Andrea White: Radiant Girl

“I need to see you again,” Vasyl called. “Come back to the boulder.”

I didn’t bother answering but hurried down the path toward home, the empty basket bouncing against my side. This day in the woods, even the leaves were whispering to me, Come back. Come back soon .

IN MY VILLAGE, THE EARTH GLOWED AT SUNSET. But tonight as I headed home, I walked in the direction of a man-made brightness—the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Station.

Once when I was a lot younger, Papa had taken me by the station where he worked as a security guard. I remembered that it was constructed out of concrete and metal, larger than our whole village. But the station’s physical layout held little interest for me. Because I believed the station was a magical factory that made energy out of nothing. I searched for men in white robes, beings who resembled angels. I imagined them gliding around the hallways, pushing buttons to create electricity, as I had heard they could do. [1] VC p. 168

Papa’s job insured a good living for our family. Now that I was older, I understood in this sense the station truly was magical. We were all deeply grateful to the government for selecting our area as the site for the most up-to-date and modern power station that the Communist world had ever constructed. Since unlike conventional power plants, nuclear fission didn’t create ugly clouds of black smoke, we assumed that our paradise would remain unspoiled.

In this half-golden, half-white light, my cottage with the blue shutters appeared in the distance. Noisy found his voice and began barking.

Because Papa worked at the station, our family qualified for a modern apartment in town, but my parents weren’t interested in moving. Both had grown up in the country and loved living in the woods. Mama hated the thought of sharing walls with a neighbor. Papa claimed that he would never give up our garden or the fresh milk and eggs provided by our barn animals.

So long as the stars still burned brightly in the sky, I believed that my family would never leave our cottage in the woods.

I heard Mama’s worried voice calling my name. Without being able to make out her face, I knew she was frowning.

For the second time that day, Mama was waiting for me on our front step. “There you are, Katya. Late on your own birthday.”

I started to tell her the remarkable story of the boy in the woods. “Mama, you wouldn’t believe…” Then I remembered. My promise felt as warm as a fresh brown egg that I had just slipped out from under my best chicken, Princess, in the henhouse. I hesitated, unsure what to do.

Sometimes, my tardiness caused Papa to get out his switch. Although I knew he wouldn’t spank me on my birthday, I searched for an excuse to blunt my mother’s disapproval. My basket was empty. I couldn’t claim that I had been collecting wildflowers, mushrooms or berries.

Seeing that I was at a loss for words, Mama sighed. “I know. You were with your imaginary friends again and lost track of time.”

I nodded, grateful for her suggestion. “One of them knew that it was my birthday.” As I offered this, I had a vision of Vasyl with his white-gold hair and blue eyes. “I need to see you again,” Vasyl called. “Come back to the boulder.”

Who was he? What did he want from me?

“I was about to send your father for you,” Mama whispered in my ear. “There are wolves in those woods.” She ran her fingers through my hair, dark auburn now from sweat. “You know you’re supposed to be home well before sundown.”

“Yes, Mama,” I said. Although her soft smile told me that I was forgiven, I was quick to change the subject. “When is everyone coming?”

“Soon,” Mama said. “But first, your father and I have something to show you.”

Just as the events of the afternoon had driven the birthday surprise out of my thoughts, now as I followed Mama into the cottage, I forgot the mysterious boy as completely as if I had never met him. Dreams of a teen room filled my mind.

“Ivan, your daughter is home,” Mama called.

Papa appeared in the kitchen. I don’t think I’ve mentioned what a strong man my father was. He was the strongest man in the whole area. Once, on a bet, his friend, Victor Kaletnik, borrowed an ancient ox wagon and filled it with rocks. Papa dragged the heavy load across an entire field. Family lore held that he would have trained for the Olympics in wrestling, if one of the party bosses hadn’t quarreled with my grandfather and blocked his chance. I loved him more than anyone in the whole world. If there was a God, as Granny Vera had claimed, I knew that He had to be strong, kind and wise, exactly like my father.

“Happy birthday, my darling.” Papa smiled at me. “We have a surprise for you, Katya.”

Eagerly, my eyes searched the main room of our familiar cottage for the surprise. My gaze passed over the large pechka , a stove which stretched from floor to ceiling, and turned to an oak cabinet displaying my mother’s finest dishes. I recognized all of them. Then I glanced at the photos of my parents, their parents and me hanging against the wall, many decked with artificial flowers. I had seen each of them one thousand times. No great gift was displayed on the small dining table covered in a white embroidered tablecloth, which took up the center of the room. Everything was the same. I turned to Papa, my eyes demanding an explanation.

“Not in here,” Papa said, smiling at my confusion. He began heading back towards my room. Through the open door, I barely noticed the old furniture—two beds and a large wooden wardrobe—because spring seemed to have bloomed inside.

A new divan was pushed against the wall. It was covered in a print almost as beautiful as a field of wild flowers. A matching green leatherette chair stood next to it, and a small desk for studying and playing.

No one I knew owned furniture so beautiful.

“Papa,” I cried and ran to hug him. He was so huge that my arms were barely able to touch both sides of his hard middle. “Thank you!”

“Nothing is too good for my Katya,” my father said. “But you need to thank your Mama. She is the favored seamstress of the manager at the furniture store. The manager put us at the top of the list to buy the furniture.” In those days, it took special pull to get goods that the Western world took for granted.

I realized I had probably hurt my mother’s feelings. She had been standing next to me, and I hadn’t said anything to her. “Mama, thank you!”

“Happy birthday, my little one,” my mother said. “I am sewing curtains for your room, too. With all the orders lately, I haven’t been able to finish them in time.”

“You are the best parents in all of the Ukraine,” I said, and I meant it.

Papa and Mama burst out laughing.

“Hello,” I heard a boy’s voice call.

I recognized the voice of my neighbor, Boris. I immediately had one thought: Boris drives a Yava .

“We’re in here,” Mama said.

“Papa, can Boris take me on his motorcycle?” I added many beseeching ‘bud’laskas’ even though I knew the extra pleases were unnecessary. My father would let me do anything that I wanted on my birthday. “When I was a girl, I did not ride on motorcycles,” Mama said with mock sternness to Papa.