Belly of the Beast (14 page)

Niki looked at the Canadian paper, then the two Russians. “You both read English?”

“Pytor is fluent, I too read some,” replied Mole in English, his accent thick as peanut butter. “Much world’s science is other language.”

“The Americans must be involved,” said Pytor, slipping back into Russian.

“What are you two talking about?” asked Niki.

Mole took back the paper. “The Canadians are sending nuclear scientists to a conference in Kyshtym.

“Where the Kyshtym Explosion happened in 1957?”

Pytor dropped the dosimeter. It began clicking as it hit the floor. “You know about Mayak and Kyshtym too?” he asked as he picked up the dosimeter and tried to turn it off.

Mole came over, jiggled the switch, and stopped the noise. “You screwed up the switch.”

Pytor turned back to Niki. “Are Russians the only ones who don’t know about Kyshtym? Do you know about the Lake Karachay incident too? Are you actually one of the Canadian scientists?”

“Hardly, and I’m not really Canadian. I probably was born in Russia. My mother was at Mayak in 1957 when the tanks exploded. She was pregnant with me.”

“The second generation,” said Pytor, color draining from his face. He put down the dosimeter.

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about what? The second generation. What is it?”

Pytor took a breath. “My wife hypothesized that the genetic consequences of nuclear exposure would be bad for the first generation, worse for the second generation, and devastating for the third. It has to do with the cumulative effects of genetic mutations caused by even slight increases in natural radiation on preceding generations. Your son is deathly ill with leukemia. He is only the second generation.”

“Tell her about the fourth generation,” said Mole.

“There won’t be one. Most of the third generation won’t live to bear children. I need a drink.”

Mole retrieved a frosted vodka bottle from outside the window and slid a crate between them. “I only have two glasses,” he said as he twisted off the top.

“I don’t drink,” said Niki. “Are you saying that my grandchildren will be worse?”

“It’s only a theory,” said Pytor.

“And theories can be wrong.” Mole poured two glasses of vodka, passed one to Pytor, then raised his. “To health.” He emptied the glass in one long swallow.

Pytor did the same, then said, “Damn, you know what this Canadian business means? My work will be overshadowed.”

“Isn’t that what you want?” asked Mole. “I thought your goal was always to expose the problem any way you could.”

Pytor put down his glass. “Of course. I just always thought that I’d be involved.”

“Don’t put pride before principle,” said Mole, “but I wouldn’t worry. We both know the government isn’t really going to let anyone know about the nuclear pollution. Everything will be staged. If they allow dosimeters, they’ll recalibrate them to read low. What you need to do is gather evidence that you can slip into the Canadians’ back pockets when they get here. I doubt they have any idea about what happened at Mayak.”

“What actually happened?” asked Niki.

“The Kyshtym Explosion really happened at Mayak,” said Pytor. “It was much worse than Chernobyl. Hundreds of thousands of people were affected. No one was evacuated. No one in Russia cares; no one outside of Russia knows.”

“It seems your father knows,” said Niki, “and it seems he knows what you are trying to do.”

Mole looked toward his computer. “You don’t suppose the CIA taps into the Russian system, do you? Maybe they already know what we know.”

“Not likely,” answered Pytor. “No one is as smart as you.” He looked at Niki. “Mole is a computer genius. He gets all this equipment from government workers who need a few rubles, then he uses a government phone line to access the government computer.”

“Several computers, actually.” Mole smiled. “They’re linked by phones. It’s like an open candy box—take what you want.”

Niki looked at the array of equipment. “Could this stuff help find my father?”

Mole scratched his head. “It’s mainly a giant calculator, but it can store a lot of data, perhaps the personal data of a village or two, but the Chelyabinsk-40 computer system is isolated. Probably all the secret cities are.”

“I may not know anything about computers,” said Niki, “but I know police back home can trace phone calls. Aren’t you worried?”

Mole set down his glass by Pytor’s and unplugged his phone. “Not likely they’re that smart here.” He pointed at a series of numbers on the video monitor. “This is gibberish to most people. The government is more likely to find out what I do by the amount of power this building uses. Good thing they don’t measure it.” Mole turned off most of the equipment. “But there’s no sense tempting fate. Things are changing fast. There’s talk about charging everyone for electricity and heat.”

“Just talk,” said Pytor. He turned to Niki. “Nothing ever changes here. Officially, Chelyabinsk-40 has been dissolved; it’s the Territory of Ozersk now. But the old rules still apply—especially at the core, Techa, the city Ozersk and the Mayak plant.”

“So just worry about the fallout zone for now,” said Mole. “With the dosimeter, you can measure radioactivity over half of the Urals, and I bet you could get near Lake Karachay.”

“This isn’t helping me find my father,” said Niki.

“I’ll ask questions while I take readings,” said Pytor.

“And think of the greater good,” said Mole.

“I don’t have that luxury,” said Niki. “I’ve got three days to find my father, harvest some bone marrow, and head back. You can spend your life trying to save the world, but like you just said, ‘Nothing ever changes.’ I am going to save one life at a time.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Pytor picked up the dosimeter again. It clicked on by itself. He turned it off again. “I’ll just go to Kyshtym, ask questions, and take a few readings. I’ll try to get to Tatysh in a few weeks.”

Niki jerked her head. “Tatysh?”

“It’s near Lake Karachay,” said Mole, “the site of another accident.

“My mother lived in Tatysh. I’ll go with you.”

“Impossible,” said Pytor.

Mole picked up the paper again. “What if she posed as one of the Canadian scientists?”

“I can’t pose as a scientist. I don’t know anything about nuclear stuff.”

“Just pretend not to speak Russian. Pytor could be your translator. He knows enough to get you through the checkpoints.”

“It just might work,” said Pytor, “but if it doesn’t, we’ll be arrested. We would jeopardize all we’re doing for future generations. We have to consider the big picture.”

“I understand and admire what you are saying,” said Niki, “but one person does matter. If you don’t take care of family, there won’t be future generations. I have to find my father and get back to Alex. I accept my risk.”

“Perhaps we should too,” said Mole. “The Canadians are due here in four days. That doesn’t give you much time to collect data. And I bet the Kyshtym Action Committee has something to do with the Canadians coming here. If Niki is with you as one of the scientists, they might open some doors for you.”

Pytor sighed. “I suppose I should have been trying to work with that committee all along, but I’d be the only outsider, and I fear the government has a thick file on each member.”

“Half of them are probably KGB,” said Mole with a grin.

“At least we could drive to Kyshtym and test the waters. I’ll turn back if it looks too dangerous.”

Mole held out his hand toward Niki. “Give me your passport, and I’ll get you a new visa. I know someone with access to a photocopy machine.”

“Won’t I need my passport tonight?”

“There are no checkpoints between here and my place,” answered Pytor.

“I didn’t know I’d be staying with you.”

“I have a room you can use.”

Niki handed over her documents. “I really appreciate your help. I’m sorry to put you at any additional risk.”

“We juggle eggs every day,” said Mole. “It’s what we do to try to make sense out of nonsense. What’s one more egg? I’ll try to have a visa by Thursday afternoon.”

Two days!
Niki felt her knees buckle. “I thought we’d be going tomorrow.”

“I need to locate blank forms, hire a forger, and make the photocopies. Things don’t happen overnight.”

“Everything takes time,” said Pytor. “I spent most of today in food lines. I have to get back to my daughter.”

“Your father mentioned a granddaughter. Thirteen?”

“Fourteen. Also the second generation. She’s staying with a neighbor. I have to pick her up.”

“I’ll see if I can pull some favors,” said Mole, “and maybe get it done sooner.”

“Come by for dinner tomorrow night and tell us how it’s going,” said Pytor. “It’s nice of you to help Niki.”

Mole shrugged his shoulders. “She is trying to save her son.”

Tears filled Niki’s eyes as she hugged the little man, his glasses digging into her shoulder. “Thank you. I guess I need a day to recuperate anyway. And it’ll give me a chance to catch up on my journal.”

Pytor and Mole both snapped their heads.

“Journal?” said Mole. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Journals are a confession, a one-way ticket to prison,” said Pytor. “Russia hasn’t changed that much. Don’t dare write anything about what we’ve said.”

“I’ll get rid of it,” said Niki.

“It’s almost noon,” said Pytor as he lightly tapped Niki on her shoulder.

Niki bolted upright. “Where am I? Where’s Alex?”

Pytor smiled. “You’re in Katrina’s room, remember?”

Niki sat up, the coolness of the room washing sleep from her eyes. Aware that Pytor looked away, Niki pulled the bed sheet to her neck.

“I’ll wait for you in the kitchen,” said Pytor. “Katrina can’t wait to talk with you.”

Niki looked about as she dressed. Several ribbons and a medal hung on the wall. A bookcase held an assortment of books:
Ulysses, Plays of Shakespeare, The Diary of Anne Frank
, and a small
World Atlas
. In the distance, a train rumbled by.

“Is she up yet?” Katrina said from the other room. “May I ask her questions?”

Niki heard Pytor answer, “In a minute, sweetheart.”
Maybe he isn’t so bad
, she thought. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to judge him so quickly. Niki found the washroom and splashed the day into her face. She hoped Rob and Lisa were doing something special with Alex—of course they would be, it was Christmas. Had Rob gotten the instamatic camera that Alex wanted? What with Rob overdrawing his credit card, Niki worried that he may have fouled up the one thing that they had agreed on. But of course there was nothing to do about it now. All Niki could hope for was to find her father and give Alex the most important present of his life.

“I have never met a foreign person,” said Katrina in proper English as Niki walked into the kitchen. Katrina’s eyes darted over Niki head to toe. “They don’t look so different.”

“I haven’t met many foreigners,” said Niki.

“We’re not foreigners,” said Katrina. “We’re Russians. Father, may I practice more English?”

Pytor nodded.

“Good morning, Miss Michaels. The rats have eaten all the barley.”

Pytor smiled. “You don’t need to quote the language tapes, sweetheart.”

Katrina was beautiful. Prim and proper in a crisp European style pants suit, she seemed older than Niki imagined she would be, mature for someone just a year older than her own
baby
.

Katrina’s eyes caught Niki’s and held them. “Do you like my suit?”

“You look great,” said Niki.

“Thank you.” Katrina extended her arm, exposing the pink cuff of her blouse. “I like pink. I found a picture of this blouse in a magazine. Auntie Alina helped me make it. We made the whole suit.”

“Alina is our neighbor,” said Pytor. “She stays with Katrina while I’m gone.”

“But she’s not a baby-sitter,” Katrina quickly added.

“Your outfit is very well done.”

“Thank you. She’s teaching me to knit too.”

“You must be hungry,” said Pytor as he pulled a sack from below a small counter.

Niki looked about. Several boxes of onions were stacked in the corner by a workbench and four chairs. There was a little refrigerator, small sink, and a two-burner stove. All were worn, but well-scrubbed. Everything was neat, ordered, and clean. “A little,” said Niki. “Your place is very nice.”

Pytor poured dark flour into a bowl. “You sound surprised.”

“No, I just—”

“The hallways. Pretty bad, aren’t they? Something owned by everyone is owned by no one.”

“It’s a saying we use,” said Katrina. “What are hallways like in Canada? I heard that in America some people have a house all to themselves. That sounds decadent. Do you exploit labor?”

Pytor interrupted. “Slow down, sweetheart. You have the rest of the day to talk with Ms. Michaels.”

“Please, call me Niki.”

“Really? Just like we’re friends?” asked Katrina.

Pytor nodded.

“I like Canadians,” said Katrina, then added, “We already ate breakfast. Father wouldn’t let me wake you.”

Pytor put a fry pan on the stove. “Today we will have two breakfasts. Do you like blini?”

“I do, but I haven’t had it since I was a child.”

“Canadians must be very poor not to have buckwheat for blini,” said Katrina.

“I’m sure it’s a matter of choice,” said Pytor.

“I usually fry blini myself before school,” said Katrina. “Father said I could miss school today. I thought you were never going to get up.”

“You must think I am lazy. Where’s the dining room? I’ll set the table.”

Pytor and Katrina looked at each other.

“We just have the two rooms,” said Pytor. “A couple must have a boy and a girl to qualify for larger. But this is plenty of room for us,” he added as if some state official might be listening. “Many families must live with their parents in flats this size.”

“No one has a separate room just for dining,” said Katrina. “That would be wasteful.”

Niki nodded. “Actually, my son Alex and I only have one room.”

“My teacher said Americans are poor. I suppose they are like Canadians? How old is Alex?”

“Alex is thirteen, and Canadians are similar to Americans.”

“Oh. Pity on both accounts. I’m fourteen. I will set the table. You can talk to Father.”

As Pytor poured blini batter into the pan, Niki looked at the city through an open slit at the kitchen window, the glass itself being well frosted by the cold air that blew through the opening. In the distance, the curved glass of a new building rose above the rest. Decadent, she thought. It looked like someone in Sverdlovsk might have a dining room.

Pytor tossed the blini into the air to flip them.

“You don’t seem so stressed today,” said Niki.

Pytor shrugged. “Things build up. You know how it is.”

Niki nodded.

“I’ve been obsessed with exposing what happened to people at the, ah. . .” Pytor glanced at Katrina. “The tractor factory.”

“I understand what that means,” said Katrina.

“Irina worked with radiation victims, children mostly.”

“Irina was my mother,” added Katrina.

“She found that the children’s medical charts indicated all deaths were by
non-nuclear
causes—no cancers, not genetic birth defects. It was the official line for children and adults, but several doctors marked the charts with a code. Irina figured it out. If I could get some of the records, I could show what really happened around the factory. But just getting current radiation readings will help testify that we have a problem.”

“I admire what you are trying to do, really. I didn’t mean to be obstinate last night.”

“We were both tired. I am impressed that you have come all this way to try to help your son.”

“I’m just a mother trying to save her child. You’re trying to make a world fit for all children.”

“I am not Solzhenitsyn.”

“And I’m not Mother Teresa.”

Pytor laughed. “Sorry we started off on the wrong foot.”

Katrina folded out the workbench into a table. “This is where we eat.” She turned to her father. “I know about Mayak. It’s 1991, not the dark ages. Everyone whispers about it. I’m not a child, you know. Why did Niki really come to Sverdlovsk?”

“You know too much. Alex is sick. Niki came to find his grandfather. He may be able to help.”

“Father says my grandfather is as good as dead,” Katrina said sadly. She took flatware from a drawer under one of the chair seats and placed it around the table. “Do you like Russia?”

“Well, ah, it’s interesting. I’m glad I met you, but I miss Alex, especially today.”

“It’s Christmas in Canada,” said Pytor as he put some of the little blini pancakes on a plate.

“Real Christmas is the seventh of January,” said Katrina. “We don’t have to whisper about it anymore. Grandfather Frost used to come on New Year’s but Boris Yeltsin said it’s okay to have real Christmas again. I don’t think it’s fair that little children will have to wait longer for their presents. Does Grandfather Frost bring presents to children in Canada?”

Pytor smiled. “It seems some have forgotten the true meaning of Christmas.”

“I was talking about little children. If today is Christmas in Canada, we should have Christmas now because Niki is all alone. May we put jam on the blini?”

Pytor pulled a jar of blackberry jam from a shelf above the sink and placed it on the table. “Today is special.”

“I can’t wait to tell my friends. Christmas in December.”

“Whoa, slow down. It may be all right to talk about Christmas, but you can’t tell your friends that we let a foreigner stay at our flat. Understand?”

Katrina nodded, then reached for the jam, hesitated, and passed it to Niki. “Do you have to wash cauldrons and eat garbage?”

“Katrina!” said Pytor. “Where did you get such nonsense?”

“Well, Auntie Alina says that Americans have to wash cauldrons and eat garbage. I wondered if it was the same in Canada. They’re right next to each other you know.”

“And China is next to Russia, but we don’t eat with chopsticks. Alina doesn’t know what she is talking about. Eat your breakfast.”

“Second breakfast.”

When the blini was finished, Pytor put a pot of water on the stove and the frying pan in the sink. “You don’t really have to wash cauldrons, do you?” he asked.

Niki smiled. “I wash dishes, just like you. I suspect we’re not so different.” She looked at Katrina. “And Alex helps me set the table.”

“Father says your son is going to die.”

“Katrina! Have your manners flown out the window?”

“It’s okay. Your father doesn’t know everything.”

“I’m going to tell Auntie Alina that Canadians don’t eat garbage.”

“Katrina! What did I just say?”

“You told me not to tell my friends.”

“Sometimes I wonder how old you are. Don’t tell anyone. If Alina asks about Niki, say she is Latvian.”

“Fine. I’ll tell Auntie Alina that Latvians are very nice. Since we’re pretending today is Christmas, may we open presents?”

“I didn’t know I had agreed, and what makes you think you will be getting a present? I don’t think Grandfather Frost knows about all the changes.”

“I wasn’t thinking about presents for me, besides, I’m a bit old for Grandfather Frost.”

“A hard-line communist, you are. Fix up your room while I wash dishes, and I’ll think about it.”

In spite of objections, Niki washed dishes. Katrina disappeared into the bedroom. Pytor prepared three cups of tea.

In a few minutes, Katrina returned. “The parlor is ready, and I have a surprise.”

Niki looked quizzically at Pytor.

“We’ll have tea in the other room.”

Niki followed Katrina into the bedroom. “
Wh
—what happened?” she stammered.

“It’s daytime,” Katrina said matter-of-factly.

A tidy little sofa sat where the bed had been. A dresser had been transformed into a large table, and a stack of storage boxes became stools.

“You don’t have parlors in Canada?” asked Pytor.

“Well, yes, most houses do. But living rooms are living rooms and bedrooms are bedrooms. Separate.”

“That’s why you can’t afford blini,” said Katrina.

“Some people have sofa-beds,” said Niki. She wondered if a bed dropped out of the ceiling or something. “Pytor, where did you sleep?”

“See,” said Katrina, “it’s okay to ask personal questions. Father sleeps in the kitchen.”

“The chairs make into a bed.”

“Father,” said Katrina. “Grandfather Frost did not get confused about all the changes. He left something for you behind the sofa.”

“I’ll wait for real Christmas.”

“But I made something special. I want Niki to see it too.”

Pytor shook his head. “I don’t think I can win this one.” Katrina pulled a package wrapped in brown paper from behind the sofa and handed it to her father. “I didn’t have time to make a bow.”

“It’s squishy. Is it a sponge?”

“No. Open it. I knitted it.”