I picked up a stone, a branch, snow, everything I could get my hands on to throw it on the machine. Nothing to do. The drone was dodging peacefully and waiting for my next agitation.
The aircraft was sensitive to movement. I tried to run and then hide behind a tree trunk. The device circled concentrically in the sky, gradually lowering its altitude. It seemed furious that he had lost track of me and was trying in every way to find me. I felt that its pilot was angry. Relieved, I tried not to move, keeping my position, like a soldier ambushed behind enemy lines. I closed my eyes to calm myself. My comfort was short-lived. The slight buzzing of the aircraft was approaching me again. The drone could be sophisticated enough to detect thermal variations and therefore the heat emitted by my body in this icy environment. To avoid this risk, I decided to roll in the snow, covering my skin with powder to my ears in order to build a makeshift camouflage. These efforts were useless. The drone found me in a few minutes and stood over me again. He seemed to be measuring me, his little rotors were twirling around in an evil choreography. I run away from it all the more, throwing all my strength into this new escape. I was slaloming through the woods. My only chance to free myself from its pursuit was to take refuge in the deep forest, where the trees are too close together and the foliage dense enough.
The aircraft could not keep track of me unless it flew at a very low altitude, which made flying extremely difficult because of the increasingly thick bushes and possible snowfall that could damage the drone.
I was at the top of a small hill that gave me a pretty good view of the surroundings. With a breath of fresh air, I descended a little further down the slope. A half-frozen stream flowed down below. The river was crossed by a slight current that prevented it from freezing completely. I jumped off the small stone bridge over it and found myself in the cold, sticky water. I was now less exposed.
The stream was somewhat masked by threatening ferns that I considered my allies. I ignored the antlers that whipped my face and kept moving forward. My legs were submerged and I had to fight against the mud and all kinds of plants that slowed my progress. The temperatures were polar, but the adrenaline made me immune to the bitter cold. I finally stopped a few metres further on, where the river was narrowing.
Squatting down as much as possible, I waited for long minutes while holding my breath. I listened carefully to distinguish the so discreet noise from my pursuer. Nothing, nothingness.
The silence was insolent. Only the creek’s friselis was perceptible. I had won. The drone had lost track of me and probably turned back.
I’d stay there for a few minutes shivering. I wasn’t even thinking about measuring the radiation level anymore. Perhaps these waters were dangerous? Perhaps these furs were full of rare diseases and bacteria little understood by science? I didn’t care about that. I had reached that sensitive point where my fears had been prioritised in such a way that the Zone and its dangers were not more than a trivial concern, a distraction at most. The real danger was the people living in this territory, those who were chasing me, but whose nature I didn’t know.
I remembered that corpse, that woman they had tried to obliterate. Maybe she had children. Instinctively, I was thinking of my own mother. Was she missing me?
I realised I had never discussed the disaster with her before. Our common life had been punctuated by unspoken words and a false painless detachment. After my father’s death, the subject was no longer discussed. She would never know that I had been to Pripyat. She had always wanted to forget that life. Will I see her again? She didn’t seem to be willing to do so. After all, it wasn’t important. She had almost deserted my memory. I had removed her from my existence. Recent events had followed one another and now represented a disorganised whole. My memories were imperfect, they crackled and intertwined in a devious dance. I struggled to achieve coherence. I was missing something, an imminent fear was poisoning me.
My phone rang suddenly. Andrei had sent me a message:
“I have terrible news: Amanda is dead! Run out of the Zone, escape from here!”
I was taped to my screen. I reread the short text over and over again. I wanted to keep it in my memory for a long time, and certainly not to forget it. The headaches were coming back, I closed my eyes.
Chapter 8 — Ephemeral
11th day in the Zone.
The place looked familiar to me. It was obvious, I had been around these places as a child. It was a theatre. I could have sworn it. My memory amazed me. I could easily visualise the appearance of the room and the shape of the seats; however, I had no idea what I had done the day before. Where had I slept? Who had I met? I was unable to remember my last meal. My memories seemed to drown in a misty ocean. My brain refused to make this effort. It was not laziness, but rather a kind of natural veto as if I was biologically programmed not to remember certain events. It doesn’t matter. The present moment was otherwise precious. The pungent smell of abandonment that filled my nostrils. The stale, dusty air rushing into my lungs. The precarious ground, whose wobbly parquet floor threatened to tear and rush me to the lower floor. These very real sensations occupied my mind and guided me in my quest for exploration. I wanted to deepen my research, to reach beyond.
I left the building. An illegible sign pointed northeast, where many clouds were fighting over the sky. It was appealing. I had to cross a river to get there. The built bridge had never been renovated and most of it had collapsed. So I would have to cross the ice.
The frost was significant, I had no doubt about the solidity of the passage. I made a commitment without hesitation. Nevertheless, the accumulated fatigue deprived me of my usual precautions. I had a heavy and not very agile step. My mind was numb, apathetic. The slight cracks on the floor should have caught my attention. The abnormal sounds of the ice cracking should have frightened me. I didn’t pay attention to these omens and set out to move forward. My eyes were fixed on the other side, my only objective.
When I reached two thirds, I took a short break, just to catch my breath. Calm my breathing, relax my muscles. I needed a handful of seconds at most. The resumption of my effort was imminent. Suddenly, the ice gave way. Without a summons, I was precipitated in water at -3 °C. The river was moderately deep, but the temperature was paralysing me. I was unable to swim and was slowly sinking. My numb limbs were immutable while the ice water burned my face. In a flash of lucidity, I disengaged my arms from the straps of my backpack. I also managed to get rid of my jacket that restricted my movements. So I had no choice but to let my things flow into the dark depths. Released, I tried to wiggle my body, to move my legs and arms in order to get back up. I resurfaced with shortness of breath and imploring lungs.
My underwater agitation had caused the ice blocks around me to sway. It was easier for me to swim to shore now. In a final effort, I reached the shore, clinging to branches to pull myself out of the water.
I was shaking from the cold, hungry and lost. My Geiger counter was condemned, I no longer had any landmarks and could no longer ensure my safety. I now had to progress blindly, without any information about the amounts of radiation to which I was exposed. The trembling of the cold slowly turned into a shiver of terror. The situation was slipping through my fingers once again. By squinting my eyes, I managed to see something in the sky. A chimney spat out a black cloud: human life was there. Exhausted, I fell to my knees in the snow. The blizzard kept me from screaming, from asking for help. My senses were getting weaker. I finally lost consciousness. I felt myself floating in a nebulous dream, where the flakes fell as I slashed my skin and clothes. The trees swung as they crossed, they seemed to be plotting against me. Enigmatic sounds came to me, but I was unable to interpret them. Was I crazy? Was I dead? Was the Great Journey beginning? How could I be able to think?
I felt my face being sprayed with boiling water. I finally regained consciousness. When I opened my eyes, I was inside a small wooden house, with only two rooms and almost no furniture. A Babushka was facing me,
hands on her hips, a scarf on her head. She looked both reassured and mocking. Without any warning, she literally slapped me to disengage me and brought me a dirty glass filled with a dubious liquid: “Drink this, poor man!”
Thirsty and confused, I did so without protest. The unidentified liquid spread down my throat and then into my esophagus, burning everything in its path. “Take another one, it can’t hurt you!”
I complied again. The drink was unknown, but effective. The alcohol was spreading through my body, creating a comforting, though a little too intense, warmth in me.
I noticed that my bag was carefully placed against the wall. I thought I had lost him in the water… Was I lucid?
The Babushka was watching me, her forehead wrinkled. Her features were extremely drawn and her face looked rough, but she smiled. She seemed delighted to have a host. As soon as she saw me shaking my eyelids, she started making herbal teas and many slices of bacon. My imperfect Ukrainian and his very heavy accent made communication difficult. However, I hung on, eager to know more. The Babushka was called Yaroslava. She told me about her life, detailing the daily life in the Soviet Union, the Chernobyl accident, her late husband, the subsistence there and the vegetable garden. The events of 1986 were still intact in her weakened memory. She told me about the forced evacuation and her stubborn refusal to obey it. Like her, about 1200 people had chosen to return, sneaking through the barbed wire in defiance of government bans. The alternative housing granted was not worth their wooden houses, their plots of land, their homes.
“A lot of people thought we were crazy. The people of Kiev couldn’t understand why we wanted to stay. Some considered us only as inhabitants of Chernobyl, more as full-fledged Ukrainians. My grandchildren are almost forced to hide their origins or they are overwhelmed with questions and comments of all kinds. But I don’t regret anything in the world for coming back. This is my home,” she said proudly.
The Babushkas were in their forties at the time of the disaster. They had chosen to defy rationality by returning to live in the most toxic place on earth; a space where soil, air and water would be contaminated for tens of thousands of years. A space that had seen them born, grow and age. This territory that they cherished so much would be their last resting place. Radiation frightened them less than famine, with the Holodomor and the Second World War still haunting the collective memory.
The Babushkas ensured their survival by growing vegetables and picking mushrooms. Some even hunted. Others, like my benefactor, handled the axe perfectly, despite her 83 years of age. The power of the household, the refusal to abandon their homes and the attachment to their native lands kept them alive.
She showed me a clipping from a 1997 press article. Yaroslava and her husband proudly appeared in the photo accompanying the text, smiling and with a wheelbarrow on their arms. “In the 1990s, many photographers and journalists came to visit us. My husband was still alive at that time, he could help me with the garden,” she explained.
The Babushkas came from these villages, they knew the Zone better than anyone else, they had been there since their birth. Most of them lived in Kupovatoe, a small and quite large hamlet in the Zone. Today, they are only a handful, benefiting from humanitarian aid, and sometimes receiving visits from soldiers or even tourists. Faced with their visceral obstinacy, the Ukrainian government had abandoned the idea of dislodging them and was now content to provide them with occasional medical assistance so that they could end their lives with dignity.
“The Zone had regained a very ordinary pace of life. We sowed the fields and ploughed with the same vigour as before. Some of us felt invigorated by overcoming the evacuations. After all, we had taken our destiny into our own hands. We had stayed. We were stronger than the others. We were not afraid of the setbacks of science. Radioactivity or not, we would never abandon our land. Autumns passed, winters extended and we savoured our decision. We were aware that we were individuals apart, forgotten. Politicians don’t care about us, they have a lot of other worries anyway.”
She did not seem to ignore the revolutionary events of 2014. She told me about her family, her cousin who left for the Soviet Navy at the age of 18. He had been stationed in Sevastopol in the Crimea, but had died long before the annexation. His children now lived not far from Odessa.
“They have a very different daily life from ours. Here, we fight every day for our survival. But I’m not complaining. I chose to come back, that’s where I belong. Sometimes I think about what my life would have been like if I had run away. Life in Ukraine today is really difficult, but it was much worse 50 years ago.”
The Holodomor and the war had decimated the population. The trauma was still present and inspired many popular songs. Her grandchildren did not know the Soviet Union. This troubled period had dissolved before they were born. The fall of the USSR had raised hopes for a profound change in Ukrainian society and an improvement in living conditions. She explained to me that little had really changed, at least to the extent of the expectations that had been raised: “People are still poor, corruption is omnipresent and great Russia is watching fiercely!”
When asked if she had already left the Zone, Yaroslava laughed and coughed: “What for? There’s nothing for me outside. And then, who would feed the dogs, who would take care of the vegetable garden? No and no, I’m staying here. That’s where I belong.”
The comfort of the house was rudimentary, but it was rather well maintained. A picture of her daughter’s wedding was hanging over the fireplace.
The hearth was bright red, almost hypnotic. The Babushka mastered the secrets of fire better than I did. I was impressed by her autonomy and resourcefulness. She told me that every morning she was busy extracting water from the well. A practice, of course, not recommended by the authorities, but it was slipping away. She made the same tireless movements, pressing the valve to fill her small scrap bucket. Her children had bought her an electric kettle, which was plugged into the only outlet in the house. Various multicoloured embroideries and orthodox icons adorned the different shelves.
Yaroslava explained to me that once a year, she and the others were entitled to a visit to the church of Ivankiv, located about forty kilometres from her village. Buses were specially chartered. It was every year, a real expedition, a moment they all looked forward to, as a reward for their survival. They could pray and meet the pope, a rebel too. The church had been renovated and had nothing to envy to some city buildings. All these joyful individuals formed a rather original community and gathered to light candles and celebrate Orthodox festivities. These octogenarians were a small self-sufficient survivor in the space considered to be one of the most dangerous in the world.
The vast majority of Babushkas live alone, their husbands having died. Their social relationships are therefore restricted to the few individuals who venture there and to other Babushkas living nearby. Some of them have a family living outside the Zone. Sometimes they were fortunate enough to have their grandchildren visit them. Not everyone was so lucky. But they did not complain, stating that they were even happier than those who accepted the evacuation.
“Babushka is no longer young. The survivors are dropping like flies. One after the other, they left. The men left long before we did. I wish to take my last breath here, not in a concrete hospital outside. My children are almost gone. I just hope they will take care of burying me in my garden… Government visits are also becoming more and more rare. They’re barely giving us any more money. Not so long ago, scientists came here. They took eggs and water from the well. They shipped their samples to a laboratory in Kiev. If it can help them…
—Do you often receive guests like me?
—No, unfortunately. Sometimes tourists come here, but it’s very rare. Usually, they just want a picture. Some of the guides I know come by to say hello to me from time to time. I make them pancakes and we chat.
—What do you think about this treasure thing?
She laughed as she moved.
—Nonsense, kiddo, nonsense. There is no treasure. None of this ever existed. You want some more soup? I also have beans for you.
—Thank you for being so kind, but I have to go now.
—Don’t forget your bag!
I packed my things and left the house. In the garden, a pig was in a small enclosure. He waited wisely to be slaughtered and looked at me with his dull little eyes.
The Babushka handed me supplies, insisting for the umpteenth time that I stay a few more days. She’d cook me pancakes and recite Slavic songs. I politely refused while thanking her warmly for her help. I was refreshed and alive. It was time to go on a journey.
I walked away in small steps, a little disturbed by this unexpected encounter and my mind fogged up by the alcohol she had been administering to me all the time. With her axe in hand, Yaroslava shouted at me and let me turn my heels.
Undecided, I continued on my way without a precise destination. The Babushka’s statements about the treasure had alerted me, but I was not discouraged. A mad hope was still burning in me. Despite the events, I paradoxically felt more serene than at the beginning of my expedition. My belongings were finally safe and secure, the bag wasn’t even wet and the Geiger counter seemed to work. I didn’t know what could have caused this miracle. Could Babushka have extracted it from the water?
Opalescence- the Secret of Pripyat Page 10