Chernobyl Murders

5

February 1986

During the cold war, some KGB agents worked in post offices. They were part of the PK Service operational branch, short for Perlyus-tratsiya Korespondentsii, a term rarely used except within the walls of KGB branch offices. Even the abbreviation PK was not widely known because PK agents were supposed to be viewed, by the public, as ordinary postal workers. In back rooms of selected post offices across the Soviet Union, PK agents spent their days opening mail, reading it, making notes or copies as necessary, then resealing the mail, and passing it on to the real postal workers, whose job was to transport the mail to its rightful owners.

The postal service was busy during the months of December and January. Religious holidays revolving around the birth, two thousand years earlier, of a boy child in the Middle East had created a season of familial joy and letter writing. Yet, a few weeks into the 1986 new year, with continued cold war quibbling and shortages at the markets, the Soviet people settled in, bracing themselves against the winter winds. No matter how much talk of love and peace took place during the holidays, no matter how much talk of a new openness in the Soviet Union, it seemed the world’s fate was in the hands of irrational forces. Even the deaths of seven astronauts in the United States in late January reinforced the depression as winter settled in.

On the first Monday in February, in a small, windowless back room of the Pripyat post office, PK agents Pavel and Nikolai went through the morning mail presorted for them and passed through a slot in the wall by legitimate postal workers. Pavel and Nikolai were trained in languages, one fluent in Hungarian, and the other in Ukrainian. But they always used their Russian mother tongue as they sat across from one another at a long table opening-reading-resealing, opening-reading-resealing. The room was warm and humid because of the small electric steamer on the table.

“No more letters to Saint Nick,” said Pavel.

“The season to be jolly is over,” said Nikolai.

Open-read-reseal. Open-read-reseal.

“Several mentions of the American astronauts,” said Pavel.

“From the looks of the explosion on television it must have been in-stantaneous. Do you think they felt anything?”

“They must have felt something,” said Nikolai. “Perhaps like a blow to the head.”

“Americans advertise everything,” said Pavel. “Even failures.”

“An odd practice,” said Nikolai.

Open-read-reseal.

“Ah,” said Pavel. “Here’s another letter to Mihaly Horvath.”

“He’s under observation,” said Nikolai. “You’ll have to copy it.”

Pavel glared at Nikolai. “I know. I’m not an idiot.”

“I didn’t mean to imply you were an idiot, Pavel.”

“Then why must you always remind me of the obvious?”

“I don’t know,” said Nikolai. “Perhaps I’m tired of reading the same things over and over. ‘How is everything there?’ ‘All is fine here.’ ‘How were your holidays?’ ‘Our holiday was joyful, and all are in good health.’ It’s enough to drive one mad! Don’t these people have any imagination?”

They both laughed, the outburst designed to relieve boredom.

“So,” said Nikolai, “what does Mihaly Horvath’s brother say today?”

“Again,” said Pavel, “he refers to a matter they spoke of last summer at the farm. Detective Horvath pressing his brother about some kind of decision, just as he has in previous letters. He implies everything will not be well if his brother does not act.”

Pavel turned to the second page of the letter. “Here’s something.” He raised the pitch of his voice slightly as he always did when translating a letter. “‘Mihaly, I’m sorry I was unable to visit during the holiday season. Things were busy in Kiev and I had to remain on duty. But I’ll make up for it and be able to see you and Nina and the girls the third Sunday in February. I’ll drive up in the morning and should be there by noon. Perhaps you can tell me of your decision in the matter we discussed. Tell Nina not to cook anything special…’ And it goes on.”

“What do you suppose this ‘matter’ is?” asked Nikolai.

“I don’t know,” said Pavel. “But since Mihaly Horvath is under operational observation, and his militia detective brother has been worried about something since summer, Captain Putna and Major Komarov will be interested.”

“By now,” said Nikolai, “Detective Horvath must also be under operational observation.”

“It could be related to the Gypsy Moth Captain Putna told us to watch for,” said Pavel.

“Why would it have anything to do with the Gypsy Moth? It’s nothing but a code word, and it wasn’t mentioned in the letter.”

Pavel touched his finger to his temple. “I was thinking. Horvath is a Hungarian name. Gypsies have connections to Hungarians.

And last summer, remember the letter in which they spoke of the visit of their cousin, Andrew Zukor, the American? Consider the gypsy moth insect, the one causing problems in America since its introduction last century. I read about it in Entomological Study of

…”

“What are you talking about?” asked Nikolai.

“I’m talking about the American cousin of the Horvaths,” said Pavel. “I’m talking about letters to Detective Horvath last year in which Andrew Zukor told of plans to visit the Horvaths during their summer holiday. This could be a Gypsy Moth connection.”

“A weak connection at best,” said Nikolai. “We could mention it in our report to Captain Putna. But I think it best if we wait and see if there is another letter from the American cousin. You know how the captain feels about unfounded speculation. In the meantime we’ll copy all letters to or from the Horvaths.”

“Challenging idea,” said Pavel, floating the letter like a giant flake of snow into the copy tray at the corner of the table.

The sky was overcast, snow covering the rolling farmland in virgin white. Although the drive to Pripyat was slow, it gave Lazlo time to think. As he passed through a village, he saw two boys heaving snowballs at one another. Even though he and Mihaly were eleven years apart and were never really young boys together, he was reminded of quiet winters on the farm. Quiet winters before he went into the army to fulfill his draft obligation, before the hazing in camp, before the assignment to arrest the deserter near the Romanian border. Boys killing boys.

The snow covering the hilly road forced Lazlo to continually shift up and down through the gears in order to maintain his speed. The Zhiguli’s transmission whined, its engine sputtered and coughed, and snow packed into the wheel wells rubbed against the tires. Because his tires were small and almost treadless, he could not maintain the speed of a Volga, which passed him, its fat tires lifting packed snow onto his windshield. If he had a Volga, or newer tires, he’d get to Pripyat sooner. But a mere detective in the Kiev militia was lucky to have any car to drive on his day off, even a three-year-old Zhiguli in need of tires and, from the new sound he was hearing, a muffler or exhaust pipe.

The use of the car provided some freedom, but also meant he was on call, day and night, for every type of crime, from the most mundane theft to murder. Lazlo recalled the day, several years earlier, when Chief Investigator Chkalov told him he was free to use a militia car for personal business instead of turning it in to the garage after each shift. He also recalled the day three years ago when Chkalov handed him the keys to the then-new Zhiguli.

As Lazlo shifted madly through the gears, most likely taking months of life from the transmission, he glanced at his keys swinging from the ignition and recalled the conversation with Chkalov on the day he received the keys to the new Zhiguli.

“You have been with the militia for many years, Detective Horvath. Your service has been loyal, and you have proven your detection skills. Although it is not a promotion, the receipt of a new car is an honor.”

“I realize this,” said Lazlo. “And I appreciate it.”

“Many other detectives do not respond as consistently as you.

Perhaps because you do not have family matters to attend to. The woman murdered near the post office in Kalinin Square, for example. If you had not arrived at the scene before dawn to have the area cordoned off, street cleaners would have flushed the shell casings down the sewer. Timing. It’s all a matter of efficient response.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And your translations of Hungarian material have also proved valuable,” said Chkalov. “When you joined the detectives, pessi-mists questioned whether an officer from the western frontier could be trusted. Despite your comrades still calling you by the pet name Gypsy, you have proven yourself worthy.”

“I appreciate your comments, sir.”

“By the way, Detective Horvath. Why do you think the name Gypsy has endured so many years?”

“It’s an affectionate name. I’ve not tried to discourage its use.”

“Well,” said Chkalov, his tone becoming heavier, “perhaps you should discourage it. Gypsy could imply you’d wander off. We wouldn’t want you making off with the militia’s shiny new Zhiguli.”

Chkalov had laughed then, his chair squeaking as his chest heaved. “I’m joking, Detective Horvath. I know a man of your stat-ure would not run away. There’s too much for you here in Kiev.

Your position, wine and women, and even Gypsy orchestras playing in the clubs. Not as many Gypsy orchestras as in Budapest, but enough. Of course, the Gypsy culture is nothing more than nostal-gia, even for you. And now Hungarian is a second language to you.

You are a true Soviet citizen, Detective Horvath.”

But Chkalov was unaware of many things. After the holiday at the farm last August, speaking Russian again had been difficult.

If it weren’t for his brother, Mihaly, and his family, Lazlo would like nothing better than to leave the Soviet Union. If only Chkalov knew how much all the detectives at the Kiev station hated to sit through his long-winded sessions ranging from syrupy praise to chest-pounding nationalism. Very few knew how Lazlo came by the name Gypsy, not even Chkalov.

The keys dangling from the ignition of the Zhiguli rang out as the wheels hit a series of holes hidden beneath the snow. Lazlo held the jittering steering wheel tightly and drove on. To the north, where Mihaly and Nina and the girls awaited him, the sky was dark.

When Lazlo neared Pripyat, he could see evidence of the Chernobyl Nuclear Facility to his right. A tall fence paralleling the road, warning signs threatening trespassers, high-tension towers leading away from the facility. It had stopped snowing, and where the road crested a hill, he saw the red-and-white-banded reactor stacks and the rectangular-shaped buildings in the river valley. The buildings resembled a string of coffins. The high-tension towers leading away from the buildings became a line of mourners waiting to pay their respects.

If something was wrong at Chernobyl, as Mihaly had implied last summer, perhaps the denials in letters and phone calls were because he feared the mail was being read and phone calls overheard.

Today they would finally be face to face.

The road came to a T. When Lazlo stopped, he could see the entry gate to the Chernobyl Facility to his right. A black Volga was parked outside the gate and a man in a dark hat and coat stood talking to a uniformed guard. It was the same Volga that had passed him earlier.

Lazlo turned left on the road to Pripyat and looked into the rearview mirror. The man from the Volga glanced his way. Although there was no way to be certain, Lazlo knew the man could be KGB. But even if it was KGB, the suspicious nature of their agents made them glance at any car driving past on a snowy Sunday. Driving the last few kilometers to Pripyat, he watched the mirror but did not see the Volga.

“If the KGB is watching you,” said Mihaly, “I can understand why.

It’s your letters. I kept telling you everything was fine. Why didn’t you believe me?”

Lazlo was alone with Mihaly, an after-dinner walk in the small park outside the apartment complex. They walked among abandoned playground equipment, looking down and listening as their boots creaked in the snow. They spoke in Hungarian.

“I carefully phrased the letters,” said Lazlo. “Anyone reading them would assume it was a personal matter. And I didn’t say the KGB was watching me. I simply told you about a car I saw on my way here. You’re the one who started it back in August, talking about Chernobyl.”

Mihaly nodded. “I suppose you needed reassurances after what I said.”

“You had me picturing Gorbachev trying to win propaganda points by blowing up a reactor, then showing how compassionate he is.”

“I’m sorry, Laz. Last summer it was the wine. My letters were the truth. Everything’s fine. Simply occasional problems to be solved and tests to be run. On holiday I made a mistake with my big mouth. You asked me about something else, and I used Chernobyl to cover it up.”

Mihaly turned to him. “I’m an ordinary man, Laz. I have ordinary faults and weaknesses and feelings. I’ve let my emotions get in the way of reason.”

“Is it about Nina?”

Mihaly looked away. “Nothing’s wrong with Nina. It’s me, Laz.

You’re the only one I can talk to. I should have told you last summer, but I was a coward. I’ve… been seeing another woman.”

They stopped at a series of interconnected wooden platforms designed for children to climb in better weather. Mihaly sat on a low platform even though it was covered with snow. Lazlo stood above Mihaly. He wanted to scream. He was aware of having left his Makarov and shoulder holster locked in the Zhiguli. He wanted to tell Mihaly he had experience killing another man. Blood spurt-ing from a boy’s face momentarily blurred his vision…

Mihaly looked up. “I’m still seeing her, Laz. I’m still seeing her, and I feel guilty as hell.”

“You should feel guilty!”

“She works at Chernobyl,” said Mihaly. “She’s from another division. I didn’t seek her out. We simply met on occasion.”

“An occasional fuck?”

“It’s not her fault or my fault. It simply happened.”

“I hear this all the time from criminals! Nothing simply happens!”

“I understand your anger, Laz. In a way I welcome it.”

“You welcome it? A boy being scolded? You’re a man with responsibilities to a family!”

“I don’t expect you to understand. But I want you to know I still love Nina and the girls.”

Lazlo felt dizzy and braced himself against a vertical section of the playground equipment.

Mihaly looked down. “Please believe me, Laz. Juli is also sensitive to my family. We’ve discussed ending our relationship. But we keep putting it off. I felt if I told you, I’d gather courage to end it.

I still love Nina. Nothing… no, I can’t say nothing has changed.”

Mihaly looked up. There were tears in his eyes. “Everything has changed, Laz. It’s tearing me apart. All I can think about is Nina finding out. Sometimes I think she’s already found out because of the way she acts. But it can’t be. She must be reacting to the way I act

…”

“Next time you’re with this lover of yours… what was her name?”

“Juli.”

“Next time you’re with this Juli, you think of me! Think of your old brother because he’s going to tell you something he never thought he’d tell anyone. It’s about Nina. It’s about my feelings. It’s about sibling jealousy and envy and unfulfilled desire. When you’re at the market with Nina, don’t you see other men and even women looking at her? What the hell do you think it means, Mihaly? She doesn’t have a deformity, does she? I guess not! Perhaps it’s beauty.

And not just a pretty face or a slender figure. It’s the way she carries herself, the way she acts around those she loves. I’ve seen it, Mihaly.

I’ve seen the way she acts when she’s with you. You should look in a mirror when you’re with her!”

“Am I looking in a mirror now, Laz? Are you my reflection?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nina. If you wanted her so much, why didn’t you marry her?”

Lazlo reached out, saw his gloved hand open before Mihaly’s neck.

“Are you going to choke me, Laz?”

“I’ve killed before!” As soon as he said it, Lazlo wished he could take it back. His hand, inches from Mihaly’s neck, was shaking.

“What did you say?”

Lazlo pulled his hand back. “It would be better to use my belt on you because you’re still a boy.”

Mihaly stood up. “I deserve it. But you don’t know her, Laz.

You can’t know how it is. Just like with me and Nina, you see everything from the outside.”

They started walking again, Mihaly kicking snow up in front of him.

“She’s Hungarian,” said Mihaly. “In a lot of ways, she’s like Nina. I know. Don’t say it. Let me finish. It started last summer after she broke up with her boyfriend and her father died. She was alone when we met on the bus and realized we both spoke Hungarian. For a long time it’s what we did, speaking to one another in Hungarian on the bus. But then I walked her home.”

“I have one question I’d like you to answer truthfully, Mihaly.

And when you do… even if you don’t tell me the truth… when you answer this question honestly to yourself, you’ll know about guilt. You’ll know whose fault it was.”

“What’s the question?” asked Mihaly quietly.

“When did you tell her you had a family? Think about it, Mihaly. Not when you might have hinted it. When did you actually say, ‘Look, babycakes, I forgot to tell you, I’ve got this good-looking wife and two little girls to bring up?’”

They walked in silence for a while. Then Mihaly stopped.

“It was afterward. It was after I went to her apartment the first time.”

“And,” said Lazlo, “I don’t suppose she had a rope around your neck.”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Did she wear an evening gown on the bus so your hormones got the best of you?”

Mihaly began looking angry. “She’s not that kind of woman.

She’s attractive, yes. But it was a combination of things… her being Hungarian, her loneliness, both of us wanting to talk with someone after work about something other than work. I should have tape-recorded the entire affair to satisfy your curiosity.”

“Perhaps you should have, Mihaly. But would you have been able to afford all the tapes and batteries?”

Mihaly sighed, and they walked back to the apartment in silence.

During the remainder of the visit, Lazlo and Mihaly played with Anna and little Ilonka. Lazlo fought to remain cheerful. But each time he looked at Nina, he felt his anger grow. He was angry with Mihaly for being able to put on the act of faithful and loving husband. He was angry with himself for not being able to put on a cheerful act.

Nina must have sensed his anger because, while Mihaly gave horseback rides on the floor, Nina sat beside Lazlo on the sofa and asked if something was wrong.

“Nothing is wrong, Nina. You know how it is, these moods I get into…”

She sat close to him, placed her hand on his. “I know. Mihaly is sometimes like this. He says it’s in his blood. One minute he’s joking

… the next minute he’s brooding. I ask him what he thinks about when he broods, and he says it’s nothing. Are you the same, Laz?”

Nina’s hand was soft and warm. He could smell the sweetness escaping from the V-neck of her dress. The sofa sagged, and Nina’s hip pressed against his. He held her hand with both his hands, looked into her eyes, and said, “We Horvaths are very moody.” But as he said it, he felt his breath quicken because what he’d wanted to say, what he’d imagined saying in a different place, in a different time, was that he loved Nina and wanted to hold her, smother her with kisses, protect her from ever being hurt by anyone or anything.

As if she could read his mind, as if she wanted him as much as he wanted her, as if Mihaly was not whinnying and the girls not giggling on the floor, Nina smiled at him.

“You’re blushing, Lazlo. I’ve said something to make you blush.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. Is brooding a private thing? A secret between you and your brother, the horse?”

“Perhaps it is. We want to be morose until someone points it out. Then we deny it. Father was the same way.”

“And your mother?”

“She was kind and gentle and cheerful. A lot like you.”

Nina smiled and slowly withdrew her hand. She touched his cheek.

“You’re a good brother-in-law, Laz. And now I’m blushing.”

She stood, stepped over little Ilonka, who had just rolled from her father’s back, and went to the kitchenette.

“Who wants cake?” called Nina.

The girls screamed, “Me! Me!”

Mihaly whinnied.

Lazlo nodded, staring at Nina who glanced back to him and seemed, for an instant, to brood as she went to the refrigerator.

“The cake is fresh, but the milk’s sour again,” said Nina behind the open refrigerator door. “Not like on the farm where they have their own cow.”

Mihaly mooed, and the girls laughed.

“All right,” said Nina, “I’ll make tea.”

After dark Nina looked outside, saying the lights on the Chernobyl towers in the distance were almost invisible because of the snow. She asked Lazlo if he wanted to stay overnight. He thought about how it would be to sleep in the same apartment with the sounds of Nina and Mihaly turning discreetly beneath the blankets.

He thought about how depressed he would be early in the morning, driving back to Kiev. He said no, and Nina, the perfect woman, smiled at him, made strong tea for his drive back to Kiev, kissed him good-bye gently when it was time to go, linked arms with her husband, and waved to Lazlo from the doorway.

The long drive in the dark back to Kiev was filled with images of Nina, the woman who, if she belonged to Lazlo instead of Mihaly, would never have to worry about his fidelity. Halfway to Kiev, snow danced in the headlights like millions of shooting stars whose wishes were doomed to failure. When the snowflakes turned into blurred streaks of light, he realized he was weeping. Was he weeping for Nina and the girls and what Mihaly had done? Or was he weeping because he was going back to his lonely apartment in Kiev?

Perhaps he was weeping for the Gypsy who had hidden a pistol in his violin case should the boys recruited to arrest deserters come for him.

A snowy day in the eastern Carpathian foothills along the Romanian border. Lazlo and Viktor leave the army truck with their rifles and trudge through the snow to the farm village while the driver waits for them on the main road. He and Viktor are only nineteen; the driver, twenty-one. All three have undergone hazing together, Ukrainian recruits shipped to the Russian camp where Russian soldiers had their way with them. One nightmarish session consisted of putting a wig backwards on Viktor, painting a face on the back of his shaved head, painting breasts on his bony shoulder blades, and forcing Lazlo down onto Viktor.

A snowy day in the eastern Carpathian foothills in 1963. Russian officers are angry because of Khrushchev’s 1962 Cuban missile fiasco. Sometimes they take out their anger on Ukrainian recruits.

Lazlo and Viktor are chosen for deserter duty because they both speak Hungarian and the area in which the deserter’s family lives is Hungarian speaking.

A snowy day in the eastern Carpathian foothills. He and Viktor hear a violin playing as they approach the farmhouse, a sad solo not badly done. The deserter’s file back in the truck indicates he comes from a family of violinists. He and Viktor hope the deserter is not there. He has hidden and will come out later so he can stay the winter and help with spring planting. Deserters are common. Many are forgotten. When Viktor knocks, the violin stops playing. But instead of a parent or grandparent answering, the deserter himself, with violin in hand, answers the door.

A snowy day in the Carpathian foothills. Mother and sister are also in the house. The sister, perhaps sixteen, pleads as the deserter gives himself up. He asks to bring his violin. He retrieves the violin case, reaches inside, turns with a pistol, and shoots Viktor in the chest.

A snowy day. Viktor falling back through the open door. The pistol turning toward Lazlo. The eyes of the deserter determined.

Lazlo’s rifle already aimed. The struggle to release the safety and pull the trigger moves the rifle too high. The bullet explodes the deserter’s face, and the women scream. Blood streaks the snow as Lazlo and the driver drag Viktor and the deserter to the truck. Both are alive, but they die while the truck speeds to the nearest hospital.

When Lazlo visits the farmhouse again with his captain, the deserter’s father is home. He gives them the violin to bury with his son, saying villagers called his son Gypsy. The mother is in another room, having wept for days. The daughter stares at Lazlo with dark eyes like those of her brother. Only sixteen, yet she has become a woman. Except for the visit with his captain to the village to confirm what happened, there is no further investigation. Back at camp, Lazlo’s comrades baptize him with the name Gypsy, insisting the name migrated from the deserter’s soul to his soul when he avenged the death of his friend Viktor.

A snowy day much like this snowy night. But he is no longer a young man. It is too late for him. He had wanted to tell Mihaly this today. He had wanted to say to Mihaly he should be happy he has a wife in whose eyes he can gaze without seeing the eyes of the deserter’s sister.

As Lazlo drove into Kiev and along Boulevard Shevchenko, streetlights on new fallen snow made it seem like daylight. Although the hour was late, he decided not to go to his apartment. Instead, he drove to the central city to visit Club Ukrainka, where he would drink wine with artists, composers, and writers. If he were fortunate, Tamara would be there. Tamara, the editor of the literary review, his true friend for so many of his years in Kiev, the last woman who had slept with him and comforted him in his loneliness and melancholy.

A woman who did not remind him of the past.

When he entered Club Ukrainka, he could hear a single saxophone playing a sad song in a minor key, a song which, if played on a violin, could have been one of the Gypsy primas played by Lakatos and his Gypsy Orchestra, a Gypsy violin crying in the night the way he had cried on his way back to Kiev.

Layers of overcoats hung on the hooks near the entrance. He could smell wet wool along with disinfectant from the single washroom. Since his last visit to the club, someone had crossed out the sign “Men and Women” on the door and replaced it with a scrawled

“Czars and Czarinas.” The smells in the club entrance reminded him of a farm. Yes, a farm in winter, coming in from the wet cold while his mother cleans walls and floors, while his mother washes his baby brother’s diapers in a tub in the kitchen.

He entered the main room of the club where the shine of the saxophone pierced the smoky air. Tamara sat at a corner table with two bearded men. Her black hair gleamed in the light from the candle on the table. Long silver earrings glittered at the sides of her face. When she saw him, she raised her eyebrows and said something to the two bearded men, who immediately left the table.

Lovely Tamara sat with her hands folded and mouthed the word

“Gypsy” with her red, red lips as the saxophone cried. When Lazlo approached the table, he sensed the heat of the room and recalled the heat of Tamara’s body against his. For an instant he felt himself more of a betrayer than his brother.