Chernobyl

Chapter 23

The Committee for State Security, or Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, is usually referred to by its Russian-language initials as the "KGB." It has been a constant presence in the life of every Soviet citizen as long as there has been a Soviet state. Its name has changed from time to time. So has its image — somewhat.

At the present time its image is still feared, but perhaps mostly as a looming presence offstage, somewhat as lung cancer is feared by a heavy smoker who won't quit anyway. It is no longer feared in quite the same way as in Stalin times — it was called the OGPU then, and later the NKVD — when it was feared as plague is feared during an epidemic, when death and destruction strike often, ruthlessly and seemingly at random.

The founder of the organization (which was then called by still a different name, the Cheka) was Felix Dzerzhinsky, the "divine Felix." (The great square in the center of Moscow that contains both the Lubyanka Prison and the city's most popular toy store is named after him.) It was said that Dzerzhinsky, if nothing else, was at least humanly fond of children. There is a story Russians tell about him. Once Dzerzhinsky was greeted at a railroad station by a pretty young girl who ran up to hand him a bunch of flowers. Dzerzhinsky hesitated for an awful moment. Then he smiled and patted the child on the head.

"So he can be kind, after all," one Muscovite breathed to another. "So it seems," said the other. "After all, he could have had her shot."

The first indication Smin had that the GehBehs were coming to visit him was when the nurse came hurriedly in to surround his bed with the heavy screens that were usually put around a patient who was terminally ill. "So I have company?" Smin asked, and was not surprised when the woman did not answer.

He sighed and propped himself up as best he could. He — was quite sure he knew what was coming. The screens could not be to shield him from the gaze of his roommate, because his roommate had been taken away to surgery the night before and had not returned. But it was a nuisance to have the interrogators come to question him now. The doctor taking his blood samples just an hour before had told him that his Comrade Plumber, Sheranchuk, had just been admitted to Hospital No. 6. Smin had been planning to put on his slippers and go out to plead with the head nurse to allow Sheranchuk to occupy the now vacant bed. Smin had been quite looking forward to having his Comrade Plumber in the room to talk to, especially because he was feeling, really, quite good. Those confounded blisters were still there, and his arms were sore from the dozens of needles that had been thrust into them for samples of blood and to pour other things into his veins; but he was in no particular pain.

Of course, that was only a temporary state, the result of the first transfusions of blood. The doctor had warned that his condition was critical. Smin didn't need to be told that. Although he had tried to refuse hospitalization, he knew quite well that those early blisters indicated something very wrong inside him. He was aware that this period of well-being might cjuite probably be the last such feeling he would ever have. He was determined to enjoy it while he had it.

And what a nuisance that the Chekists should turn up to spoil it!

There were two of them, of course. Smin saw immediately that these were the variety of GehBeh that advertised what it was. They could not wear the traditional slouch hats and trench coats in the hospital. They looked far less worrying in the white hospital gowns and caps all visitors were made to

wear. "So, Simyon Mikhailovitch," said the younger of the two agreeably, "they tell us you are feeling much better today."

"Temporarily," nodded Smin. Indeed, apart from the sores in his mouth and the weak dizziness and the diarrhea, he had been feeling fairly fit.

"Oh, I hope more than temporarily," beamed the other. "But those scars? Surely they are not from this disaster?"

Smin's sheet had fallen away, and the full extent of the wartime burn scars was visible. "Only an old memory," he said. "This, however" — he touched the little bandage where the doctors had pulled bone marrow out of his chest—"this is new, but unimportant. Surely you did not come here to discuss my health."

"In general, no," conceded the younger one. "But we are, of course, concerned. We don't want to distress you with questions if you aren't feeling well."

"Questions," Smin repeated. "I see. Please feel free to ask what you like."

And they did. Politely at first. Even almost deferentially. Then less so. "You are of course aware, Simyon Mikhailovitch, that the decisions of the Twenty-seventh Party Congress projected that nuclear electrical power generation is to double by 1990 to three hundred ninety billion kilowatt hours?" ("Of course," said Smin.) "And you are familiar with the assurance given by Chairman Andronik Petrosants of the USSR State Committee for the Use of Atomic Energy to the Central Committee, just three years ago, that the odds were a million to one against a disaster such as yours?"

"As mine?" Smin asked. "Are you calling it my disaster? Is that the same as accusing me of causing the explosion?"

"You were the senior administrator present, Comrade Smin. The Director was absent. That counts against him, and, in fact, he has already been removed from his post and expelled from the Party, as you are perhaps aware. But you were in charge while he was away."

"Actually," Smin remarked, "I wasn't present either. I was off duty when the explosion occurred."

"Indeed you were," said the other one severely. "And where were you?" And then more unpleasant parts of the interrogation got started. Smin had left his post of duty to attend a religious service, had he not? Was he in fact a nonreg-istered believer? ("Not at all," Smin protested. "My mother—") But they were not interested in hearing about his mother. They put aside the question of religion and moved along. He had utilized the automobile furnished him by the state for this private expedition — diverting state property to his personal use — even dismissing the driver and driving it himself more than one hundred kilometers. And to what purpose? To consort with foreigners at a religious ceremony in the apartment in Kiev.

As to that apartment, how had he obtained it? Was it not the case that, although it was nominally his mother's, he was actually, and quite illegally, the proprietor of the flat — in addition to his own home in Pripyat, and to the dacha he was proposing to build out in the countryside — Comrade, the older man said sorrowfully, addressing the younger, what sort of man have we here, who can live in three homes at once?

Smin listened attentively to all these charges but spoke little. For one thing, the sores at the corners of his mouth hurt when he spoke. For another, these were of no importance. The GehBehs were simply building up a case. In his heart Smin had been quite certain that sooner or later one would be made against him. Only when they turned to the specific details of the construction of the power plant did he sit up. "No," he said strongly, "I reject the assertion that any construction work that was being done was unauthorized. The plans were approved at the Ministry. Then in the day-to-day work the Director gave exact instructions. I followed his program completely in this respect."

"Ah, I see," the older man nodded. "In this respect. But in others? Did the Director instruct you to use substandard materials?"

And with a flourish he produced that copy of Literaturna Ukraina, with the article calling attention to the disastrous conditions of Chernobyl's projected fifth reactor — defective materials, poor maintenance, slipshod management. It seemed clear, the Chekist said sorrowfully, that it was not the suppliers who had tricked Smin with substandard cement and flawed piping, it was Smin who had conspired to cheat the State, heedless of danger to the property of the people.

"But that was about Reactor Number Five. And it was not defective material that caused the accident," Smin burst out. "In any case, none of that material was used in essential construction — it was all discarded, and only satisfactory materials were employed." But that only led to the succeeding charge, that under Smin's management three thousand bags of expensive cement (substandard or not, what was the point of trying to defend himself in that way?) had been allowed to stay in the open until rains soaked them and turned them into blocks of crumbly stone, while scarce and costly steel piping (oh, that, too, was defective, Comrade Smin? But how much defective material did you accept, after all?) was allowed to rust. And then there was the question of the baths. "Why such lavish ones, Comrade Smin? Did you think your workers were ancient Romans?"

"Workers dealing with radioactive materials must be allowed to shower when necessary," Smin pointed out.

"So magnificendy?"

"After all, we had plenty of hot water," Smin snapped.

"And plenty of high-grade tiles?"

"No," Smin said strongly. "Of that, none in surplus; all the good tiles went into the turbine room. But the rejects were good enough for the bath."

"I see," said the investigator. "But why, please, did you endanger the plant by making the reactor more explosive."

Smin sat up in bed at that one. He blinked at the man. "What did you say?"

The KGB man peered at his notes. "You are stated to have authorized an increase in the uranium-two-thirty-five content of the core by eleven percent. That is, from one point eight to two percent of the total uranium."

"J authorized that?" asked Smin, astonished. "But that was the Chief Engineer's decision. I merely initialed his order. And that did not make the core more explosive. It went the other way, in fart. It was to reduce feedback between steam generation and the nuclear activity of the core."

The KGB man looked at him without expression. "You admit, then, that you approved this change. And at the same time you took out some graphite, is that right?"

"We reduced the density, yes, if that's what you mean. It was part of the same procedure. But in that case I believe it was Director Zaglodin, not I, who initialed the order. In any case, really, that was more than two years ago!"

The older Chekist sighed and glanced at his slim, obviously foreign wristwatch. "We promised we would not stay more than twenty minutes," he reminded his colleague.

"Oh, but I feel quite able to answer questions, Comrades," Smin said. "Of course, you're very busy. I suppose you've already questioned Comrade Khrenov?"

There was a change in the temperature of the room. The younger man said curiously, "For what purpose do you suppose we would be questioning Personnel Director Khrenov?"

"Perhaps because he was there, as I was not?"

Now the man was careful. "Are you suggesting that Comrade Khrenov was in any way involved in the accident?"

Smin thought that over. Then he said justly, "No. I'm not. At worst, I am only saying that he was on the scene because he thought the experiment would succeed, and then he could claim some credit for it. But I have no reason to think he blew the reactor up; that was left to the operating technicians themselves."

"We will take note that you see no wrongdoing on Comrade Khrenov's part. After all, how could there be? It wasn't a matter of personnel that caused the accident."

"Wasn't it? But I think it was, Comrades. It was actually utter stupidity on the part of the entire control room crew that caused the explosion. One by one they turned off every safety device, and then they were surprised that the reactor wasn't safe any more."

The elder man said mildly, "Are you trying to shift the blame for your failings of leadership onto someone else?"

"Not at all! But what kind of leadership can there be when the First Department takes on the kind of people who drink, and stay home when they should be on duty, and even run away?.. Still," he added thoughtfully, "in a sense, I suppose you are right. The decisions of the Party congress to bar drunkenness and absenteeism were not merely Khrenov's responsibility to follow. I could have been more ingenious, I suppose. I managed to find uses for substandard tiles by putting them where they could do no harm. I suppose I could have done a better job of finding unimportant jobs for useless people."

Hie men from the organs looked at each other. "Well," said the elder, standing up, "we must not tire you in your condition, Simyon Mikhailovitch. Perhaps on another day you will be feeling more cooperative."

Smin closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillow. All he said, without looking at them, was, "I wouldn't count on it."

What Smin needed more than anything else at that moment was a bedpan. Fortunately the nurse came at once. When he had relieved himself she began taking the screens away, Smin watching her.

"I don't suppose you are a drunk," he told her gravely.

Although nurses are used to hearing all sorts of things from their patients, she gave him a quick, puzzled look. "Me a drunk? What an idea!"

"But it is strange, isn't it, that our Soviet women drink very little, while the men pour it down. Why is that, do you think?"

"Drunkenness is a great social evil," she told him severely. "The decisions of the Twenty-seventh Party Congress—"

"Yes, yes, the decisions," Smin said. "But why do our men drink? Because they have jobs they don't like, for which they are not paid enough, and the money they are paid can't buy them the things they want. Isn't that true? But if it is true for men, how much more true it must be for women! Wouldn't you like to have an electric dishwasher? A blow dryer for your hair?"

"I will have those things soon enough," she said properly. "The production in consumer goods is increasing all the time."

Smin smiled up at her with real fondness. He said, "You are a very good girl."

When she had gone away, looking puzzled, he lay back and closed his eyes. The interview with the GehBehs had tired him more than he had expected. He really should go out to speak to the head nurse about Sheranchuk, he thought. He was determined to do that, very soon… but first he allowed himself to close his eyes for just a moment.

When he opened them, one of the doctors was standing over him, a smile on her cool face. "And how are you feeling now, Deputy Director Smin?"

"I will feel better," he said at once, "if you put Leonid Sheranchuk in that other bed. It's lonesome here."

The doctor nodded thoughtfully. "I believe Comrade Sheranchuk has requested the same thing. Perhaps it can be arranged. You should properly have a room of your own—"

"I don't want a room of my own! I want Sheranchuk here."

She said, "What you want, Comrade Smin, is to get better, and that's what we want too. It is up to the hospital director to decide if having him as a roommate will be good for you. Now, I asked how you are feeling."

"Very tired of being in hospital," he said. "Otherwise not bad."

"But that is only a temporary remission, you know." She hesitated, then asked him in an accusing tone: "Did you do something to your dosimeter?"

"I? To my dosimeter? Why would I do that?" Smin asked, determined not to tell her of the switch.

"Because you wished to be a hero? I don't know, I only know that your physical condition does not match the dose record. According to the state of your white blood corpuscles, you must have received well over two hundred rads. It may have been as many as five hundred rads."

"That sounds like a great many rads," said Smin.

"If you remained untreated it is enough to kill you, without question, in approximately thirty days after exposure." She counted on her fingers. "Without treatment you would not be likely to die before the twenty-first of May, perhaps you might survive even until the beginning of June, but no longer. However," she went on, smiling her icy smile, "in this hospital we have the best treatment for radiation disease. Even perhaps when the patient is not cooperating as he should. Also, we now have a wonderful American doctor who has just arrived yesterday, a gift from our American friend Dr. Armand Hammer."

"Who is Dr. Hammer?"

"He is one of the good Americans, Deputy Director Smin. He has always been a friend to the Soviet Union, since the days of Lenin, and now he has brought us help in this unpleasant business. This Dr. Gale from America has developed special methods of treating people like yourself. We will get rid of the dying marrow in your bones and replace it with healthy new marrow — as soon as we can find a satisfactory donor."

"All right," Smin said. "Now just leave me alone until it's time for the operation."

The doctor said triumphandy, "Unfortunately, it is not that easy. First we will have to make you ready for the transplant. And that, I'm afraid, is not a very enjoyable process."

When the doctor had finished telling him how unenjoy-able the process was going to be, Smin lay with his eyes closed, thinking the matter out. He was not in pain. From time to time he found himself nauseated, or sweltering even under the light sheet. But there was no real pain now, and his head was clear.

He might have preferred a little less clarity, he thought.

It had all been explained to him and, yes, he agreed, there was nothing that one would enjoy in his immediate future. The real question was how much of a future he had.

The doctor had been quite clear about what was ahead. There were classically four stages in cases of radiation sickness— first, the "prodromal syndrome" — the onset of the illness— when there was vomiting and faintness. That, the doctor told him, was not serious; it was probably only the impact of the radiation on the nervous system that produced the symptoms, and they passed.

As they had, in only an hour or so.

Now he was in the "latent period." The patient felt better at this point — as Smin indeed did, not counting the badness of the feelings resulting from the things they were doing to him to try to save his life. Not counting that his hair seemed to be falling out. Not counting, especially, that the latent period would not last more than a couple of weeks, and then it would be time for the "febrile period."

It was in the febrile period that he would probably die, because the stage after that held only two possibilities: either he would slowly begin to recover. Or he would be dead.

He opened his eyes as he heard a sound at the door. His son Vassili came in, looking scared and very young in his cap and white robe and bootees. "They took a sample of my bone marrow," he said proudly. "Do you know what they did? They pushed a kind of a knife right into my chest! Right into the bone!" He gently touched his clavicle to show where the knife had gone.

"That must have been very painful," Smin said, wishing he could put his arms around the boy — if it were not so painful to move — if he did not know that Vassili was afraid, as everyone who came into the hospital seemed to be afraid, that somehow some of the radioactive materials would leap from his skin to theirs if they got too close.

Vassili bit his lips, pondering a response to make to that which would not be either teenage bragging or inadmissible sentimentality. "I was glad to do it," he said awkwardly, and changed the subject. "What will they do now?"

"Well," Smin said, changing position on the bed uncomfortably, "you see, because I am sick it is necessary to make me much sicker. Because the marrow of my bones has been damaged, they must now finish the job and destroy it completely, so that when they put your good marrow into me, it will find an empty place waiting for it."

Vassili swallowed, his eyes large. "Ah, but there is a bright side," Smin said quickly. "I've received so much radiation already that that, at least, they don't need to give me again. Only chemicals. All the medicines do is make me vomit, but I was doing that anyway."

But the boy was frowning. It was apparent that he had already been told what lay in store for his father. He said, "They took bone marrow from you too?"

"What little there was to take, yes," his father smiled, touching his breastbone. "Help me into the wheelchair — no, wait," he corrected himself, remembering that visitors should not touch the patients. "I'll get the nurse to do it later. I want to find out about my friend, the hydrologist-engineer, Sheranchuk."

"Yes," said the boy absently. "He is here, also with too much exposure to radiation." Then Vassili came back to the main subject on his mind. "Father? If my bone marrow isn't good for you, what will happen?"

"Then we will ask someone else to give me a bit," Smin said cheerfully. "It does not have to come from a relative. Simply that is usually the best place to find a match, but it could be taken from some total stranger who simply happens to match my type."

"And if there isn't such a stranger?"

"Then they will do a fetal liver injection, of course. Do you know what that is? Before they are born, children manufacture their white blood corpuscles in the liver; and when a supply of fetal liver is obtained, it is injected into people like me. Just like the bone marrow. Three people in this hospital have already received such injections." He did not add that all three had died. He changed the subject: "And have you been assigned to a school while you are here in Moscow?"

"Oh, yes," the boy said, his eyes gleaming. "Such a school, Father! There is a computer in the math class, and my teacher of English herself studied in America!" That reminded him: "And there are American doctors here, did you know? Two of them now, and more, they say, coming — with all sorts of medicines and machines and things; they will have you well in no time, I am sure!"

"Of course they will." The effort of reassuring his son was beginning to tell on Smin. He could feel himself sweating, and it was obvious that the boy still had something on his mind. Smin sighed and took the plunge. "What else is worrying you, Vassili?" he asked.

The boy bit his lip, and then forced out: "What did those men want?"

Smin sank back. Of course! "Ah, I see," he said. "The organs. They had simply questions to ask, of course. Naturally something like this must be investigated with complete thoroughness."

Vassili nodded doubtfully. "But you did nothing wrong," he protested, unable to keep it from sounding like a question.

Smin said gently, "The accident did not happen by itself, Vass. When everything has been studied, we will know who is at fault, that's all." He threw the sheet back, revealing himself in his red and white striped pajama bottoms, with no top. Even in front of his children Smin had always been shy about exposing the vast shiny burn scars on his torso, but right now, he thought, he would have welcomed Vassili's questions on the subject. What could be better for the boy to hear at this time than the tale of his father's ancient heroism in the tank battle before Kursk?

Almost as good, there was an interruption. Smin looked up gratefully as the doctor came in, but under the white head scarf her face was grave.

"I am sorry," she began, looking at Vassili rather than at Smin, and Smin knew at once who she was apologizing to.

"Ah, Vass," he said, smiling even though it hurt the corners of his mouth terribly, "it is your good fortune that you took after your mother, but this time, I'm afraid, it isn't mine. The doctor is trying to tell us that your bone marrow doesn't match."