The Boy from Reactor 4

Karel took a deep breath as though fortifying himself. “So be it. He lives in a black village, six miles away. There will be ditches, potholes, and graveyards. Hang on.”

CHAPTER 41

“MY NAME IS Oksana Hauk. I am a Chernobyl survivor. My grandmother died fighting the Nazis in World War II, and my mother was cannibalized in the famine of 1933. Welcome to my home.”

Nadia struggled to digest the enormity of the babushka’s revelations while simultaneously crafting a similar greeting, in case doing otherwise was rude.

“My name is Nadia Tesla. I am an American. My father was an officer in the Ukrainian Partisan Army. He died in America. Thank you for having me.”

Karel and Nadia crossed the threshold into the kitchen. Two lanterns lit the room.

Oksana Hauk was less than five feet tall, with the face of a pitted prune. She measured Nadia before she said, “You are from New York City. From downtown, yes?” Oksana pronounced the word in broken English, as though it were a city in and of itself, or a special destination whose meaning could not be translated.

Nadia looked at Karel, who smiled and shrugged as though he, too, was amused. Nadia laughed. “Yes, I am from New York City. But actually, I live uptown.”

Oksana frowned and glanced at Karel. “I don’t understand,” she said softly.

Karel turned to Nadia. “She thinks downtown is New York City. You confused her.”

“Ah,” Nadia said, touching the babushka on the shoulder with her hand. “I’m so sorry. Yes, yes. You’re right. Downtown. I come from downtown.”

Oksana nodded and smiled with relief, as though her sense of geography had been restored.

“My mother received letters from a man claiming to be my uncle. My uncle Damian. Is he here?”

Oksana glanced down the narrow corridor past the kitchen. “Yes.”

“May I see him?”

She made a sour face. “No, no. He is very sick. He is resting now. He is usually much better in the morning.”

Nadia didn’t hide her disappointment. “May I just take a peek? To see that he exists? I’ve come so far…It would mean so much to me just to see him.”

“No,” she said before brightening. “Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night. If that happens…Otherwise, in the morning.”

“So close,” Nadia said under her breath. She forced herself to smile. “I understand, I understand. In the morning.”

The house was a crooked wooden shack with a thatch roof. A wood-burning brick oven heated the kitchen, which opened to a small dining area. An Orthodox crucifix hung on one wall, and a picture of a boy skating among men hung on another. Nadia looked closer. The boy looked younger, but Nadia recognized the dark skin, pinched eyes, and broad face. It was the boy in the picture her mother had received. The boy Damian wanted her to take home to America. Where was the boy?

Karel and Nadia sat at a beaten, bruised wooden table. Oksana lit a fire under a teakettle and prepared plates of food.

Nadia eyed her preparations with dread. “Where do they get their food?” she whispered.

“They grow it themselves,” Karel said. “They have all the land they want, and it’s very fertile.”

“How can it be safe?”

“Radiation doesn’t spread evenly. One lot may be cool, the one beside it hot. Avoid the mushrooms, the fruit, and the fish, and you’ll be fine. Don’t talk about it, and you’ll be fine. But if you keep asking questions…”

“That’s what people keep telling me. So, how did you come to be in Chernobyl, Karel? Were you born nearby?”

“More questions.” Karel said, but he didn’t seem to mind. “I was a college student conducting field studies here when the reactor exploded. I stayed to study animal behavior in the event of a nuclear catastrophe. Who can refuse the cutting edge?”

“Indeed,” Nadia said.

“My head hurt, my mouth was dry, and I walked around like a drunk for a month. But I stayed—for science, for my country, and to get my research published. Now I live on one lung with a pulmonary disorder. I can’t walk half a kilometer without fainting.”

Nadia wondered what her life would be like if her father had never escaped to America and had ended up in Chernobyl. She cringed and thought of the boy. How could he have survived eating the local food? Hell, how could he have survived, period? What kept him going?

Karel pulled a small booklet out of his pocket. “Dosimetric passport. The Division of Nervous Pathologies in Kyiv keeps track of the radiation in my body. Another fifty rem on my passport and I will go from Level One Disabled to Level Three Sufferer. You must prove you are a sufferer or a prospective invalid of Chernobyl to get help from the State. And it is very difficult to do. Otherwise, we are like American capitalists now. You are on your own.”

“Some people say the worst is to be healthy here,” Oksana said, placing a ceramic pitcher of liquid beside the three plates of food on the table. She sat down. “They are used to the state taking care of them. Me, I just want to live in my home. I lived through World War II as a child. I’ll take my chances against the silent enemy. Now, please eat, you two.”