Darragh McKeon - All That Is Solid Melts into Air

THE DAY AFTER the evacuation, reports came in of a radioactive cloud that hung over Minsk. Grigory approached Vygovskiy about it. His superior nodded: “I’ve been informed.”

“And they’re evacuating?”

“They’re doing everything they can.”

A few hours later he realized that supply trucks were still arriving from the city. Again he approached his superior.

“They haven’t evacuated, we’re still getting supplies from there.”

“They don’t have the resources yet.”

“We have spare troops here, men sitting around waiting for instructions. What are they waiting for? We know every hour is crucial.”

Vygovskiy gestured towards the stacks of paperwork on his desk, the ringing phone.

“I have a power plant to clean up, Grigory. I have a team of nuclear engineers arriving any moment. There are men taking care of it.”

“What men?”

“Good men.”

Grigory returned to his office and called the general secretary of the Central Committee of the Belarusian Party. They wouldn’t connect him: the man was on another line. Grigory was incredulous. He waited five minutes and called again. He reminded them forcefully who he was, where he was calling from, under whose authority he worked. Still no connection. Eventually, after a half hour, he got through.

When he mentioned the accident, the line went dead.

He walked into Vygovskiy’s engineering briefing and gestured to speak to him outside. The group was arguing over procedure. Vygovskiy waved him away. Grigory remained until the group fell silent. Irritated, Vygovskiy followed him into the corridor, then indicated they should go to Grigory’s office. Neither of them spoke until Vygovskiy closed the door.

“The KGB are suppressing our calls. I can’t even speak with the Belarussian general secretary.”

“Why are you speaking to the general secretary?”

“Because there’s a fucking radioactive cloud hanging over his capital.”

Vygovskiy spoke in a pointedly calm tone.

“They have orders to contain the information, in order to avoid a mass panic.”

“The KGB?”

“The KGB. The general secretary. Everyone.”

“So there’ll be no evacuation?”

“No. It’s a direct order from the highest levels in the Kremlin.”

Grigory sat down at his desk. Vygovskiy remained standing in front of him, as though he were the inferior. He adjusted his tie.

“It’s a direct order. What do you want me to do?”

Their voices rising in steady progression.

“I want us to do what we said we’d do. I want to deal with this situation openly, properly, with accountability. I’m getting reports that the city has background radiation of twenty-eight thousand micro-roentgen per hour.”

“That meeting in my office. The engineers are figuring out a way to get the water out from underneath the reactor. If uranium and graphite get in there, a critical mass will form and we might be dealing with an explosion of maybe three, four, even five megatons. If that happens you’ll have to evacuate half of Europe. Should I get on the phone to the Polish premier, to Berlin? Fuck it, why not Paris?”

“Why not? They could help. There would be more resources, more expertise.”

“More hysteria. And that’s not even taking into account what it would mean for our international profile.”

“You’re talking like a politician, Vladimir.”

“This has international consequences. This is our most critical moment, politically, since the war. We both know this. Of course politics comes into it. Politics comes into everything. Now, if you’ll excuse me, comrade. I’m getting things done.”

He strode out the door, slamming it after him.

Grigory picked up the receiver, then put it down again in its cradle.

He grabbed his jacket and a dosimeter and found Vasily in one of the medical tents, checking exposure rates amongst the soldiers.

“Come with me—that can wait.”

Grigory had one of the soldiers drive them to the apartment blocks. They walked up a staircase and into one of the apartments.

“Can you tell me what we’re doing here?”

Grigory looked around and found the phone and carried it to the dining table, the cord straining to reach.

“There’s a radioactive cloud over Minsk. We need to make some calls.”

He got on his knees and, dipping his head to search under the sofa, found what he was looking for. He dragged out a phone book.

“Who are we calling?”

Grigory threw the book towards the table. On landing it thudded and skidded along the vinyl covering.

“Everyone. Pick a letter and start from there. It’s a lottery. See who lives according to their surname.”

Vasily placed his hand calmly on the book, flipping the corners of pages with his thumb, a rasping sound.

“This is ridiculous, Grigory. What are we doing here? Someone’s apartment? You have an office and an administrative staff.”

“The KGB are monitoring our calls. I can’t talk to anyone in the city or there’ll be consequences. Not that I’m worried about that, but they’ll cut us off immediately. We can’t get anything done that way. I’ll be next door, doing the same.”

Vasily slid the book away.

“We can’t go against KGB diktats, Grigory. Who knows what will happen? It’s the KGB.”

Grigory was halfway out the door. He stopped, turned, looked at his friend, twisted the door handle at his side.

He spoke quietly, all his momentum subdued.

“I hadn’t expected it would be a problem.”

“It’s the KGB.”

“There’s an entire city blindly walking into an early grave.”

“I have a family.”

“So you keep saying.”

They were silent.

“Open a page,” Grigory said. “There’s a hundred families on each one; a hundred and fifty, who knows? What if it were a Moscow directory? What if we were to look under Simenov?”

Vasily stood up.

“I can’t help you with this, Grigory. I’m sorry.”

Grigory stepped aside to let him pass.

When he called people he introduced himself as a doctor and explained what was happening. He told them to put their food in plastic, to put on rubber gloves and wipe everything down with a cloth, then put the rag in a bag and throw it away. If they had laundry drying outside, they should put it back in the wash. Put two drops of iodine in a glass of water and wash their hair with it. Dissolve four more drops and drink it, two for a child. He told them to get out of the city as soon as they could. Stay with a relative. Don’t come back for at least a few weeks.

He made probably sixty calls until finally they cut him off. Sitting on a stranger’s chair, pacing up and down someone’s brown, patterned carpet.

Every reaction was the same. People were calm. They thanked him. They didn’t question him or panic. Perhaps they didn’t believe him or didn’t understand the importance of what he was asking. Such simple things: wash your hair, wash your clothes, drink some iodine. It hardly seemed credible that these few actions could save your life.

That evening he went to his quarters to pack his bag and bedding and find another place to sleep. Vasily, lying in the next bunk, watched him place his belongings away.

“I’m not the enemy, Grigory. I’m not one of them.”

“Really? Then who are you?”

The next day he went to Minsk himself. Forced his way into the chairman’s office, gaining access by holding the dosimeter up to people’s necks, showing them the readings. They all had family here; they couldn’t bring themselves to refuse him. The chairman told Grigory he could only spare five minutes.

“I’ve been on the phone this morning with the chairman of the Soviet Radiological Protection Board. He’s assured me everything is normal, everything is under control.”