Chapter 15

Pripyat, Ukrainian SSR, Soviet Union

April 26, 1986

Mariya Medvedeva stirred as the phone rang. It was still completely dark. Vladislav got up to answer it. It was unusual for him to be called out in the middle of the night anymore. That typically fell to younger agents still proving themselves. Whatever it was, it must be severe. She laid still and waited.

Vladislav shook her. "For you," he said.

Why would anyone call her in the middle of the night? Something must have happened to one of the boys. Alyosha would want to talk to her, if he was in trouble. Her heart beat faster as she took the phone. "Hello?"

"Comrade Medvedeva?"

It wasn't one of the boys. "Yes, speaking."

"We need you to come in right away. There's been an accident at reactor four. We're sending a car."

Mariya turned on the light and started to look for the clothes she'd set aside the night before. "What kind of an accident?"

Buffalo, New York

April 29, 1986

It was finally starting to get warm in Buffalo, and Alexei was in high spirits as he washed and got ready for work. Joyce wanted to take a day trip to some waterfall over the weekend, and they would bring a picnic for the children. He wasn't sure if the waterfall was as special as the Americans seemed to think, but it would be pleasant to sit out in the sun and feel the grass under his feet.

Joyce had already made the coffee and was eating her cereal. He made his own cup and tousled her hair playfully before sitting down. It had been slow going, getting closer to Joyce, but they had established that this small sign of affection was acceptable. The early morning was his favorite part of the day, before the kids were up trying to beat each other to the bathroom and secure the last bit of milk in the carton. Not that he really minded the disorder. He wasn't these children's father, but he was gradually acquiring the authority to tell them to take turns or that someone could eat something other than cereal. He still didn't understand the American's love for cold grain, but it meant no one ever took the last bit of Cream of Wheat.

"Vat does de paper say today?" he said, as Joyce sipped her coffee. He'd started asking her back when he could only read children's books, and while he'd improved enough to read most of the articles now, it had become a habit and a way to start conversation.

"There's something about a nuclear accident in the Soviet Union," she said.

"A accident?" She handed him the paper. He bent over the paper and ran his fingers under the words until he got to the second paragraph. The accident was reported at the Chernobyl nuclear plant, in Pripyat. He reread the sentence several times, hoping for some sign that something had been lost in translation. But no. He labored over the article until he got to what he needed to know: two people had been killed in the accident. Or rather, the government had admitted two people had been killed, which might mean dozens were dead. The article said nothing about who they might have been. He stared at the paper, willing more words to appear and answer the one question burning in his mind: was his mother safe?

"Alexei?" Joyce touched his shoulder. He jumped. "Are you all right?"

"Fine. I am fine." He set his features into what he hoped was a neutral expression. He had no desire to break apart in front of Joyce. "I just vonder vat happened."

Joyce shrugged, and proceeded to tell him about something Will had said the night before. He managed to reply something that sounded appropriate, but in truth he was half-listening, at best.

He kept his mask up through the work day. Every Russian had one perfected. It was safest, among strangers, not to respond to anything, in any way. You could walk from one end of Moscow to the other without encountering any sign of another person's emotions, unless you ran across a friend. He rarely needed the mask anymore, but it felt safe that day. If he focused on keeping his emotions locked away, they couldn't drown him.

He tried to surreptitiously find any news he could, listening to public radio instead of music while he washed dishes and pouring over any newspaper he found, but he knew it was hopeless. They probably weren't releasing a list of casualties in the Soviet Union, let alone allowing such information to reach the West. But he couldn't stop himself from hoping that some stray bit of information would somehow slip through and reach him. A face in the background of a photograph. A quote attributed to Mariya Medvedeva, one of the plant's physicists, telling some lie about how everything was fine. Anything.

He thought he was doing well, but by the end of the week, the manager called him over to give him a firm talking-to. The customers were complaining that he wasn't smiling at them. Why did Americans demand that service people smile? Surely capitalists didn't need to believe labor was a joy. And in the stores he used to go to, you were lucky if they deigned to give you whatever you were trying to buy. But he nodded and promised he would smile.

He tried, but a forced smile was much harder than a mask. He must have done it wrong, because people gave him funny looks when he thanked them for shopping. Most of them went on with their days, though, and the manager didn't seem to be paying attention to him.

"Dank you for shopping, do you vant help to your car?" he mechanically asked the man picking up potato chips and cigarettes. The man stopped and pointed at his nametag.

"Alex? Bullshit. What's your real name, Alex?"

No one had asked that before. Was he supposed to answer?

"Hey, I'm talking to you. What, you don't understand English?"

"Alexei. My name is Alexei."

"Another Russkie."

Where were these other Russkies? "Yes sir."

"Why don't you go back where you came from?" Alexei just turned back toward the bags. "I'm talking to you." The man pushed him. "Go home, commie."

Alexei shook his head. "I can't."

"What? What'd you say?" The man pushed him again, harder.

"I can't." Alexei turned and looked at the man. "The KGB vill kill me."

"What?"

"Ven you leave, you can't go back. Ever." Alexei buried his face in his hands. "I can't even call and ask if my mother died when de plant-" He couldn't remember the word for an explosion, so he put his hands together and pulled them apart, fast. "Chernobyl."

The man looked uncomfortable. "Yeah well, learn to speak English," he said, and hurried off with his bags.

Alexei took a breath and painted a smile on his face for the next customer. He could feel Joyce's eyes on him, from her checkout line. How much had she heard? It didn't matter. He stacked the cans in the bag and laid the bread on top. "Dank you for shopping, do you vant help to your car?" he asked the old woman.

"Yes, please," she said, and he carried her bags to a slightly worn Oldsmobile. She handed him a dollar and patted him on the back. "I'll pray for your mother," she said.

"Dank you." He had no religious belief to speak of, but he appreciated the kindness.

Joyce was waiting when he came back in. "Are you all right?"

"Fine. Fine."

She didn't believe him, but she let it drop. They rode in silence on the way home, and he laid down and pretended to take a nap until it was time for his night job. He hadn't slept well since he'd learned about the accident on Tuesday, and what little sleep he got was interrupted by nightmares of burning flesh. So he was surprised the next morning to wake up to the sound of spoons against bowls. The sunlight was already streaming through the living room window. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, feeling something like he used to as a young man when a friend would have him over to drink. How long had it been? It was at least two lifetimes ago. He laid back down and wondered if he could say he was sick.

Joyce knocked on the wall at the entrance to the living room. He didn't really have any privacy, but she did this to show some respect for his space. She handed him a cup of black coffee. "Time to get ready," she said.

"But it's Sunday. It is Sunday?" He wasn't so far gone as to forget their day off.

"Yes. Remember the picnic?"

"Maybe I stay-"

"No." Joyce made it clear she wasn't going to entertain any arguments. He sighed and got up to get dressed.

The drive took them through the industrial parts of Buffalo, past an island suburb and over the river. He would have enjoyed the drive, any other day, but now the idea of faking enthusiasm for a waterfall felt unbearable. They stopped the car near a park and everyone grabbed food and blankets and trekked until Joyce found a suitable spot under some trees. They ate their sandwiches and chips, and then packed up and joined a crowd standing near a ledge. Alexei thought it was starting to rain, then he saw the rainbow hanging in midair over the water. It sent up so much spray that it seemed to create a permanent cloud. It was beautiful, one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen.

"Mom, can we go across?" Will asked.

Joyce glanced over at Alexei. "If your brother wants to take you."

"Sure," Jonathan said.

"All right, be back before we need to get dinner."

The kids hustled off. "Vhere are dey going?" Alexei asked.

"Canada."

"Canada?" Joyce pointed across the falls. "Dat is Canada?" She nodded. "Dat is anudder country?" Where were the soldiers? Were the children truly going to go another country and come back between lunch and dinner? On a lark? He shook his head and started to walk away, suddenly wanting to be very far from this beautiful place.

"Alexei," Joyce grabbed his shoulder. "Talk to me." He shook his head and tried to put on his mask, but the tears were welling up. He needed to get away, but she wouldn't let him. She led him to a bench away from the people taking photos.

"I overheard about your mother," she said. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Not your problem." He hadn't wanted to cry in front of her, but there was no way to tell her that. He looked away, so she wouldn't see.

"We're friends, aren't we?" She turned his face toward her and wiped away a tear he hadn't managed to hold back. "I can't fix it, but I can be here." She pulled him into a hug, and the dam broke. He cried in her hair until he'd run out of tears. "Tell me about your mother," she said.

"She took care of us," he said, which wasn't an adequate description, but he didn't know the English words that would be. "I studied science for her. Make her-" He couldn't remember the word.

"Proud? I know she is proud. You're a good man."

He half-laughed and wiped his eyes. He hardly felt like a man. If his father could see him, there'd be no end to the mockery. A grown man who needed a woman to hold him while he cried. "I am sorry."

"Don't be. We all have feelings. It's what makes us human." He nodded, though he still wished he could crawl in a hole for a while. "Is there any way you can find out about her?"

"Not a safe way."

"What do you mean?"

He'd given the matter some thought. His mother had some professional acquaintances outside Pripyat who might know something. He could write to one of them. The police would read any letter from the United States, but perhaps he could use an assumed name, pretend to be an American physicist who had encountered her work and was curious about her fate. Would they believe it? He didn't know. Using the address he shared with Joyce was out of the question. Perhaps he could set up a post office box, but it still wasn't guaranteed to be safe. The police might still find him, and while they probably wouldn't harm Joyce or the children to get at him, he couldn't guarantee it. To an American, it must all have sounded paranoid, and perhaps it was, but he was accustomed to the idea that an informer might lurk around every corner.

Joyce thought for a moment. "Does your mother know where you are?"

"No. I couldn't tell anyding."

"Does she know you're safe?"

"Dey may have said I died. Dey may not said anyding. I don't know."

"She doesn't know you're alive?"

"Maybe."

"Then you should write to her."

"Sure?"

"When Will disappeared, I would have risked anything to know if he was safe. The same if I ever lost Jonathan." She took his hand. "We'll be careful. But I'd want someone to take that little risk for me."

He took a breath. "We plan. Talk about it. Yes?"

"Yes."

He smiled and touched her face, gently. She was a good woman. He could live five lifetimes and never do anything to deserve the luck that had brought her into his life.