Opalescence- the Secret of Pripyat Read online

  OPALESCENCE: The Secret of Pripyat

  Amaury Dreher

  Copyright © 2019 Amaury Dreher

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN 9781713414117

  To caffeine and wine, my most loyal allies in these nights of writing.

  Prologue

  25 April 1986

  The sun was high up in the sky. It calmly dominated the city in an almost proud way. Kids, looking cheerful, ran down wide avenues lined with pine trees with burning peaks. The clothes became lighter. A bucolic atmosphere spread, delighting the daily life of the inhabitants. Summer was approaching in Pripyat.

  I was 8 years old at the time. Enveloped in this childish innocence, I led a peaceful and happy life in this Soviet country, which had seen me born and then grow up.

  My father worked at the Chernobyl power plant as a maintenance operator. This nuclear power plant composed of 4 RBMK reactors with a power of 1000 megawatts was the pride of the USSR. As a symbol of Soviet modernity, it was also the guarantee of Pripyat’s prosperity. There, a large part of the inhabitants were bustling to operate the gigantic nuclear complex, while the rest of its population was employed in other strategic sectors such as manufacturing or steelmaking.

  The industry was flourishing and the plant was producing the electricity needed for the region. For us, the fission of atoms was crucial. That was our future guarantee. No one then questioned this source of energy, which was essential to our development. In addition, two new reactors were under construction near the plant and the huge cooling towers that were elevating in the sky could already be seen.

  My father was delighted: the activity was running at full capacity and the promise of a better life was on the horizon. My mother was a secretary at the city hospital. An industrious and introverted woman. She would soon have the right to rest, my little sister being born soon. His name had not yet been decreed, my parents had not agreed and my father was too occupied to think about it calmly. Every day, he was busy with enthusiasm, happy to go to work. He left the apartment in a meticulous manner, in a well-established routine, his perfectly ironed blue-grey plaid shirt and a few cigarettes in his pockets. A horribly bitter coffee for breakfast was the last stop before his departure. He parked daily in the 400-space car park dedicated to the plant’s employees and went to inspect the gigantic reactor No. 4 to detect and correct anomalies. His role was important, he guaranteed the safety of operations and the proper functioning of equipment. It was one of the components of the vast mechanism that ensured Pripyat’s success.

  It must be said that life in Pripyat was pleasant. At least by Soviet standards we couldn’t complain. Our apartment was cramped, but cozy. Without claiming luxury, we had all the necessary comfort. We would probably have to look for a bigger place to live when my sister is born, but that shouldn’t be a problem. My family and I cherished this city.

  While Pripyat was originally designed to house the huge workforce to operate the Chernobyl power plant, the city also had a showcase role, it was supposed to represent the urban modernism of the Soviet Union. Pripyat thus possessed all the contemporary equipment necessary for the well-being of its population: in particular a cultural centre, a cinema and dozens of shops where one could buy all kinds of handicrafts approved by the Party. There was no boredom in Pripyat. Of course, any comparison with a large western city would be absurd. Meat was extremely rare, if not completely absent, the press was not free and justice was a fantasy. However, some progress was emerging. The roar of modernity was familiar to us.

  Education was not to be outdone: 15 primary schools had been built with a total capacity of 5000 pupils. Similarly, 5 middle schools and a high school completed the school system. Maternity, on the other hand, saw the birth of 1000 babies each year; enough to properly renew the population of Pripyat and meet the challenge of demography. Everything had been carefully planned, the high authorities had thought of everything. The city was flourishing and particularly young. The average age of its population was estimated at 26 years. A certain dynamism was emerging, suggesting hope for a bright and promising future.

  Located 130 kilometres north of Kiev and 17 kilometres from the Belarusian border, the Chernobyl site was chosen for many practical reasons, such as the topology of the area. The nearby river provided cooling for the reactors during their operations and offered the promise of an efficient river navigation.

  My family arrived in Pripyat exactly seven years ago. So I had no memory of my previous existence, of my first trials and errors as a human being. I had grown up in the same neighbourhood and my childhood had been shaped by this routine, this Soviet and contemporary way of life that Pripyat was trying to embody. At least that’s what we were learning in school. A modern city, for a great country that dominates the world.

  Thus Pripyat would be the cradle of a utopia, a beautiful illusion where communism flourished joyfully and without hindrance.

  At this time in April 1986, I was looking forward to the opening of the fair, which was imminent. The bumper cars had been installed and proudly displayed in plain view. Swings were available in the parks and most of them were already ready for use. The famous Ferris wheel had carried out some rotation tests and stood triumphantly in the sky of Pripyat, its small yellow suspended pods attracting the attention of the curious. Everything was ready for the inauguration in a few days. The kids were rejoicing, eager to take on this carefree lightness. They dreamed of crowning their childhood with aerial escapades, contemplative pleasures in the sky of Pripyat.

  26 April 1986

  The inauguration of the fair never took place. Officially, the Pripyat Ferris wheel had never worked. No children had boarded it.

  My first memory of the disaster was from a mathematics class. On that ordinary day, I went to school as usual, reluctantly, with a grumpy mind. The day was pure and cloudless. We were doing a myriad of calculations, each more boring than the next, when someone knocked frantically at the door. I remembered perfectly the gravity that animated the director’s face when he suddenly entered the classroom, mountaineering our teacher. Together, they talked at length in the corridor, allowing us a few minutes of improvised heckling and anarchy. Notebooks were flying, ink was spilling, we were madly happy with the lack of authority, a temporary but total freedom.

  The teacher finally reappeared at the door, armed with her usual dumb smile. She gave us tablets: “candies to congratulate us on the work we did during the year”. The Party was generous, we were happy. These solutions of radioactive iodine were actually intended to prevent the devastating effects of the radiation that was being propagated without everyone’s knowledge. The teacher herself was unaware of the seriousness of the situation. She had vaguely understood that an accident had occurred and that some remedies should be given out as a precaution. The director had not been too cluttered with details. Panic had to be avoided, security distilled and calm ensured without betraying the secret of the crucial information he held. The Glasnost praised by Gorbachev found its limits. The rest of the class went smoothly and we were allowed to leave the school.

  When I came home from school, I noticed a change of atmosphere in the streets. The morning lull had turned into an almost invisible, but palpable tension. Some rare adults had nervous behaviour. They spoke quickly and loudly, scratching their heads continuously as if they were looking for an answer to an unsolvable problem. The others went about their business without expressing any concern, suggesting that what was going on did not concern them or was not of sufficient importance to them.

  Spurred on by curiosity, I decided to make a detour to the station and approach the edge of the forest where a small gathering had formed.
The trees were tall enough and prevented me from seeing more. I went around the pines and started climbing the hill overlooking Pripyat. In the distance, some kids were clinging to the railing of the bridge that culminated on the railway track and was later renamed the Death Bridge. From there, they could see the chaos of the power plant and the grey smoke rising in the sky. The distance probably prevented them from hearing, but their eyes remained stuck in front of the cloud of flames and dust that rose tirelessly. The show was undoubtedly striking, but above all it was deadly. They were unaware that they were exposing themselves to phenomenal doses of radiation that would not give them a chance. I remained several seconds to observe, trying to find an explanation as if my reasoning should replace that of the adults in charge of the plant. But the smoke made me uncomfortable. Instinctively, I turned around and turned back. I arrived at the family apartment on the double pace.

  My mother and I were only alerted to the seriousness of the accident in the evening after the explosion, almost fifteen hours later, when my father returned home. He was woken up in the middle of the night and then rushed to the reactor to participate in the operations. Without his usual calm, he rushed to the scene and only came back exhausted with an anxious look. Misery of information, he made us swallow new tablets, similar to those in math class.

  “I have to go to the nuclear power plant. I won’t be back until tomorrow morning. Avoid going out. And above all, don’t open the windows!”

  He had spoken these last words in manifest agitation. He, who was usually so calm and serene, seemed very worried. It was only later that I understood what had happened.

  Shortly after 1:20 a.m., an experiment in the plant had slipped. The back-up systems had been deactivated, the temperature had risen, causing a chain reaction and a phenomenal explosion. Crumbs from the building were ejected at an altitude of several kilometres. Nevertheless, the day in Pripyat had gone almost normally, everyone going about their various occupations. The fumes in the sky were content to fuel conversations, to arouse curiosity at most. Few people were really aware of the seriousness of the events. The kids were joyfully rolling around in the grass as if nothing had happened. In the surrounding countryside, villagers persisted in drawing water and working the land. They had not been warned and were in no way aware of the risks. The constituent of their labour was now soiled. Their survival element had become lethal. But no matter what, life went on.

  27 April 1986

  Around 1:00 p.m. the sentence fell. Local radio stations were broadcasting the same message over and over again: “Be careful, be careful! Dear comrades, following an accident at the Chernobyl nuclear power plant, a situation of unfavourable radioactivity has appeared in the city of Pripyat.”

  The authorities were stingy with information, but they had finally taken matters into their own hands. An exclusion zone was determined. We were forced to flee. The priority was to evacuate Pripyat and the surrounding villages.

  During the day, new iodine pills were distributed without further explanation. The authorities had indicated that the inhabitants had to leave and take only the really necessary things, it was only temporary, they would come back in three days and everything would be an anecdote, an exciting story to tell later in the families.

  From this point of view at least, the Soviet organisation was exemplary. 1200 buses had been chartered for the operations, lined up 25 kilometres long and ready to take us on board. The logistical feat had worked. It only took 3 hours for the city to be completely evacuated. 50,000 people had left their homes without suspecting that they would never return. Would they have fled if they had been aware of the irreversibility of their action?

  Innocent, but not naive, I understood quite quickly that a serious event had occurred. My father had an unusual behaviour, both nervous and fearful. It didn’t look like him. My mother sobbed and didn’t talk, just packing things, her fingers shaking. I left my toys, books and all my personal belongings. I had to abandon my newly assembled wooden train. The family photo hanging on the living room wall was ripped off, it would come with us. My father stuffed the suitcase in a hurry with provisions. In his approach, I understood that we are fleeing out of disaster and not as a precaution.

  The other families seemed more serene, almost carefree. They looked like they were taking the evacuation in a light tone. Some of my friends laughed, the nervous behaviour of the police officers amused them. The panic of the authorities was pleasing to them. I couldn’t characterize my emotion. I was observing without understanding. I was interpreting without concluding. My childhood intuition suggested fears to me. Despite the general attempts at appeasement, a deep anguish had sprouted in me. I looked at it 180 degrees, slowly scrutinizing the stirring of the teeming city. A scent of tension was floating in the air. I was convinced, however, that this was not my last look at these buildings. I would see them again, I was convinced of it. In the meantime, we had to flee, rush to safety.

  A noise was coming from a building nearby. The trouble was caused by an individual barricaded in his apartment. He stubbornly refused to leave. The neighbours tried to reason with him, but the scoundrel was determined to stay. He was entrenched with a weapon, they said. Some shouted, “Leave him in his madness, he might shoot.” A man more resolute than the others took the lead and broke down the shattered door. He grabbed the refractory petrified with panic and propelled him outside the apartment to force him into one of the yellow buses. He’d run away like everyone else. The evacuation had to be complete. There were several such anecdotes in history, but few had been recorded. The moment was unprecedented and uncertain.

  Of course, the evacuation order did not only concern Pripyat. The inhabitants of the various villages and hamlets in the surrounding area also had to rely on the exodus. The accident posed a serious risk for miles around, there was no question of compromising local populations. In order to clean up the environment and prevent future contamination, it was also agreed to eliminate animals in the area. Thus, thousands of dogs were brutally slaughtered with the hope that the survivors did not survive because of the radiation. Described a posteriori as genocide by some, this order was nevertheless executed in view of the risks.

  Meanwhile, at the power plant, the clash continued. About 40 helicopters took turns to contain the fierce fire that was constantly breaking out of the reactor core. Given the colossal level of radiation, the pilots had less than ten seconds to position themselves above the target and release their load. Sand, lead and concrete were dropped on the destroyed reactor to counter the flames. The release of radioactive fumes into the atmosphere had to be stopped, but above all a possible devastating nuclear reaction had to be prevented.

  However, in defiance of human attempts, cesium 137 was spreading tirelessly.

  Radiation is a tough threat: it is invisible, has no taste or smell and emits no noise. It is therefore impossible to locate them without adequate equipment. Our enemy being undetectable, we were totally ignorant of his presence and number. Of course, none of us had a Geiger counter and only the plant staff and some security forces had one. To avoid panic, they did not share any information with us. The secret of the actual state of the disaster was well kept.

  The Soviet government waited for the Swedish concerns of 28 April to officially acknowledge the accident. The Scandinavians had detected abnormally high levels of radioactivity and suspected the USSR. It was finally on the evening of that same day that Moscow announced to the world what had happened. The statement was made through the Russian news agency Tass, a simple message was recited by the presenter on television: “There was an accident at the Chernobyl nuclear power plant that destroyed one of the reactors. Measures have been taken to manage the situation and assistance is being provided to those affected. A commission of inquiry has been established.”

  The speech was brief: there was no need to dramatise even more an event whose significance no one understood at the time. However, this was not the first disaster related
to a nuclear power plant. Previously, incidents had been reported in several countries, including the United States. Nevertheless, the Three-Mile Island accident was not comparable. In Chernobyl, we were making history. The Soviet Union was facing one of the worst crises of its existence and the whole world was watching. The subject was the focus of all European and international news agencies. It hypnotised the ordinary citizens who were suspended in his twists and turns. The Soviet Union was in a delicate situation. It censored information for its own people, but was accountable to the rest of the world.

  On 29 April, Kiev was banned from foreign journalists and diplomats. The USSR was seeking to avoid the global panic that was spreading and would harm it. News of overcrowded hospitals and tens of thousands of deaths had reached the ears of several European newsrooms, raising fears and suspicions that would weaken the eastern bloc.

  Internationally, the reaction was organised. Many measures were taken, particularly in Poland, the Netherlands and Scandinavia, where it was recommended not to expose children to the outside world and to administer them certain preventive treatments. In Germany, the panic was vivid and skilfully exploited by some politicians leading thousands of women to seek abortions as precautionary measure. As for France, the misinformation scandal that had shaken it is still held up today as an example of the necessary mistrust of the media. While Switzerland was on alert, a French television presenter announced unreservedly that the radioactive cloud had not penetrated the territory and had moved to the German border by some meteorological miracle. Weeks of cacophony followed, decades of legal proceedings were launched, some of which were recently concluded.

  In the Soviet Union, the fight continued to rage. Although Boris Yeltsin announced the end of the fire on May 5, 1986, the reactor was not yet out of trouble. The heat inside was still reaching 200 °C, making the containment and assembly of the temporary sarcophagus considerably more complex. In particular, Soviet engineers had been forced to build a huge underground pipeline several hundred metres long to supply nitrogen to be injected for cooling purposes. The challenge was daunting. Men were fighting against a real monster that they themselves had desired, given birth to and feared.