into the Zone, but a smaller guardhouse next to a swinging gate in the fence. In the past a lot of young women workers looked out the bus windows, and there was hope for a time some of the young men might want to board in the village. Of course, this fell through when they asked a guard at the swinging, padlocked gate about it.
And this summer, for whatever reason, the buses stopped and the dirt road to the guardhouse became two ruts in the grass. Whether in her cottage or tending her garden, Sofya felt closer to joining her husband in death. Beyond the fence the shouts or voices of young workers were rare. And now, at summer’s end, Sofya dreaded winter more than ever. Even Tatiana, normally cheerful at lunchtime, was completely heartbroken this day as they spoke of husbands, and of the past before the accident.
The last time there had been any hope in the village had been years earlier when an official from a state office paid them a visit and gave a speech in the main street. Cameramen filmed the speech, and the next day the widows in the village gathered to watch the news on Tatiana’s large-screen television. The official spoke of buildings to house geneticists and botanical experts. He spoke of tourist business and perhaps a hotel in the village. He spoke of the Przewalski horses released and thriving in the region, and even of a national park visitor center.
Of course, none of this happened, and the women of the village, gaining ground on death as each year passed, had long ago lost hope. Sofya realized she was fingering the string of garlic around her neck as if it were a rosary. And as she did so, she came to a conclusion. All that remained for the women of her village was church. Nothing anyone said outside of church, especially when an official said it on television, could be trusted. And nothing told to them by the guards at the small guardhouse down the dirt road was even remotely close to the truth. Nothing had changed since the fall of the Soviet Union.
Everything in Ukraine was corrupt, and fences were put up to hide the corruption.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Although Nadia had been drugged, she was able to recall some of it. The older boys dressed as priests had rescued them from the Carpathian Mountains in springtime. She, Lyudmilla the skeleton, and another, whose name eluded her, were the three girls. Guri was the boy. The four of them packed into the back of the van with several boy soldiers on the long journey to what the boy soldiers called a camp for teens. Nadia recalled the boy soldiers giving them jeans and sweatshirts to wear, and also sedatives to take because of what had been taking place when they were rescued. Nadia was not an idiot. She knew she and the others had been grabbed off the streets for videos because of how young they looked.
This was weeks earlier in cooler weather. Now, in summer, it was difficult calling this place an orphanage or a camp—especially a summer camp like the ones she’d heard of in Odessa. Everyone here simply called it “the peninsula” because geographically, that is exactly what it was—a wooded peninsula with water on three sides, and a fence on the fourth side. Life here was totally unlike life on Kiev’s streets, blending in like a tourist in brightly colored clothing, searching for unbuttoned pockets and unclasped purses. Discipline here was not created from within. Here they were told discipline had roots in fertile Ukrainian soil and in orthodoxy.
Everyone on the peninsula wore the same jeans and blue sweatshirts. Not really the same ones, but that was the way Nadia said it to anyone who would listen in order to get a laugh here and there. There weren’t many laughs because of the daytime pill given to calm nerves and keep the buzz alive, and the so-called knockout pill given at night. The newcomers, called “happy campers,” performed chores much of the time and, when not drugged to the depths of sleep, they either studied the Russian Orthodox Bible
And this summer, for whatever reason, the buses stopped and the dirt road to the guardhouse became two ruts in the grass. Whether in her cottage or tending her garden, Sofya felt closer to joining her husband in death. Beyond the fence the shouts or voices of young workers were rare. And now, at summer’s end, Sofya dreaded winter more than ever. Even Tatiana, normally cheerful at lunchtime, was completely heartbroken this day as they spoke of husbands, and of the past before the accident.
The last time there had been any hope in the village had been years earlier when an official from a state office paid them a visit and gave a speech in the main street. Cameramen filmed the speech, and the next day the widows in the village gathered to watch the news on Tatiana’s large-screen television. The official spoke of buildings to house geneticists and botanical experts. He spoke of tourist business and perhaps a hotel in the village. He spoke of the Przewalski horses released and thriving in the region, and even of a national park visitor center.
Of course, none of this happened, and the women of the village, gaining ground on death as each year passed, had long ago lost hope. Sofya realized she was fingering the string of garlic around her neck as if it were a rosary. And as she did so, she came to a conclusion. All that remained for the women of her village was church. Nothing anyone said outside of church, especially when an official said it on television, could be trusted. And nothing told to them by the guards at the small guardhouse down the dirt road was even remotely close to the truth. Nothing had changed since the fall of the Soviet Union.
Everything in Ukraine was corrupt, and fences were put up to hide the corruption.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Although Nadia had been drugged, she was able to recall some of it. The older boys dressed as priests had rescued them from the Carpathian Mountains in springtime. She, Lyudmilla the skeleton, and another, whose name eluded her, were the three girls. Guri was the boy. The four of them packed into the back of the van with several boy soldiers on the long journey to what the boy soldiers called a camp for teens. Nadia recalled the boy soldiers giving them jeans and sweatshirts to wear, and also sedatives to take because of what had been taking place when they were rescued. Nadia was not an idiot. She knew she and the others had been grabbed off the streets for videos because of how young they looked.
This was weeks earlier in cooler weather. Now, in summer, it was difficult calling this place an orphanage or a camp—especially a summer camp like the ones she’d heard of in Odessa. Everyone here simply called it “the peninsula” because geographically, that is exactly what it was—a wooded peninsula with water on three sides, and a fence on the fourth side. Life here was totally unlike life on Kiev’s streets, blending in like a tourist in brightly colored clothing, searching for unbuttoned pockets and unclasped purses. Discipline here was not created from within. Here they were told discipline had roots in fertile Ukrainian soil and in orthodoxy.
Everyone on the peninsula wore the same jeans and blue sweatshirts. Not really the same ones, but that was the way Nadia said it to anyone who would listen in order to get a laugh here and there. There weren’t many laughs because of the daytime pill given to calm nerves and keep the buzz alive, and the so-called knockout pill given at night. The newcomers, called “happy campers,” performed chores much of the time and, when not drugged to the depths of sleep, they either studied the Russian Orthodox Bible
Similar Books
