Read Online The Boy From Reactor 4 by Orest Stelmach - Free Book Online
Authors: Orest Stelmach
Tags: Suspense
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last saw her? When she thinks you’re dead?
You don’t.
But I have to.
So let me try again.
Dear Vera,
I’m not dead. I’m alive. I know you won’t believe this until I offer you some proof. And even then, you may not care. But it’s not for my sake that I write. Let me explain.
I was found guilty of theft of state funds and sentenced to hard labor at Sevvostlag in 1960, when I was twenty. I was not buried in asphalt, the way everyone was told. Three members of my crew were. Three weren’t. The man who I robbed wanted me to suffer daily for the rest of my life. He spared my life so the gulag could kill me every day.
Five years later I killed a man in the gulag in self-defense, but they gave me a life sentence anyways. I was in the gulag until they closed it down in 1972. After that, I was allowed to settle in Kolyma, where I remained a prisoner. I worked on the Kolyma Highway—the Road of Bones—until 1983, and then on the Trans-Siberian Railway until 1998.
In August of 1998, a man came looking for volunteers. We were told the work was dangerous but that the pay was high. He told us we would be pardoned and allowed to leave Kolyma and resettle in Ukraine. I have lived outside Kyiv since then.
In 1994, I had a son with a woman who was doing the same work. She has died since then. My boy’s name is Adam, and it is for his sake that I write this letter.
My health is not good. I am dying. Adam is sixteen. I want a better life for him. Would you be willing to sponsor him? Let him come to America, the best place on Earth. He is a good boy. He has done nothing wrong. He does not deserve this fate.
I do not have an address because I do not want anyone to find me. I do not have a phone because I cannot afford one.
There is a woman in Kyiv. She knew the woman who bore my child. She agreed to give me her phone number and address for the sake of the boy.
Clementine Seelick
Yaroslaviv Val 8
Kyiv 01021
Ukraine
Phone: 244-3683
It was I who first kissed you beneath the apple cart when you were twelve, not my brother. You kissed me back, and then slapped my face and ran off. You stepped on my ankle as you ran. I limped for the next two weeks.
I am not dead, Vera. I am alive. Please help my boy.
I eagerly await news of your response.
With respect,
Damian
Nadia slid the letter back to her mother. The prospect that her uncle was still alive, that she had family in Ukraine, struck a chord inside her. She wondered if he looked like her father and what he could tell her about him. The thought of a younger cousin was even more exciting. What was his daily life like? What were his dreams and aspirations?
“That was the first one,” Nadia’s mother said. “I got two more after that.”
The second letter was the same as the first one, except the tone was more urgent. The envelope contained a grainy picture of a boy in gray sweats and skates on a pond. His face was a contrast with his thin upper body: full cheeks, hearty eyes, and an unusually dark complexion. A red-and-white chimney encased in scaffolding and the top of a cement tomb loomed above the trees on the horizon.
Nadia’s mother grabbed the picture and bristled. “Look at this boy. He doesn’t even look Ukrainian. He looks more like one of those Mongolian reindeer people. Pathetic. You’d think whoever’s trying to pull this scam on me would have put a nice-looking Ukrainian boy on ice skates. Like Wayne Gretzky.”
The third letter was dated April 2. That was two weeks before the man posing as Milan had called Nadia to set up a meeting. The handwriting was so weak it was almost illegible.
Dear Vera,
A friend of mine has some very important information that he must share with someone who can be trusted. We are surrounded by scavengers, killers, and thieves. I am told by an old friend in America that your daughter is a person of integrity. That she can be trusted. Please ask her to call Clementine immediately. I beg you.
The fate of the free world
You don’t.
But I have to.
So let me try again.
Dear Vera,
I’m not dead. I’m alive. I know you won’t believe this until I offer you some proof. And even then, you may not care. But it’s not for my sake that I write. Let me explain.
I was found guilty of theft of state funds and sentenced to hard labor at Sevvostlag in 1960, when I was twenty. I was not buried in asphalt, the way everyone was told. Three members of my crew were. Three weren’t. The man who I robbed wanted me to suffer daily for the rest of my life. He spared my life so the gulag could kill me every day.
Five years later I killed a man in the gulag in self-defense, but they gave me a life sentence anyways. I was in the gulag until they closed it down in 1972. After that, I was allowed to settle in Kolyma, where I remained a prisoner. I worked on the Kolyma Highway—the Road of Bones—until 1983, and then on the Trans-Siberian Railway until 1998.
In August of 1998, a man came looking for volunteers. We were told the work was dangerous but that the pay was high. He told us we would be pardoned and allowed to leave Kolyma and resettle in Ukraine. I have lived outside Kyiv since then.
In 1994, I had a son with a woman who was doing the same work. She has died since then. My boy’s name is Adam, and it is for his sake that I write this letter.
My health is not good. I am dying. Adam is sixteen. I want a better life for him. Would you be willing to sponsor him? Let him come to America, the best place on Earth. He is a good boy. He has done nothing wrong. He does not deserve this fate.
I do not have an address because I do not want anyone to find me. I do not have a phone because I cannot afford one.
There is a woman in Kyiv. She knew the woman who bore my child. She agreed to give me her phone number and address for the sake of the boy.
Clementine Seelick
Yaroslaviv Val 8
Kyiv 01021
Ukraine
Phone: 244-3683
It was I who first kissed you beneath the apple cart when you were twelve, not my brother. You kissed me back, and then slapped my face and ran off. You stepped on my ankle as you ran. I limped for the next two weeks.
I am not dead, Vera. I am alive. Please help my boy.
I eagerly await news of your response.
With respect,
Damian
Nadia slid the letter back to her mother. The prospect that her uncle was still alive, that she had family in Ukraine, struck a chord inside her. She wondered if he looked like her father and what he could tell her about him. The thought of a younger cousin was even more exciting. What was his daily life like? What were his dreams and aspirations?
“That was the first one,” Nadia’s mother said. “I got two more after that.”
The second letter was the same as the first one, except the tone was more urgent. The envelope contained a grainy picture of a boy in gray sweats and skates on a pond. His face was a contrast with his thin upper body: full cheeks, hearty eyes, and an unusually dark complexion. A red-and-white chimney encased in scaffolding and the top of a cement tomb loomed above the trees on the horizon.
Nadia’s mother grabbed the picture and bristled. “Look at this boy. He doesn’t even look Ukrainian. He looks more like one of those Mongolian reindeer people. Pathetic. You’d think whoever’s trying to pull this scam on me would have put a nice-looking Ukrainian boy on ice skates. Like Wayne Gretzky.”
The third letter was dated April 2. That was two weeks before the man posing as Milan had called Nadia to set up a meeting. The handwriting was so weak it was almost illegible.
Dear Vera,
A friend of mine has some very important information that he must share with someone who can be trusted. We are surrounded by scavengers, killers, and thieves. I am told by an old friend in America that your daughter is a person of integrity. That she can be trusted. Please ask her to call Clementine immediately. I beg you.
The fate of the free world
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