Chernobyl Murders

37

Present Day

Kiev, Ukraine

The Chernobyl Museum (Ukrainian National Museum “CHOR-NOBYL”) is housed in a converted fire station on Khoryvyj Pereulok Street. The museum is a plain, two-story building with arched fire-station doors. A garden memorial near the entrance has a single iconic statue seemingly in prayer. Inside, the museum feels like a church or funeral parlor, with unhurried footsteps and muted voices echoing from various exhibit rooms. Some rooms have sections of girders and metal on the ceiling, simulating the destruction inside the destroyed reactor. There are photographs of the reactor before and after the explosion, and photographs of the sarcophagus. There are photographs of the city of Pripyat and of people who were relocated, especially children. There are photographs of hundreds of vehicles abandoned in the exclusion zone. And finally, there are photographs of victims, many of whom were firemen and liquidators.

One exhibit area has a display of various protective gear used during the rescue and cleanup operations. The protective clothing is primitive by modern standards-rubber gloves, hard hats, face masks, lead vests, boots, and rubberized suits. Several face masks hang on the wall, and two are on mannequins in rubberized suits.

The face masks are made of rubber with the pallor of dead flesh.

Snouts with downward-pointing screw-on filter canisters make the mannequins into prehistoric creatures not yet ready for the technology assaulting them. Round glass eyes shine like mirrors to the souls inside the suits.

Two caretakers, a man and a woman, walk slowly from exhibit to exhibit, announcing the closing of the museum in soft voices.

The noise in the hallways increases as visitors head for the exit, walking briskly on shiny tile floors. In the main hall near the exit is an exhibit of Soviet newspaper stories from the year of the explosion. Most of the headlines concern Chernobyl. But one newspaper from January 1986 has a photograph of the U.S. Space Shuttle Challenger crew killed in the shuttle explosion. The photograph of the crew in black and white, blown up and grainy on the front page of the newspaper, is reminiscent of many other photographs in the museum. Faces from the past full of optimism and trust in twenti-eth century technology.

Little Ilonka is no longer a little girl. A quarter century has passed since she fled with her mother, Nina, and her sister, Anna, from Pripyat. As Chernobyl Museum visitors parade out the main entrance, several men of various ages glance her way. Perhaps it is a combination of Ilonka’s beauty and a reaffirmation of life that makes even women smile at her before heading down the path to the exit gate.

Lazlo and his niece Ilonka sit on a bench near the garden with its commemorative statue and silent bells. The bus from the Chernobyl tour is due in an hour, and they are early. Before coming here, they stopped for a cool drink along Khreshchatik Boulevard. It was hot when they arrived, but the late-afternoon sun has gone lower, hidden by buildings. Although the bench is still warm, the shade is welcome. Lazlo had taken off his jacket and tie earlier in the day, planning to put them back on before dinner. The red, white, and green tie, which Ilonka immediately recognized as representing the Hungarian flag, is draped on his jacket on the bench.

Ilonka is in her late twenties, a professor of mathematics at Kiev University. On their way here, she had admired Lazlo’s Sox cap so he bought her one, saying it would not only show she was a fan, but would also protect her head from the sun. Ilonka’s hair is very short.

At first he worried she had undergone recent chemotherapy, but Ilonka said she had shaved her head, along with several other university staff members, to support a physics professor who had cancer.

Ilonka’s whisper-quiet voice is a result of having her thyroid removed years earlier. The surgeon did a fine job on her sister, Anna, but when it came to Ilonka, the surgeon nicked both vocal cords. According to Ilonka, it causes no handicap, especially since she has begun using a wireless microphone and amplifier during her lectures.

Besides the Sox cap, Ilonka wears a short skirt, white blouse, medium heels, and sunglasses. Lazlo is like a proud father as he watches the passing men admiring her. During their walk to the museum, they shared family news. Ilonka’s mother, Nina, is happy on the farm in Kisbor. Anna, Ilonka’s sister, although married to a farmer in town some years back, has decided not to have children because of her radiation exposure in Pripyat after the explosion.

Bela and his wife are grandparents, the mother, Lazlo recalls, a baby during the episode at the farm in 1986. Times are hard in western Ukraine, but it is much better than it was under Soviet rule. The packages Lazlo sends from the United States are appreciated.

Although Lazlo feels more like a proud father than an uncle sitting beside Ilonka, he is not a father. A stepfather, yes, but never a father. During their walk here, he explained the details of his relationships, Ilonka saying she was much younger when she heard about Uncle Lazlo’s adventures and wanted to hear the entire story once again, especially since it involved her father, Mihaly.

In 1986, when she was a technician at Chernobyl, Juli Popovics had an affair with Lazlo’s brother, Mihaly. After Mihaly’s death at Chernobyl, Juli and Lazlo escaped from Ukraine, pursued by a mad KGB officer named Komarov. Juli carried Mihaly’s child, a girl born shortly after Lazlo and Juli married in Vienna. Lazlo and Juli named the girl Tamara, after Lazlo’s longtime friend who was murdered by Komarov. Lazlo and Juli moved to the United States and lived a happy life until Juli died of cancer at the turn of the new century. After Juli’s death, Lazlo visited Ilonka’s mother, Nina, several times. Although they were fond of one another, Nina had her life in Kisbor, and Lazlo had his sadness for his loss of Juli. Lazlo also had a life in Chicago. Raising his stepdaughter, Tamara, and watching her grow into a woman gave his life meaning.

After repeating to Ilonka things she already knew about him, Juli, and her father, Lazlo told her something she did not know. She asked how he got his nickname, the Gypsy. When they were little girls, he told Anna and Ilonka his militia friends gave him the name because he liked Gypsy music. Today he told Ilonka the real story about a boy of nineteen in the army, given the job with his friend Viktor picking up deserters near the Romanian border. The deserter who played the violin even as they approached the house in the farm village. The deserter, whose nickname was Gypsy, asking to bring his violin with him, but removing a pistol from the violin case. The boy of nineteen, who had survived recruit hazing with Viktor, shooting the deserter before he could put another bullet into Viktor… or into him. Finally, the name Gypsy given to him by others in his unit, the name leaping from the soul of the man he killed to avenge Viktor’s murder. The name burdening him with guilt because he should have known better than to allow a Gypsy access to his violin case. Stupid boys. Ignorant boys, with their feet still in their mothers, killing one another.

It was a long walk to the museum this afternoon. After Lazlo told his niece about Viktor and the Gypsy, Ilonka told about a girl-hood friend from Pripyat. Svetlana had settled with her family at another collective a day’s drive from Kisbor. She had corresponded with Ilonka for several years, then there was a delay, then a letter from Svetlana’s father saying she had died from Chernobyl disease.

While walking to the museum, Lazlo leaned in close to Ilonka so he could hear her whisper above the noise of the street. “I was a very sad little girl, Uncle Laz. How could a little girl understand that Svetlana didn’t get enough potassium iodide and I did? At the time I thought about you always seeming sad. I wanted to be like you from then on. It seems I have wanted to be sad my whole life.”

“Are you sad now?”

“Half of me is; the other half is not.”

“I am the same, Ilonka. The half spending an afternoon with you is content. My contentment will continue into tonight after we retrieve Tamara and Michael from their tour of Chernobyl.”

“Where will we dine?”

“I made reservations at Casino Budapest. I wanted to see a striptease or two.”

It is after sunset, and the bus from Chernobyl is late. Streetlights have come on around the museum, and other relatives and friends of Chernobyl tourists mill about waiting. With the museum closed, traffic has eased, and it is quiet, allowing Lazlo to hear Ilonka’s whispery voice without leaning in close.

“Mother waited until we were teenagers before she told us we were stepsisters to Tamara. Because you were married to Juli, we naturally assumed you were Tamara’s real father. Mother said Juli spoke of cancer often, saying many would get it. I was so sorry when it happened.”

“Do you remember much about Pripyat?”

“I remember being happy, the playground outside the apartment building, the lights of the Chernobyl towers out our window.

I remember you visiting.”

“What about the evacuation?”

“We got a ride to the plant in a car, then a bus took us past apartment buildings and away from Pripyat. The bus driver wore a handkerchief over his nose and mouth and drove very fast. I remember looking up at the apartments and seeing bicycles stored on balconies. I remember wondering what would happen to all those bicycles. Anna, on the other hand, always said she remembers dogs chasing the bus. She said dogs chased the buses their owners were on for many kilometers until they gave up or died. Later, the dogs were shot by soldiers because they picked up radiation during their search for food and for their masters.”

Ilonka stares past Lazlo and is silent for a time. But then she whispers again.

“There’s a man over there I recognize. Wait, don’t look yet. He followed me from one of my classes several days ago. When I confronted him, he said he was a journalist doing a Chernobyl story from a conspiracy angle and is also writing a book. He said he’s hunting for remaining suspicions. Okay, he’s turned away. You can look now.”

Lazlo recognizes him. It is the bald man from earlier in the day on European Square.

“He questioned me this morning,” says Lazlo. “He said he was a tourist, but he knows too much and speaks too many languages.

Why is he still wearing his sunglasses?”

“I think he’s an intelligence agent,” says Ilonka.

“Whom could he possibly represent?”

“What does it matter?” whispers Ilonka, smiling an evil smile.

“We’ll confront him. Two against one.”

Lazlo shrugs. “What language shall we use?”

“Native Ukrainian,” whispers Ilonka.

They stand and quickly walk over to the man, who takes off his sunglasses and backs away when he sees them, almost bumping into the streetlight.

“So what can you tell us?” asks Ilonka, her whisper in Ukrainian harsher than before.

The bald man puts away his sunglasses and eyes them both with a smile, but not really a smile. “About what?”

“Chernobyl, of course,” says Lazlo. “The murders. Tell us about the conspiracy and murders at Chernobyl.”

The man shifts the sport coat he carries from one arm to the other. “All right. You’ve got me. I’m here to ask about Chernobyl, but it’s simply a matter of cleanup.”

“Cleanup?” asks Lazlo.

The man eyes Lazlo’s tie draped over the sport coat on his arm.

“A side job for Hungarian State Security while here in Kiev. Nothing active. They simply want to know the fate of an American who was doing work for them.”

“Andrew Zukor?” asks Lazlo.

The man turns to Ilonka. “How did he know about Zukor?”

Ilonka shrugs and smiles back at the man. They both look to Lazlo.

“You should go to the United States for your research,” says Lazlo. “Zukor’s widow was quite open with U.S. authorities before her death.”

“Unfortunately, they sent me here,” says the young man. “For cleanup, you go where they tell you to go, ask predetermined questions, and report back. Have either of you heard of a KGB major named Grigor Komarov?”

Lazlo looks to Ilonka, who smiles back at him, a large infectious smile with one finger to her lips. Soon all three are smiling like old friends who have met beneath the streetlight.

“I guess they sent me to the right people,” says the young man.

He holds his hand out to Ilonka. “By the way, my name is Zandor.”

Zandor continues after shaking hands with Ilonka and Lazlo.

“Anyway, Hungarian authorities want to know if Major Komarov had a reason to order Andrew Zukor’s assassination in 1986, or if he simply disliked the man. There have been many investigations into Komarov’s activities, going back to the cold war. We know Zukor was with U.S. intelligence, and we know a Major Dmitry Struyev in Komarov’s office may have given the order. So, my friends, what can you tell me?”

It is an unusual interview, all three of them smiling and talking like old friends while they wait for the bus from Chernobyl. At one point, without realizing it, they switch from Ukrainian to Hungarian. When Zandor asks the identity of the Gypsy Moth, both Lazlo and Ilonka shrug.

“No one knows who the Gypsy Moth was,” says Lazlo. “For all we know, he, or she, never existed.”

“A fabrication for Komarov’s grandiose plan?” asks Zandor.

“A fabrication,” says Lazlo. “A name from the past.”

After leaving Slavutych, the town built for Chernobyl cleanup workers, they switch from Anton’s van to the larger bus at the Dytyatky Control Point. The evening bus transports both tourists and workers going off shift back to Kiev. It is a comfortable bus with better air-conditioning than the van, as well as ceiling-mounted television monitors. Because it is Lyudmilla’s last tour for this shift, she rides back to Kiev with the tourists. She sits across the aisle from the young American couple. At the end of the tour, she noted their names on the tour sheet. The woman is Tamara Horvath, Hungarian. Because of her tears at the visitor center, Lyudmilla assumes she is related to a Chernobyl victim. The young African American man is Michael Richardson. Both are from Chicago. While the driver closes the door and settles in, Lyudmilla leans across the aisle and smiles at the Americans.

“Finally, end of duty for a few days.”

“Do you live in Kiev?” asks Tamara.

“With my husband, Vitaly. It is surprising how much I miss him.”

“How long have you been married?” asks Tamara.

“Since the fall of the Soviet Union.” Lyudmilla reaches across the aisle and touches Tamara’s arm. “Tell me. Are you related to one of the victims?”

Michael leans forward and smiles. “She was one of the Chernobylites. Of course, she didn’t fill me in on the details until today.”

He nudges Tamara. “A mystery woman.”

“You’re too young to have been a Chernobylite,” says Lyudmilla.

Tamara touches her tummy. “My mother was carrying me at the time.”

“She… it must have been terrible for her. Is she… how can I say it?”

“She died in the United States in 2000. My father was one of the engineers taken to Moscow, where he died within days of the accident. My stepfather came with me on this visit, but he stayed in Kiev. He was in the Kiev militia in 1986. He says he never wants to visit the plant or Pripyat again.”

Lyudmilla shakes her head. “I don’t blame him. For me, it’s a job. Are you visiting others during your stay?”

“My stepfather is bringing his niece to the museum to meet us, then we’ll go to dinner. Tomorrow we’re all going into the countryside to visit my mother’s roommate from Pripyat and her husband and family.”

Michael points to Tamara. “Her stepfather’s niece is her stepsister, if you can believe it.”

Lyudmilla nods while she tries to decipher the relationship. As the bus begins moving, the overhead television monitors come to life. The volume of the televisions, all tuned to a news station giving the latest statistics on global climate change records, is loud, but not so loud for Lyudmilla to tune out the voice of the inquisitive German tourist at the rear of the bus.

“Will we get more radiation screening at the museum?” demands the German in English. “I wonder if Dytyatky was the last.

Can anyone tell me?”

Lyudmilla wishes she could stand and tell the German to shut his mouth. But she is off duty and is not required to respond one way or another. Instead, she closes her eyes and thinks of home, wondering if Vitaly will be there, or if, like the last time they had an argument, he will be away with his friends when she arrives.

The television commentator is also speaking in English. “In Kiev, celebrating the traditional Day of Victory Parade, two elderly World War II veterans who managed to march remain in hospital suffering from heat stroke. In other news, lack of spring rain has caused water shortages on farms throughout Ukraine…”

Lyudmilla dozes during the bus ride to Kiev. When she awakens, it is almost dark. A small group of people waits beneath the streetlights in front of the Chernobyl museum, among them a handsome younger bald man talking to an older man and a young woman, both whom are wearing Sox baseball caps. The young woman has short hair beneath the cap, reminding Lyudmilla of how she wore hers when she was young and slender and could wear a short, tight skirt in public and feel good about it.

Suddenly, there is a surprise. Just as she is anticipating the hot evening walk alone to the Metro Blue Line, she sees Vitaly jump out of their car parked across the street. He runs to the bus stop like a younger man. He is smiling. He is carrying yellow spring flowers.

Kiev’s Casino Budapest throbs with everything from bump-and-grind to techno to rock and roll to disco, and even some traditional folk music. Tonight, while the striptease bar and the disco pound out their rhythms, the variety show for restaurant guests features a Gypsy orchestra playing traditional Hungarian music.

The restaurant is crowded with tourists. Americans at table twelve, which tonight seats five but can accommodate six, have brought along baseball caps. Two caps, inscribed with the word Sox, decorate the center of their table. No one wore the caps into the restaurant, and everyone is dressed casually but appropriately, men in jackets, women in skirts and blouses. The waiter has determined the man paying the tab will be the older, thin-faced man with a prominent nose and who is wearing a garish red, white, and green tie. All five at the table have finished eating, and the table has been cleared.

The two young women at the table are both beautiful in their own way. The young American woman has long brown hair and is buxom. She sits between the older man and a very tall, dark-skinned young African American man. At one point during the Gypsy orchestra entertainment, she puts her arms around both men and they sway back and forth. The young Ukrainian woman at the table is thin yet shapely with very short hair. She sits with a bald young man who leans very close so she can speak into his ear. She is not telling secrets. Early on, the waiter discovered her voice is a mere whisper and one must lean close to hear her.

After a short interlude, the Gypsy orchestra launches into a Hungarian number. A slow passage is followed by the traditional dance, the czardas. While the thin-faced older man at table twelve pays the tab, the other two men stand to pull out chairs. Before standing, the two young women at table twelve each take a Sox baseball cap and put it on. All five laugh as they leave the table. Rather than leaving the restaurant, they move closer to the Gypsy orchestra and the dance floor, where several couples have begun to dance.

The tall African American man offers his hand to the long-haired buxom beauty, while the bald young man offers his hand to the thin Ukrainian beauty who, with her short hair and shapely legs, looks like a fashion model.

Both couples watch others dancing the fast-paced czardas and try to do the same, but it is obvious they need practice. When the music slows to the solo violin, the couples move closer and sway on the dance floor. The older man in the red, white, and green tie stands to the side, smiling as he plays his own invisible violin.

The soloist is exceptional, reminiscent of Lakatos and his Gypsy Orchestra. The violin cries out on the dance floor, but it can also be heard up and down the hallways of Casino Budapest. As if on cue, intermission is called at other venues within the casino, and the cry of the violin alone travels outside onto the street.

From high on the Kiev hills, this could be any city, the heat of the day making its lights shimmer. The solo violin does not skip a beat as the soloist goes into his final, mournful note. It is as if the violinist possesses a bow of infinite length. This is music from the border regions to the south and west, music from Hungary and Romania. To the north, near the Belarus border, a pair of red lights on the Chernobyl towers blink slowly in the night as if they, too, can hear the violin. The red eyes of the predator, momentarily taken by the music, blinking to clear away its tears.