Andrea White: Radiant Girl

“Are you thirsty?” Pavel Pascenko said.

Papa looked at me. I realized that I hadn’t had anything to drink since I left home that morning. “Yes,” I whispered.

Pavel Pascenko smiled. “Come have some milk.”

“That would be nice,” I said.

“It’s radioactive, of course,” Papa muttered to me under his breath. “Just pretend to drink it.”

We got out of the car and followed Pavel Pascenko to the unpainted wooden cottage. While Papa and I waited on the slanted porch next to the firewood, the old man went inside and returned with three plastic glasses. He dipped the glasses in a bucket by the door. He handed me one glass, Papa the other and sat down on the front step.

“Thank you,” I said. I heard a rustling inside the dark cabin.

“How’s your wife?” Papa asked.

“She doesn’t like strangers,” Pavel Pascenko said.

My throat was parched, and the milk looked delicious. Regretfully, I put my cool glass down on the floor. I knew if I drank it that I would be drinking radionuclides. I still wasn’t exactly sure what these invisible particles were, but I had all the proof I needed that they were bad for me.

“Will you tell Katya your story, Pavel Paschenko?” Papa encouraged him. “Why you were able to return?”

Pavel Paschenko stared out at his beautiful meadow. When he finally began, his voice sounded unused, like a rusty door. “We left as many spoons as there are souls in the house. All so we could come back.” [38] VC p. 40 He shrugged. “We hid in the forest with our cow. Then we came back.”

“ They told us to wash our yards. The very earth?” [39] VC p. 29 His childlike blue eyes reflected deep puzzlement. “They closed our well, locked it up, wrapped it in cellophane. Said the water was dirty. How can it be dirty?” He held out his hands as if beseeching someone. “It tastes good. We drink that water every day.” [40] VC p. 29

“Pavel Paschenko has told me many times that he’s happy to live here,” Papa said.

The little man shrugged. “My wife likes to say that people shoot, but it’s God who delivers the bullet. Everyone has their own fate.” [41] VC p. 31

Papa nodded. “Chernobyl has turned me into a philosopher, too.”

Was Papa’s illness making him a philosopher?

A cat jumped on the porch and sat down next to the old man. He began stroking the animal’s fur.

“I remember it all. Planes, helicopters—there was so much noise. Soldiers. I thought the war’s begun. With the Chinese or the Americans. [42] VC p. 37

“Everyone up and left, but they left their dogs and cats. The animals waited for their masters a long time. The hungry animals ate cucumbers. They ate tomatoes. Then the dogs ate the cats. The cats ate their kittens. [43] VC p. 31

“I found this little one in the forest. Half-starved and wild. He and I exchanged glances. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Let’s go home.’ But he sat there meowing. ‘If you stay here by yourself, the wolves will eat you.’ Cats can’t understand human language, but then how come he understood me? We’ve been living together for three winters now.” [44] VC p. 32 He ruffled the cat’s fur.

“What’s his name?” I asked.

“Vaska,” Pavel Pascenko said. “The police ask: ‘What if bandits come?’ I say, ‘What will they take? My soul? Or my cat? Because those things are all I have.”

“He’s a pretty cat,” I said.

“He’s a good mouse catcher,” Pavel Pascenko said. “One of the policemen offered me some batteries for my radio if I would give him Vaska. But I said, ‘no.’ He gave me the batteries anyway.”

“So your radio is working?” Papa asked.

“We listen to it next to our kerosene lamp in the evenings,” [45] VC p. 41 Pavel Pascenko said.

The man’s garden was large and well-cared-for. I saw even rows of tomato plants and corn. Like we did in Yanov, he must grow all his own vegetables. “You have a beautiful garden,” I said.

“We live in Paradise,” the little man answered simply.

Both Papa’s and my gaze turned to the tall grasses swaying in the breeze. The cows wandered lazily across the front yard. Soon, the garden would be loaded with vegetables. My mouth watered, thinking about his tasty homegrown tomatoes.

“Are you ready, Katya?” Papa asked. He stood up.

“Yes,” I said. I heard a sound and glanced at the peasant’s window. The worn gray curtains fluttered in the breeze.

“Thank you for the matryoshka ,” Pavel Pascenko said. “Where are her other dolls?”

I thought for a minute about the scattered pieces of her mothers now buried under the earth. “She’s an orphan,” I said.

“We will keep her safe with us,” Pavel Pascenko promised.

As I was starting to leave, I heard a noise inside the house. An old woman had pushed back the faded curtains. She opened her mouth in a toothless grin before disappearing into the darkness.

MY MOTHER OPENED THE DOOR as soon as I touched the knob. At first, all I saw was that she was still dressed in the skirt and blouse of her teaching uniform, but then I noticed that her eyes were red and swollen. Before Papa had even followed me inside, she began scolding me.

“Your principal, your teachers, everyone is upset,” Mama said.

“It’s all right, Natasha,” Papa said.

“Didn’t Papa call you?” I asked as I wandered inside.

“Thank goodness he called, but Katya, why?” She grabbed my arm. “Why did you run away?” The three of us were huddled together in the small entranceway.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” I said. “I had to go back to Yanov.”

She eyed me suspiciously. “With Sergei Rudko.”

“I don’t think her trip was about the boy, Natasha,” Papa said.

“We didn’t raise you this way, Katya!” Mama snapped.

“Don’t fuss at her, Natasha.”

When I heard Papa defend me, my reserve broke down, and I began sobbing. It frightened me that I could not stop. I felt like a stream of tears was inside me. Then I realized that I had never cried, not really, since we’d left the Dead Zone four years ago.

My mother relaxed and she put her arms around me. “I know…. I know…”

Mama took one hand. Papa the other. Together, we walked into the living room and sat on the couch.

She stroked my hair. “Katya… Katya… It’s all right. You’ll be all right.”

Afterwards, the three of us sat for a long time. Finally, Papa turned on the television, and Mama got up to make chicken and dumplings.

As if my tears had opened a floodgate of memories, we reminisced about our old life in Yanov while we ate. We talked about Granny Vera, and Papa told me about his grandmother, Granny Vera’s mother. Polina Dubko had red hair too. She smoked a corn-cob pipe, and although she didn’t have much schooling, she could calculate math problems in her head.

A knock sounded at the door.

Mama went to open it. With his beret in his hands, Victor Kaletnik walked in. Papa and I were sitting side by side on the couch.

“Hey, Katya,” Uncle Victor called to me.

I ran and hugged him. As he rumpled my hair, I peeked over my shoulder at my father.