Opalescence- the Secret of Pripyat Page 2

  In the years that followed, thousands of workers were sent to the collapsed part of the roof of Reactor No. 4 to attempt a major decontamination. The approach was almost desperate, the means derisory. Each of them had 90 seconds, not one more. The intensity of the radiation was too high, they could die within minutes.

  Armed with simple shovels, they had to climb the ladder, do their job while counting in their heads, they knew that a misjudgment would reduce their life expectancy even further. Most of them died in the years following their mission. Others, still alive, had escaped at the cost of disability and incurable illness. Today their struggle has been illustrated by many films and historical documents. A monument has even been erected in recognition of them. Located in the heart of the exclusion zone, it is one of the first stops on the various tourist excursions. Thus the visitor has the opportunity to contemplate a rather confusing grey structure enveloping a replica of the famous evacuation chimney. Liquidators had been carved on the side, armed with shovels, helmets and water hoses. They were anonymous heroes who had been sacrificed at the altar of an apocalyptic emergency.

  If there was an unknown episode of this event, it was the trial that followed. In the summer of 1987, plant personnel were forced to appear before a specially constituted court. Foreign journalists were invited to attend the hearings. The process was strictly regulated and their access time was limited. For some, the trial was a farce. Thus, no international observer had the privilege of being present for the entire procedure.

  To meet the requirements of the law in force, the trial took place in the exclusion zone, at about fifteen kilometres southeast of the destroyed reactor. The hearings lasted three weeks and left little written evidence. The Board of Inquiry concluded that the staff were negligent and that they had violated the rules and instructions regarding the management of the reactor. Of course, the inhabitants of the Soviet Union were not informed of the progress of the trial. To do so, they had to manage to listen to western radio broadcasts, particularly those of the BBC.

  Although the disaster had been investigated, explained and judged, its impact remained unchanged. My family had fled like all the others. The question of return was never asked.

  My father had been in the front row and had been exposed to huge amounts of radiation. He was admitted to a hospital in Moscow where a special unit had been set up to treat the victims of the accident. The facility was overcrowded, the doctors overwhelmed. More than the number, it was the incurability of patients that was the problem. Soviet nurses tried to reassure them with desperate promises and forced smiles. Every day new liquidators were welcomed. They were cared for by comforting their wives. Some cried, others hoped.

  My father suspected he was condemned. He had accepted the idea of his own death with almost suicidal ease. Faced with the certainty of the outcome, the doctors allowed him to return to Ukraine. He wanted to see his native land one last time. His fate was sealed, his departure would free up places to receive new wounded. I was confused by his courage, but my mother didn’t seem surprised. She had always known him like that. Yet she avoided his presence and almost never gave him the floor again. Her condition was deteriorating and she had difficulty with the sight of her dying husband.

  In the fall of 1988, he lost the use of his eyes. Medicine had succeeded in prolonging his existence, but his senses were perishing. The cataract was accompanied by a rather significant hair loss, bleeding and endless stomach pains. His physical balance was increasingly precarious. He was forced to return to Moscow in this sordid hospital. Doctors predicted three weeks of life expectancy. He died two months later.

  His death had been anticipated, even expected. He had been one of the first people sent to the site and had been exposed to much higher levels of radiation than the hundreds of thousands of liquidators who later worked on the site. My mother received a medal and decided to bury it in an old chest of drawers. A few years later she married a Viennese architect. For fear of malformation, she had chosen to have an abortion. My sister was never born and I remained the only child I dreamed of no longer being.

  For some reason, I gradually lost contact with my mother. Our emotional bond had slowly evaporated. After the age of thirty, our encounters became rarer, more impersonal too, until they became non-existent. Her Austrian husband may have made efforts to accept and educate me, but I had little empathy for him. He was a deceitful being, a manipulator with a voice too confident and teeth too white to be honest. But he was wealthy and enjoyed resplendent social circles, I had no choice but to consent to his presence with my mother.

  I began my life as an independent adult in self-sufficiency, sheltered from any family structure. My father-in-law had found me a job as a fairly well-paid advertiser. I remembered thanking him for a vigorous but insincere handshake. A few months later, I decided to resign and start a career as a journalist.

  I was sent to do soporific subjects, but I was happy with them. That was three or four years ago, I didn’t know exactly. Time had passed and had plunged me into a soothing inertia. My life was lacklustre, the routine was suffocating me. The boredom of a smooth and dull existence was waiting for me. I would probably end up swallowing Prozac in my days watching the rain fall through the window. This perspective seemed to be the only possible way out.

  However, one event managed to turn me away from my daily slump. In 2014, the uprising in Maidan Square revived a sleeping blaze. Like many revolutions, its onset was troubled. Legitimate claims had become entangled in violence with dubious motives. Ukraine was in the spotlight of the media, making the continuous news channels satisfied.

  I was following events with interest. The popular uprising quickly turned into an armed conflict. The belligerents seemed more heterogeneous than in the beginning. Acts of violence were on the increase, as were suspicions of external interference. Bloody images followed one another in a loop. Kiev had caught fire. World bodies and political leaders condemned statements, press releases and attempts at international mediation in all directions.

  The conflict became too complex for the average viewer, his media coverage was no longer worth it. In a final programme analysing the events, one of the reporters mentioned the Chernobyl region, where huge works were underway. This allusion captures my heart. In the face of the uproar of the revolution, the other battle of Ukraine had almost been forgotten. The resonance of this name has always had a special meaning for me. The memory of my father, the identity that my mother had tried to deny, the memory that she had hidden from me, all of a sudden seemed to reappear.

  My newspaper in Vienna boasted a “sharp and nonpartisan” editorial line. I suggested to my Editor-in-chief the idea of writing a paper on the situation in Ukraine. Faced with the immediate nature of the events and the nature of my origins, he immediately accepted without asking too many questions. I was sent to do a report on this new Ukraine and the so-called split that threatened its population. I had to deal with highly political and sensitive subjects such as the annexation of the Crimea or the war in the Donbass. Ukraine was divided, so was the world. Hard work was on the way.

  I was bored with politics. I dared to admit it only too little, but it was only a pretext to go there. Something deeper was driving me in this return to Ukraine. An intimate twitch, a kind of imperceptible intuition stretched out my arms. I would come back to childhood lands, abandoned and unknown areas that I wanted to understand. Pripyat had seen me grow up, it was the witness of my young existence. I felt a deep attachment to it. My first memories of being human were rooted there. Not going to Pripyat would be a denial of my identity. I had to go to there. Now I wanted to revive that past, lift the veil of my childhood and unlock the secret of my origins. The decision was made. The venom of this crazy idea was spreading too quickly in me. Damn the Maidan uprising, I would go to the Chernobyl exclusion zone.

  FIRST PART

  Chapter 1 — Reunions

  32 years after the reactor explosion.

  A deba
te was raging in Ukraine over the operation of the plant site. As the Zone was already condemned, should nuclear waste from the rest of Ukraine be stored there? Could Chernobyl become the nuclear wastebasket of the whole of Europe?

  Yet brand new photovoltaic panels had been installed 150 metres from the sarcophagus, suggesting a possible healthy conversion. Nevertheless, the lack of sunlight in the region and the low efficiency of the panels left experts sceptical. The project was more symbolic than necessary. The problem of nuclear waste was more urgent. Storage spaces had already been set up before the disaster and their operation continued despite the various maintenance scandals that affected them. The exclusion zone finally seemed to be under control. Radioactivity had fallen and workers from all over the world were present for the work.

  The place had taken on a whole new dimension. Once a place to flee, it had become a curiosity; unhealthy for some, captivating for others. It was said that the Zone was infested with legends. Double-headed wolves, piglets with deformed eyes and giant ants were supposed to thrive there. The genetics would have gone wild because of the radiation and the natural order would have been disrupted. The Internet was full of paranormal anecdotes and miscellaneous facts about monstrous anomalies that fuelled the imagination of the most naive. Photographs and even pseudo-scientific surveys had been carried out to measure the extent and truthfulness of these myths. For example, a famous American blogger had visited the Zone and published several mysterious photos coupled with dubious stories. One of them was a kind of female ghost wandering around the Pripyat stadium. Obviously, these deceitful actions triggered passions and interest around the Zone grew exponentially. The tourists, more and more numerous, came continuously. They carried the risk of an accident because of their sometimes borderline or even perfectly shameful behaviour.

  The Zone had become a semblance of an amusement park. Visitors, although theoretically supervised, were engaged in activities such as drone races or ascents of the Pripyat Ferris wheel. Some people did not hesitate to handle contaminated objects in order to find the right angle, the proper light to take the perfect picture. A Dutch couple had even promised to marry each other in the small church of St. Elias, a few miles from the power station. In short, things were getting out of hand. Sooner or later, a death would happen. Pripyat’s buildings were in danger of collapsing while the stupidity of visitors worsened. Every day the risk increased, raising the spectre of a tragedy. Stalkers’ arrests were increasing. These lonely prowlers were legion. Some were caught in the act of theft, fire. Drugs and condoms had even been discovered in the crane at the docks. For many, the exclusion zone was nothing more than an outlet.

  I myself had wondered about the opportunity to go there. Was the painting so black? Was it immoral to visit the Zone?

  Basically, I knew that my expedition was not really different from those of the Stalkers. I was driven by the same curiosity and found myself indifferent or unconscious in the face of danger. I wanted to see, feel, understand this place that had shaped my childhood and the destiny of the whole of Europe. I wanted to take part in this enigma, to embrace this ode to the vagrancy that attracted so many people.

  The exclusion zone was both fascinating and frightening. While the nuclear accident was an undeniable tragedy, it had also had unthinkable positive effects until then. Radioactivity had defeated human activity, but not wildlife. It was with amazement and satisfaction that the scientists observed an increase in the number of certain so-called condemned species. Thus, lynxes, beavers, wolves and other bears had gradually multiplied in the region. The experts were struggling to understand, to explain the reasons for this prosperity. The inhabitants of the exclusion zone seemed to compromise animal life much more than radioactivity. Cesium 137 was less fearsome than the human specie. Iodine-131 was devilishly threatening, but its half-life period was just over 8 days, which made it harmless for the expedition I was planning. According to the scientists, other radioactive elements remained harmful, but I decided to ignore them.

  There are several ways to enter the exclusion zone. The first and easiest way is to book a trip with one of the agencies specially approved by the Ukrainian government. If the proposed excursion is unique in its kind, it remains nevertheless formatted and more or less supervised: the guide who accompanies you has full power over the course of the day. The visitor only follows a pre-established and marked program, much like walking through a large museum with signs announcing the direction to follow. The second option, much more interesting, is the pure and simple intrusion into the Zone in an illegal manner by sneaking through the barbed wire wall and the various breaches it contains. To do this, it was better to have reliable information in order to know the flaws in the gigantic fence. It was also necessary to master the topology of the area and the organisation of military patrols. The operation was risky, which is what made it attractive.

  Fortunately, I had a sidekick who would accompany me. I met him at a bar in downtown Kiev. By chance, our conversation had focused on Chernobyl and I told him about my plan to go there.

  Oleksandr was a former guide who had decided to quit his job. Vagabonding in the Zone no longer interested him, not that it left him totally indifferent, but he had other plans, other more conventional aspirations and notably dictated by his new family obligations. He had nevertheless agreed to take me and to recompose his role as a guide one last time. Together, we would illegally enter the Zone to cross Pripyat. I had commissioned him for a brief ride, a few hours at most.

  A few days after our meeting he gave me an appointment not far from Maidan Square. I got into his archaic van and headed northwest to reach the exclusion zone. As our project aimed to avoid military checkpoints, we had to drive through numerous fields, taking small paths as old as they were charming.

  Oleksandr seemed more and more nervous as we progressed. He knew what was in store for me. The path ended on a modest meadow where we left the vehicle to continue on foot. My companion knew a flaw in the fence, he just had to find it. The breach was delicate, but practicable. As soon as we crossed it, we walked several kilometres. Oleksandr briefed me quickly on the Zone. Various information, figures, anecdotes… He handed me a bright yellow Geiger counter with a fairly modern appearance. “Keep it with you at all times. Above all, never separate yourself from it. This thing can save your life. Without him you died in the Zone.” I nodded a little fearfully.

  We were arriving near an abandoned hunter’s cabin. Oleksandr indicated to me to stop any further movement. He still had some contacts on the spot. One of his former colleagues came behind the wheel of an old battered Jeep. She asked us to go up in the back and make us promise to forget about it after dropping us off. We drove for a few minutes, stimulating my impatience even more. While she was driving, I tried to stalk through the trees. The light was veiled and made observation laborious. Gigantic spruces followed one another at a dizzying pace. Their spiky trunks intimidated the most reckless of men. They seemed to jealously guard a precious commodity. Already, I felt the mischief of doubt in me. It was necessary to be brave and defy the summons.

  The jeep stopped abruptly. We had succeeded: Pripyat stood in front of us. Majestic and sinister, it challenged our senses. I was looking out, attentive to this vegetal and dilapidated environment. Rust was spreading everywhere. Corrosion progressed like a virus, it extended to all elements of scrap metal and blended very gracefully with the foam that also flourished. The ravages of time were omnipresent. Faced with this vision, the heart falters, the mind doubts and reason is tormented. I was looking at a scenery that was both anterior and futuristic, optimistic and dystopian. Was it the victory of Nature or the failure of Man?

  Oleksandr knew Pripyat very well, he had spent the last twenty years of his life guiding visitors on behalf of one of the best agencies that offered this type of excursion. However, he seemed to feel a certain detachment about the place, contrasting with my amazement, my emotion. For him it was just a huge urban dump, a Soviet
ruin synonymous with fresh money where all kinds of young people came in search of thrills.

  Oleksandr was born in Kiev, grew up and lived in Poland, and then moved back to Kiev to care for his ageing parents. He had not lived in Pripyat, he could not understand this exaltation that was rising in me as we progressed through the city. He remained indifferent, his arms hanging out, the indifferent face. I even had the impression that he hated Pripyat. Maybe he had gone through it too much. For my part, I had a very special feeling. The place was familiar to me without being identifiable, as if I had been walking through it with dreams for hours, without really ever having seen it. I concentrated on imagining it as my memories allowed. Only flashes came to me, images, scenes of urban life full of activity. I visualised the yellow colour of the buses during the evacuation, the cyclists at the stop, the queues, the then frightened but naive approach of the inhabitants.

  Vegetation had proliferated uncontrollably everywhere, blocking space and masking my field-of-view. The calm of the alleys was a decoy. A powerful symphony seemed ready to sound at any moment. It would spring from buildings and trees. Both macabre and triumphant, it would take everything in its path. I fully understood that the post-apocalyptic nature of this environment had been a source of inspiration. The Zone had happily inspired popular culture through many films, series, music and video games, most of which were very well made. The iconic symbols or places of the Zone were taken up and dramatised or even derided.