Frederik Pohl - Chernobyl

"But it is impossible," he explained, once more smiling broadly. "Your luggage? Yes, if you like, you may leave it here until you call for it-no later than six tomorrow evening. And now I must leave at once to prepare for our May Day reception, and then we must pack for departure. My good wife will now have your breakfast ready. It has been very great pleasure to know you, really. And, oh, yes, for the extra hours in your room due to leaving the luggage, that will be additionally twenty-five dollars American."

Breakfast was like each of the other three mornings they had spent in the diplomatic flat, with the silent, pregnant wife serving them the same soft-boiled eggs, thick slices of bread, and strong tea, except that this time while they were still at table a swarthy man knocked at the door. He and the diplomat's wife talked in low voices for a while-it was not an Arabic language, Garfield thought, but almost certainly not Russian, either. Then the man handed her a thick wad of currency. The woman counted it all over twice, then fished a set of car keys out of her apron pocket and gave them to the man. A moment later the Garfields heard the sound of a car starting in the courtyard below. Through the window Garfield saw the man driving away in Abdul's huge old canary-yellow Mustang convertible.

As they walked out of the compound, nodding familiarly to the cop at the gate, Garfield said, "Abdul's not going to come back here at all. He sold his car."

"So?" asked his wife, peering toward the avenue where there might have been, but was not, a bus.

"So nothing," said Garfield cheerfully, deciding on the spot not to press the question of what "changed circumstances" caused Abdul to flee with his wife. "Look, there's no use trying to get a bus, and it's only about a twenty-minute walk to the Metro."

"Next time I go anywhere with you," Candace said grimly, "I pack my Adidas. Dean? This little adventure is beginning to get bor-z«g. I think it's time to go home."

"Honey, you know what they said at Aeroflot. No space available to Moscow until the seventh."

"So are we going to sleep in the airport for the next week?"

Garfield winced. But when they got out of the Metro station on the far side of the river, even Candace began to show signs of excitement.

For one thing, it was a meltingly beautiful spring day. The city was full of roses and chestnut blossoms, and it was in a holiday mood. The streets around the Kreshchatik were full of people getting ready to parade past the dignitaries on the stands. Trade unions, schools, Army detachments, government workers-every group seemed to have a detachment of its own to strut past the great billboard of Lenin, six stories high, with his chin thrust resolutely forward to challenge the hostile, encircling world.

There seemed to be thousands of people crushing toward the route of the parade along with the Garfields-not just marchers, but no doubt the families of people in the line of march as well. There were children carrying little flags, mothers with string bags-not on this day in the hope of finding something wonderful to buy, but only to hold picnic lunches for the children. There was a barricade at the entrance to the streets nearest the reviewing stands. The Garfields could not hope to enter the square, or even get very close to it, but they could see that it and all the surrounding streets were gay with banners and posters. The face that dominated the event belonged to V. I. Lenin, but Marx and Engels had their huge portraits too.

Candace gazed uneasily at the scores of uniformed militiamen keeping the throngs in order. "I keep thinking one of them's going to ask us what we're doing here," she fretted.

Garfield grinned. "We're doing what everybody else is doing, right? We're watching the parade. Listen, if they were going to give us a hard time, they would've done it long ago."

"Yes, but I'm getting real itchy. What are we going to do tomorrow?"

"Well," said Garfield slowly, "I've been thinking about that. See, today's the holiday, right? So I bet that along about checkout time tomorrow the hotels're going to empty out pretty fast, and probably we'll be able to get anything we want."

"Probably," his wife repeated flatly.

"What do you want from me?" he demanded. "All right, as soon as the parade's over we'll go around the hotels and see if they're going to have a room. How's that?"

His wife only sighed. "I wish we could sit down somewhere and watch this," she said.

Garfield took her hand. "Aw, but honey," he pleaded. "How many Americans get to do anything like this? Think about the stories we're going to tell. Think about Comrade Tanya. Why, when we get back- Hey!" he cried, pointing to a group of children surrounding their teacher on the far side of the barrier, girls in cocoa dresses with sparkling white pinafores, boys in navy blue jackets and caps, every third child with a banner to pass to the next child in rotation as small arms grew weary. "Isn't that what's-her-name? The teacher that speaks English, from Smin's party?"

Oksana Didchuk didn't see the Americans, didn't even hear them calling to her or notice the little argument they had with the militiaman when they tried to cross the barricade. Oksana was busy with her class, rehearsing them in the slogans they should chant, reminding them to march in step, cajoling, warning, telling them stories to keep them quiet until their turn to march. "Look," she said, pointing at the contingent of tall young men in gold-braided black uniforms, swords at their sides as they swung past, "those are cadets from the Kiev Naval Academy. Someday some of you may go there!"

But the girls were looking at the folk dancers twirling in their bright traditional Ukrainian costumes, and most of the boys were gazing popeyed at the huge T-60 tank that was shuffling up the avenue toward them, a trail of smart Soviet Army soldiers goose-stepping along behind. Oksana sighed, peering around to see if she could get a glimpse of her own daughter, but there were too many groups of schoolchildren, too many floats and bands and military vehicles, too many people entirely.

Oksana Didchuk wondered if it could possibly be true that this thing at the Chernobyl Power Station could be dangerous even to people here in Kiev. What was one to believe? The voices had been more strident than ever that morning. The Didchuks had even managed to catch a few minutes of Radio Free Europe before the jammers discovered the wavelength they had switched to and the warbling tweeweeiveeweep had drowned it out. But what was one to do? At school the authorities had been quite firm: "There is certainly no cause for panic. If any extraordinary measures are required, of course we will be informed at once!"

And yet the rumors grew-twenty-five thousand dead and buried in a mass grave on the banks of the Pripyat River, one colleague had whispered, or so he had heard one of the voices say. Almost certainly that was untrue, Oksana thought staunchly. Especially considering the source. No one believed Radio Free Europe… but what a pity that they could not get the calm, trustworthy voice of the BBC.

And then the signal came for their unit to. begin the march. Oksana gathered up her group and they took their places in line. What angels they were being this day! Every one of them, little as they were, unruly as sometimes they could be, marched along bravely; and as they passed the reviewing stand, each did a perfect eyes-right and shouted together: "We will defend the motherland of Socialism!"

Her eyes were moist as they passed under the great posters of Marx (the size of the head demonstrating the immense power of the great brain that lay inside it) and of Lenin (sharp gaze ever alert to seek out those who sought refuge in the twin enemies of the working class, God and vodka). And then, at the very edge of the square, was a tiny poster of Khrushchev. Oksana stole a quick look around as they passed it to see if any of her class had noticed that a new face had been added this year. None of the children seemed to. So there would be no difficult questions-although, Oksana told herself, it was, after all, quite proper that the man who had held the city of Kiev together in those terrible days of 1941 while the Germans hammered past it on both sides should be recognized on Kiev's May Day.