Opalescence- the Secret of Pripyat Read online

  The evocation of Chernobyl affected any human being. No one remained indifferent. For many, this accident was the ultimate proof of the danger of nuclear power. It was a kind of warning that would have been renewed in 2011 with the Fukushima incident. Chernobyl had become the unstoppable argument of the anti-nuclear activists. It does not matter if nuclear energy had saved millions of lives as a result of its substitution for coal. The radioactive pictogram and the associated imaginary had penetrated the minds and never came out again. Thus, it was easy to fear that all reactors in the world could face a similar fate to that of Chernobyl Reactor No. 4. Hundreds of potentially cataclysmic global threats could occur at any time. It was necessary to live with constant fear and prevent the perpetual danger of a new accident. And yet, I found myself there, wandering between the remains of this abandoned city.

  Silence overwhelmed me with questions, thoughts that swirled around.

  Oleksandr wandered casually, hands in his pockets, gum in his mouth. I was starting the conversation to find out more.

  —How many people worked at the plant on that April 26, 1986?

  —I already answered you in the car, officially 600 employees were present on site on the day of the accident.

  —I guess they all died instantly?

  —Not at all. A handful of them immediately died in the explosion. Just over 100 people were diagnosed with acute radiation syndrome and nearly 30 died in the following months. The others are unharmed. On the other hand, many liquidators have developed cataracts while thousands of children have suffered from thyroid disorders. Even today many people are still medically assisted and studied, especially in Belarus.

  —What are we risking in practice?

  —Nothing at all. Don’t worry, not much will happen to you during those few hours here with me. Avoid dangerous places and behaviours. I know the Zone better than anyone. Do you have a place you want to see first?

  —Where is the sports complex? I asked.

  He pointed to a building.

  Although I had passed it dozens of times, I would never have recognised it. It seemed new to me.

  —I’m waiting for you there, don’t hang around too much, it’s very busy around here.

  Unable to know whether his sentence was ironic or not, I was heading for the Azure Pool. This famous swimming pool. Now idolised by gamers all over the world, it was once a commonplace of relaxation, where the youth of Pripyat could enjoy swimming and other aquatic pleasures. Our parents took us there as often as possible, to rest and let us unwind on weekends. The exercise was important under the Soviet Union, as was the greatness of communist ideology, of which Fizkultura was conceived as a driving force. The bourgeoisie had to be evacuated with fathoms and acrobatic dives. You had to become champions, have a sense of effort and be among the best to represent your country in major international competitions.

  I walked through the gym and its basketball court with its dislocated parquet floor. Slightly tense, I cross a doorway to reach the pool. He appears in front of me, appearing almost violently in my eyes. I started to have a knotted stomach, but decided to get closer to the edge, remembering the first time. I had learned to swim in that pool. The smell of chlorine, cold tiles, fog on the windows, the whistle of the lifeguard. These feelings came back to me, possessed me. Moody, I felt the need to touch the small diving board, the only one I had dared to use during my childhood. Stripped of water, the basin seemed larger, deeper, more threatening too. Its walls were decorated with quite ugly graffiti. The vandals had been there too.

  Surprisingly, the site did not appear to be any better preserved than the rest of Pripyat’s facilities. Indeed, the Azure pool had been abandoned a decade after the disaster; it had benefited from the attendance of workers employed on the damaged reactor and should therefore have been in a much better condition. The workers had been swimming in radioactive water for years. It was only in 1996 that its final evacuation was ordered, as the sanitary conditions were considered too critical. The roof was obsolete and elements had already come off. It was only a matter of time before it collapsed. One of the most iconic places in the city would then become a vast pile of rubble and buried memories.

  The glass facades obviously no longer existed, yawning gaps had replaced them, revealing an exterior that had previously been invisible due to condensation. Strangely, the clock was almost intact, the hands were well present and the red marked dial seemed ready for use. Was it the original? Not so sure. Despite an intense effort, I could not remember this detail. My thoughts were interrupted by the vibrations of my phone. It was Oleksandr. The fine man was still waiting outside. The message indicated to me laconically:

  “Come back.”

  Disappointed, I reluctantly left the sports complex. I would have liked to linger, remain in this symbolic place and confuse my memories with the present reality. This sudden departure made me want to return.

  I arrived outside, my heart a little frustrated, as if I had been torn from a sweet dream at the most critical moment, that of its fulfilment. In the distance already, the evening shadows were disseminating. The trees flickered to the rhythm of the wind and the darkness moved forward.

  Oleksandr was waiting for me, sluggishly slumped against a dying pine stump. He signalled to me that it was time to leave and we walked a few minutes through the forest, following a meagre path around the city. The mysterious Jeep appeared again, this time with another driver and led us to the breach of our arrival. In a hurry and without exchanging a word, we crossed the barbed wire a little like experienced fugitives. It was only once inside Oleksandr’s vehicle that he agreed to speak.

  —So did you like it? Did you see what you wanted?

  —In part. It was much too short, I wish I had more time. I feel a huge potential here.

  —Potential for what?

  —I don’t know. To discover, observe, interpret…

  —Are you planning on coming back?” asked Oleksandr, scratching his head, looking thoughtful.

  —Maybe. I don’t know if that’s possible, but I’d like to spend more time there.

  —All right, I could take you there a second time. Maybe we can camp on site.

  —Oh, really?

  Oleksandr did not answer. He was driving at full speed, kicking his steering wheel too fast. He wanted to avoid patrols, because we had no authorisation and our expedition was totally illegal. The engine was rumbling and the tires were squealing. The heating was not working. Outside, the mystery of the fog was spreading.

  That was the end of my first foray into the Zone. I had only been there for two hours, it was insufficient and particularly frustrating. I felt like I had sneaked a glimpse of my past, of having caressed buried memories. I now wanted to take it and explore these remains. I felt disappointed, I had not entered any building other than the sports centre or visited any neighbourhood. Images were running through my head, building facades, silhouettes of trees. There was so much to see, so much to discover. My brief meeting with Pripyat could not stop there. In Oleksandr’s car, I was slumped on my seat in an almost religious way, my eyes closed and my hands joined. Absorbed by the silence, I was already planning my return.

  Chapter 2 — Touchdown

  A few days later. 4:54 p.m., around the Zone.

  My GPS was clear, I was less than 300 meters from the breach, the access so much sought. I had taken care to discreetly note the coordinates in my phone during my first incursion. This time I’ll go without Oleksandr. I wanted to confront myself alone with my memories.

  I entered the Night Zone, fed by adrenaline and proudly wearing my infrared glasses. For this little adventure, I had meticulously equipped myself. I had brought a tent, a sleeping bag and various equipment: a HD camcorder and a thermal camera to keep track of my observations and finally a distress beacon in case I got lost. Provisions too. There is no question of finding a fast food restaurant or picking up contaminated mushrooms. Finally, I had hidden a knife in a
secret pocket with the candid hope of not having to use it. No specific itinerary had been planned. I’ll improvise.

  I walked quickly through the forest, following a semblance of a trail. Not very agile, but determined, my steps creaked in the snow while my head avoided as best it could the branches that seemed to want to grab me, dissuade me from continuing my journey. I had no fears. The adrenaline and excitement of the broken prohibition ran through my body, diffusing a new and oh so tasty energy! I didn’t know exactly what I was going to do in the area, the important thing was to go there, to see, feel, touch and breathe. So I left without a clear plan. My instincts alone would guide me.

  I was thinking of spending two or three nights in the Zone. Probably more. There was obviously no question of sleeping at the Chernobyl Hotel, this hideous building built to accommodate falsely intrepid tourists. I’ll go to Pripyat to sleep, like in the good old days.

  Contrary to popular belief, the exclusion zone is indeed inhabited, and not only by Babushkas. Administrative staff were responsible for managing the huge territory. There were also technicians whose mission was to watch over the sarcophagus and cleaning operations, but also scientists or simply inhabitants who had chosen to return. As a result, anyone entering the Chernobyl exclusion zone can observe buildings with episodically bright windows and where almost normal lives seem to be taking place. According to Oleksandr, the city of Chernobyl even had a bar where a cable TV broadcast old football matches, all to Maradona’s glory. The barter was almost always empty in winter, few workers were present in the Zone at that time.

  I walked along the first buildings pretending to look normal despite my outfit. With my draw and equipment, I didn’t look like an administrative employee or a forest ranger at all. Anyway, the few souls present didn’t pay attention to me. I would blend into the environment as I had imagined. However, things did not go exactly as they did in my previous incursion. Quite quickly, a voice haunted me first in Ukrainian and then in Russian. I had been in the Zone for less than an hour and a uniformed guard had already spotted me. A threatening tone and harsh words were repeated. I stopped moving and saw an angry man coming to meet me. He was skinny and looked dark. Her cheeks were hollowed out while her eyes were surrounded by thick rings. He barked at me when he grabbed his truncheon. I must have frightened him with my black suit and my nervous look. I raised my arms to signify my non-violence. He lowered his weapon and waved at me to approach.

  Was it possible to negotiate? Ukraine’s extremely difficult economic situation made corruption easy. A few words exchanged and a 50 euro note were more than enough to persuade the soldier who had intercepted me. Despite the smoking ban in the exclusion zone, the guard offered me a cigarette and we left each other good friends. I could go back on the road calmly. The first obstacle was overcome.

  I was now warned: I had to be discreet and avoid patrols. The curfew for the Zone was set at 8 p.m. by the authorities. The last groups of tourists had to leave the Zone’s perimeter, otherwise the agencies would be subject to heavy fines. My expedition would only be beginning.

  Driven by excitement, I trotted through the forest, amazed to be achieving what I had been aspiring to for many years.

  With the help of my compass, I tried to head towards what I thought was Pripyat’s position. My breathing was gasping, but I didn’t feel tired. Here and there, I could see shadows emerging through the mist and snowstorms. Pale and mysterious shapes followed one another, reinforcing my amazement. Then came the long-awaited contrast. A dark silhouette appeared behind the trees, hinting at the proximity of the city. I finally arrived in Pripyat with a tight heart and shortness of breath.

  Discovering this place without Oleksandr was much more appealing. A rather prodigious feeling of freedom overwhelmed me. I was walking around the city like exploring a dream kingdom. The blocks of buildings stood one after the other in a completely Soviet anarchy. The boulevards of Pripyat were once intimidating. Of course, they did not have the grandeur of those in Paris or Bucharest, but they aerated the city and made traffic flow more smoothly. Thousands of broken windows opened up to my observant gaze. They had sheltered scenes of life, dramas, joys, loves. A little further on, I was following an old bicycle path. Almost invisible, it was totally devastated by the growth of wild shrubs. No one could have imagined that she had been there, but I was convinced of her past existence. I had cycled it many times on my blue tricycle, pedalling at full speed as if to defy gravity and escape boredom.

  The night was beginning to fall, the cold was settling quietly, gradually catching me off guard. The fog was back too. I had to find a refuge, a place to slumber. For no specific reason, I chose an imposing building that would serve as a shelter for the night. It seemed high enough to contain many apartments, some of which I hope would be suitable for peaceful sleeping. The elevator was on the ground floor, with its doors wide open and ready to swallow the reckless people who would dare approach it. I preferred to attempt the stairs and started climbing the dusty steps, listening only to the sound of my panting breath. I stopped at random on the 7th floor of the building, looking for an apartment where I could spend the night in peace. The vast majority of the dwellings were either totally empty or damaged, victims of looting and other prowlers who had degraded the premises over the past thirty years. However, I finally found the Grail: a small hovel with a view of Pripyat and its Ferris Wheel.

  The main room was almost bare, but inspired rest and confidence. Despite the smells of dust and cement, I almost felt a warm atmosphere, like the one that characterised the return to a home. Children’s posters covered the floor. They were illegible and discoloured, but looked authentic. I quietly unfolded my down while humming an old Scandinavian tune. I would use my bag as a pillow. I couldn’t help but barricade the door in case someone tried to get in while I was sleeping. Reassured, I snuggled up in my sleeping bag, rocked by the regular whispers of the Geiger counter. The night would be chilly, uncomfortable and dangerous. But it doesn’t matter. I was in Pripyat.

  ***

  In the early morning, I woke up serenely although slightly sore, joyfully attending the early morning show. The sun gradually rose, its rays caressing the surface of the trees. In the distance, the Belarusian peaks could be seen, piercing the few pale orange clouds that accompanied the first rays of daylight. Seduced by this scenery, I almost forgot to restart my Geiger counter.

  0.2 microsieverts: the repeated and almost comforting sound signal was back, the day could start.

  I promptly repacked and pulled myself out of the room with the concern of leaving no trace of my passage, rushing down the stairs to get back outside. Pripyat in the early morning was sumptuously calm. Not even the wind could be heard. My senses were not yet fully effective and the daydream had not completely deserted my misty mind. A certain nonchalance dwelt in me as if I was moving forward on familiar ground.

  There was something supernatural to wander the avenues of Pripyat. This succession of empty buildings, which seemed to be staring at me more than I was contemplating them, created a paranoid feeling in me. The similar appearance of the buildings and the maniacal geometry of the place gave the impression of being in a labyrinth, a post-apocalyptic dream of which I was both the instigator and the witness. The city was not that large, but the growth of trees through the asphalt misled and confused my sense of direction. Winter and its pale shades caused confusion by increasing the contrast in my field of vision. The calm was only upset by the sound of my footsteps in the snow. Light steps, naive steps.

  I dreamed of a breakfast while knowing that it would be illusory. The berries were contaminated and I wasn’t ready to take that risk. I walked my way on an empty stomach, driven by the crazy desire to find the building of my childhood; my first home abandoned more than 30 years ago.

  I walked alone through this orphaned maze in search of the cultural centre. The building was easily recognisable, it would be my landmark in this labyrinth. The Ferris wheel that ha
d observed my sleep was no longer distinguishable. I was struck by the atmosphere of the place. Not a single bird was slipping into the sky. There was a striking calm, an almost magical and yet very natural tranquility. Here, the human senses are disoriented. They who are so used to associating these wide streets lined with buildings with a bustle of activity, with sounds of everyday life, saw themselves here disoriented by their landmarks, forced to reinterpret the environment around them.

  In Pripyat, perceptions are alert, but the mind is relaxed. Silence found a particular resonance in these snow-covered trees that grew here and there, in defiance of all urban planning considerations, of all human planning. The icy appearance of the surroundings gave the illusion that the city had indeed been preserved despite any chronology. A telephone booth, Soviet propaganda signs… No doubt about it, time had really gone wrong in Pripyat. The city had fully perpetuated its jewellery from the 1970s. At least that’s what I thought until my eyes distinguished a caricature of Donald Trump painted on an ordinary wall. Thus, Street-art had not spared the Zone. Other drawings, quite successful, adorned facades or walls: animals but also radioactive pictograms. Travellers of all kinds had to have a good time decorating the area. The Zone had become their favourite playground.

  I couldn’t find my apartment. I had been walking around for several hours now without any real purpose. I was hungry and exhausted by the cold. I chose to leave Pripyat and turn back towards the city of Chernobyl, which took me a good hour. I had an idea to find something to eat. I decided to go to the cafeteria where the workers of the Zone and some tourists ate lunch.Inside, I pretended to be a journalist who had just arrived in search of testimonies to feed my report. At first, no one really paid attention to me, everyone was focusing on food. This one was basic, but tasty. There was no health risk, because it came from outside the Zone, at least that’s what they said. Potatoes, onions, cabbage… No doubt about it, I was in the Slavic country. The workers were happily seated and chatting loudly. All these little people were eating without restraint. Once the belly was well filled, everyone would return to their various occupations and face the becquerels.