“You can sit on my lap,” joked a man Zosia didn’t know.
“Never mind, just move over,” she said. She still felt the soft pressure of the old woman’s lips on her forehead.
They passed the bus stop and more of the plant workers waiting for the shuttle bus, and the car splashed down the main street where the men with hoses continued to drench the road.
The ride to the plant was only fourteen kilometers but took more than the usual twenty minutes because the main highway leading to Chornobyl was shrouded in smoke. More cars were returning from the plant than going toward it.
“Turn on your headlights,” Maksym said to the driver, Borys, who gripped the wheel with his small, pudgy hands. Zosia felt nauseated but rolled her window shut and tried not to breathe. The man next to her started to cough on her face, and she shrank away from him as much as she could by pressing her head against the grimy window.
When they arrived at the plant’s gate, they saw dense black smoke and red flames dancing high over the tall watchtowers. Crowds of people in jumpsuits and helmets with eye shields and face masks were chaoticallyrunning. A siren sang out, and fire trucks raced toward one of the reactors not far from the building where Zosia worked. Overhead, helicopters flew low over the buildings but didn’t land anywhere; they simply hovered in the black air like hornets around a nest.
A man in a helmet pounded on the windshield of their car. Maksym rolled down his window a crack. “Go back, go back, unless you want to help,” he shouted through his thin paper mask.
“What can we do?” Maksym asked.
“We need men to collect sand to douse the fires,” said the man. “Hurry up, or leave.” Then he ran to where another car pulled up.
“I’ve got to go,” Maksym said. “Tell my wife what happened.” Zosia and the others in the car watched his huge muscular body pile out of the car, run out and disappear into the dense smoke.
“I’m going too,” the man next to Zosia said.
“Me too,” said another voice, a large woman Zosia had hardly noticed. “I can’t get out on my side. The door’s stuck,” she yelled, trying to push it open. “You, let us out,” she barked at Zosia.
Zosia had to leave the car to let them out, and she coughed violently during the few seconds that she stood in the din.
The woman slammed the door so violently Zosia was unable to open it. In a panic, she tried the passenger side, forced it open and collapsed onto the front seat next to the driver, Borys.
“Listen,” Borys said, worried. “You want to go to a hospital or something?”
She shook her head no.
“Well, I’m going back home.” He reversed the car and rammed the gate, throwing Zosia’s forehead against the dashboard. Her eyes and throat burned, but she felt better with her forehead resting against the soft black vinyl of the glove compartment.
“Hold on,” the driver said. Zosia coughed little then, but her breath wheezed and she felt her chest bellow in and out as though a stone on fire were lodged behind her throat.
At last the car pulled up in front of her home. The driver nudged her with his elbow. “Can you make it in by yourself?” he asked. She looked up and saw fear etched in the red crisscrossed lines of his huge round eyes.
She nodded, got out of the car, and then managed to stagger to the front door. She was winded, and her throat was scratchy, but she found she could breathe a little easier. The coughing aggravated her nausea, and she waited a few more seconds until the car screeched away before vomiting into a patch of wild raspberries.
Inside, she realized the metallic smell and a hint of smoke had leaked inside the house. Her knees shook, and she nearly collapsed while shutting the two open windows in the front room.
It was quiet. “
Mamo?
” she called out feebly, starting another coughing fit. There was no answer, only theplacid, familiar rhythm of the pink clock ticking on top of the
“Never mind, just move over,” she said. She still felt the soft pressure of the old woman’s lips on her forehead.
They passed the bus stop and more of the plant workers waiting for the shuttle bus, and the car splashed down the main street where the men with hoses continued to drench the road.
The ride to the plant was only fourteen kilometers but took more than the usual twenty minutes because the main highway leading to Chornobyl was shrouded in smoke. More cars were returning from the plant than going toward it.
“Turn on your headlights,” Maksym said to the driver, Borys, who gripped the wheel with his small, pudgy hands. Zosia felt nauseated but rolled her window shut and tried not to breathe. The man next to her started to cough on her face, and she shrank away from him as much as she could by pressing her head against the grimy window.
When they arrived at the plant’s gate, they saw dense black smoke and red flames dancing high over the tall watchtowers. Crowds of people in jumpsuits and helmets with eye shields and face masks were chaoticallyrunning. A siren sang out, and fire trucks raced toward one of the reactors not far from the building where Zosia worked. Overhead, helicopters flew low over the buildings but didn’t land anywhere; they simply hovered in the black air like hornets around a nest.
A man in a helmet pounded on the windshield of their car. Maksym rolled down his window a crack. “Go back, go back, unless you want to help,” he shouted through his thin paper mask.
“What can we do?” Maksym asked.
“We need men to collect sand to douse the fires,” said the man. “Hurry up, or leave.” Then he ran to where another car pulled up.
“I’ve got to go,” Maksym said. “Tell my wife what happened.” Zosia and the others in the car watched his huge muscular body pile out of the car, run out and disappear into the dense smoke.
“I’m going too,” the man next to Zosia said.
“Me too,” said another voice, a large woman Zosia had hardly noticed. “I can’t get out on my side. The door’s stuck,” she yelled, trying to push it open. “You, let us out,” she barked at Zosia.
Zosia had to leave the car to let them out, and she coughed violently during the few seconds that she stood in the din.
The woman slammed the door so violently Zosia was unable to open it. In a panic, she tried the passenger side, forced it open and collapsed onto the front seat next to the driver, Borys.
“Listen,” Borys said, worried. “You want to go to a hospital or something?”
She shook her head no.
“Well, I’m going back home.” He reversed the car and rammed the gate, throwing Zosia’s forehead against the dashboard. Her eyes and throat burned, but she felt better with her forehead resting against the soft black vinyl of the glove compartment.
“Hold on,” the driver said. Zosia coughed little then, but her breath wheezed and she felt her chest bellow in and out as though a stone on fire were lodged behind her throat.
At last the car pulled up in front of her home. The driver nudged her with his elbow. “Can you make it in by yourself?” he asked. She looked up and saw fear etched in the red crisscrossed lines of his huge round eyes.
She nodded, got out of the car, and then managed to stagger to the front door. She was winded, and her throat was scratchy, but she found she could breathe a little easier. The coughing aggravated her nausea, and she waited a few more seconds until the car screeched away before vomiting into a patch of wild raspberries.
Inside, she realized the metallic smell and a hint of smoke had leaked inside the house. Her knees shook, and she nearly collapsed while shutting the two open windows in the front room.
It was quiet. “
Mamo?
” she called out feebly, starting another coughing fit. There was no answer, only theplacid, familiar rhythm of the pink clock ticking on top of the
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