Chernobyl." He paused for a moment. His expression softened as he went on. "In the world on the whole, and this should be emphasized, the misfortune that befell us and our actions in that complicated situation were treated with understanding.
"We are profoundly grateful to our friends in socialist countries who have shown solidarity with the Soviet people at a difficult moment. We are grateful to the political and public figures in other states for their sincere sympathy and support.
"We express our kind feelings to those foreign scientists and specialists who showed their readiness to assist us in overcoming the consequences of the accident. I would like to note the participation of American medics Robert Gale and Paul Terasaki in the treatment of affected persons and to express gratitude to the business circles of those countries which promptly reacted to our request for the purchase of certain types of equipment, materials, and medicines.
"But—" and now he was scowling—"it is impossible to ignore and not to assess politically the way the event at Chernobyl was met by the governments, political figures, and the mass media in certain NATO countries, especially the U.S.A.
"They launched an unrestrained anti-Soviet campaign.
"It is difficult to imagine what was said and written these days—'thousands of casualties,' 'mass graves of the dead,' 'desolate Kiev,' that 'the entire land of the Ukraine has been poisoned.' And so on and so forth.
"Generally speaking, we faced a veritable mountain of lies — most brazen and malicious lies. It is unpleasant to recall all this, but it should be done. The international public should know what we had to face. This should be done to find the answer to the question: What, in actual fact, was behind that highly immoral campaign?
"Its organizers, to be sure, were not interested in either true information about the accident or the fate of the people at Chernobyl, in the Ukraine, in Byelorussia, in any other place, in any other country.
"They were looking for a pretext to exploit in order to try to defame the Soviet Union and its foreign policy, to lessen the impact of Soviet proposals on the termination of nuclear tests and on the elimination of nuclear weapons, and, at the same time, to dampen the growing criticism of U.S. conduct on the international scene and of its militaristic course.
"Bluntly speaking, certain Western politicians were after very definite aims — to blast the possibilities for balancing international relations, to sow new seeds of distrust and suspicion toward the socialist countries…."
In Warner Borden's flat he rose to refill Emmaline's glass, but she put her hand over it. "No more, please," she said. "I've got to get back to my own place, but thanks for letting me watch your TV."
"Don't thank me," he smiled, holding the wine bottle ready in case she changed her mind. "Thank old Gorbachev. He's sure putting on a show."
Emmaline hesitated. "Actually, I think he's got a point—"
"About what? About what the papers said in America? Well, hell, honey, if the Russians had just come out with some real facts, all that speculation wouldn't have happened."
"I suppose so," Emmaline said thoughtfully. "Anyway, he did mention the American doctors."
"Sure. One line. And now — listen, he's getting started on disarmament. You don't want to miss this — and, look, there's just another drop in the bottle; we might as well finish it off."
"The accident at Chernobyl," Gorbachev was saying, "showed again what an abyss will open if nuclear war befalls mankind. For inherent in the stockpiled nuclear arsenals are thousands upon thousands of disasters far more horrible than the Chernobyl one…
"The nuclear age forcefully demands a new approach to international relations, the pooling of efforts of states with different social systems for the sake of putting an end to the disastrous arms race, and of a radical improvement of the world political climate…"
But in Simyon Smin's room at Moscow's Hospital No. 6, no one heard the last words of the whispered voice from the television set, though Vassili Smin was gazing at it, his eyes brimming with tears. His brother Nikolai was leaning against the window with his forehead pressed against the glass, his eyes closed. His mother was looking into space with an expression that was neither angry nor sad; it was the baffled look of a woman who would not have believed things could have gone so badly for her.
On the other side of the room his grandmother was closing his father's eyes. The plastic drapes had been pushed back. The blood-exchange machine sat silent, its lights dark. Simyon Smin looked as though he were sleeping, his mouth open, the broad, friendly face a mask.
"What did he say before, that nine persons were already dead from Chernobyl?" Aftasia asked. "Now it is ten."
Chapter 33
Friday, May 16
In the town of Mtino, not far from Moscow, there is a quiet cemetery. Two hundred yards from its gate a special plot has been set aside. It has only a few graves in it now, though there is space for a good many more. It is called the "Heroes' Plot." All the people buried there have one thing in common. They died in the same place — Hospital No. 6—and they came from the same place — the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Station.
There weren't many mourners at the funeral of Simyon Mikhailovitch Smin; altogether there were ten. His two sons, his wife, his mother. Two doctors from Hospital No. 6. His faithful "Comrade Plumber." The Second Secretary of the Communist Party of Pripyat, glad to take a day off from the other reasons he was in Moscow to pronounce the obsequies for Smin. And two others. It was the two others who astonished the doctors and probably the Second Secretary as well, because they arrived in a Zil and a whisper went around the group with their names: Comrades F. V. Mishko and A. P. Milaktiev. Members of the Central Committee. Only old Aftasia Smin had the temerity to walk up to them and greet them by name, though after that they spoke or at least nodded to everyone else, affably enough.
Said Aftasia to the older of the two, "Thank you for coming, Fedor Vassilievitch."
"Ah, but why not?" protested the minister. "Your son was a good man. He died a hero. There is no doubt in my mind that when the investigative commission finishes its work he will be found to have performed in an exemplary way. Also," he added, "there are not so many Old Bolsheviks left that I would not pay honor when a member of one's family dies."
Aftasia disregarded that. "Are you so sure about the results of the commission?" she demanded.
Milaktiev answered for him. "No one can predict the findings until all the evidence is in. Human erro
r is always possible. But I myself have seen most of the depositions. Your son cut corners, Aftasia Israelovna, but always for the good of his plant, never for private gain."
"I agree," Mishko added, nodding. "And you see for yourself: he is being given an honorable funeral."
"But a small one," said Aftasia shrewdly. Then she relented. "It was good of you both to come, in any case. Let me introduce you to his widow and his sons."
Milaktiev cleared his throat, glancing around. They were out of earshot of the others, but he seemed hesitant to speak. "Aftasia Israelovna, may I say that you look extremely well? And yet we have heard so very little of you for many years. One had assumed you must be quite ill, or retired to a home for the aged—"
"Or dead? Yes, it's true. I have lived very quietly for a long time. Why not? I'm an old woman; I have nothing to say."
"I disagree," said Mishko. "I think you have much to tell us all, and this is a time when Old Bolsheviks in particular should be heard."
Aftasia looked up at him appraisingly. Mishko was not a tall man, but he towered over her. "Why this time in particular?"
"It is a time of great change. You know that. I see that your mind is clear, isn't it?"
She said, "There have been a lot of clear thoughts in my mind over the years. I was not the only one to think clearly. A great many of my old comrades had clear thoughts, and spoke them out loud. Most of them have been dead for fifty years now for that reason."
"You are speaking of the excesses of the Stalin years," Mishko said, nodding. "This is a different time."
"Oh? Is Lefortovo empty now? Well," she said, relenting, "yes, the time is different, but old habits are hard to lose. I had a son to raise, Fedor Vassilievitch. He didn't have a father and I couldn't afford to let him lose a mother as well. I kept my mouth shut. I had no desire to sit in a camp for thirty years while Simyon had no one to care for him. I learned to be still."
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