Read Online Voices From Chernobyl: The Oral History of a Nuclear Disaster by Svetlana Alexievich - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Svetlana Alexievich
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either, but the bees knew. They came out on the third day. Now, wasps—we had wasps, we had a wasps' nest above our porch, no one touched it, and then that morning they weren't there anymore—not dead, not alive. They came back six years later. Radiation: it scares people and it scares animals. And birds. And the trees are scared, too, but they’re quiet. They won’t say anything. It's one big catastrophe, for everyone. But the Colorado beetles are out and about, just as they always were, eating our potatoes, they scarf them down to the leaves, they're used to poison. Just like us.
But if I think about it—in every house, someone's died. On that street, on the other side of the river—all the women are without men, there aren't any men, all the men are dead On my street, my grandfather's still alive, and there’s one more. God takes the men earlier. Why? No one can tell us. But if you think about it—if only the men were left, without any of us, that wouldn't be any good either. They drink, oh do they drink! From sadness. And all our women are empty. Not all of them managed to give birth in time.
What else will I say? You have to live. That’s all.
And also this. Before, we churned our butter ourselves, our cream, made cottage cheese, regular cheese. We boiled milk dough. Do they eat that in town? You pour water on some flour and mix it in, you get these torn bits of dough, then you put these in the pot with some boiled water. You boil that and pour in some milk. My mom showed it to me and she’d say: “And you, children, will learn this. I learned it from my mother.” We drank juice from birch and maple trees. We steamed beans on the stove. We made sugared cranberries. And during the war we gathered stinging-nettle and goose-foot. We got fat from hunger, but we didn’t die. There were berries in the forest, and mushrooms. But now that’s all gone. They don't let you eat the mushrooms or the berries. I always thought that what was boiling in your pot would never change, but it’s not like that.
Anna Badaeva, re-settler
___
MONOLOGUE ABOUT A SONG WITHOUT WORDS
I’ll get down on my knees to beg you—please, find our Anna Sushko. She lived in our village. In Kozhushki. Her name is Anna Sushko. I’ll tell you how she looked, and you’ll type it up. She has a hump, and she was mute from birth. She lived by herself. She was sixty. During the time of the transfer they put her in an ambulance and drove her off somewhere. She never learned how to read, so we never got any letters from her. The lonely and the sick were put in special places. They hid them. But no one knows where. Write this down . . .
The whole village took care of her, like she was a little girl. Someone would chop wood for her, someone else would bring milk. Someone would sit in the house with her for an evening, heat the stove. Two years we all lived in other places, then we came back to our houses. Tell her that her house is still there.
The roof is still there, the windows. Everything that’s broken or been stolen, we can fix. If you just tell us her address, where she’s living and suffering, we'll go there and bring her back. So that she won’t die of sorrow. I beg you. An innocent spirit is suffering among strangers.
There’s one other thing about her, I forgot. When something hurts, she sings this song. There aren’t any words, it's just her voice. She can't talk. When something hurts, she just sings: A-a-a. It makes you feel sad.
Mariya Volchok, neighbor
___
THREE MONOLOGUES ABOUT A HOMELAND
Speaking: The K family—mother and daughter, plus a man who doesn't speak a word (the daughter's husband).
Daughter:
At first I cried day and night. I wanted to cry and talk. We’re from Tajikistan, from Dushanbe. There’s a war there.
I shouldn’t be talking about this now. I’m expecting—I’m pregnant. But I’ll tell you. They come onto the bus one day to check our passports. Just regular people, except with automatic
But if I think about it—in every house, someone's died. On that street, on the other side of the river—all the women are without men, there aren't any men, all the men are dead On my street, my grandfather's still alive, and there’s one more. God takes the men earlier. Why? No one can tell us. But if you think about it—if only the men were left, without any of us, that wouldn't be any good either. They drink, oh do they drink! From sadness. And all our women are empty. Not all of them managed to give birth in time.
What else will I say? You have to live. That’s all.
And also this. Before, we churned our butter ourselves, our cream, made cottage cheese, regular cheese. We boiled milk dough. Do they eat that in town? You pour water on some flour and mix it in, you get these torn bits of dough, then you put these in the pot with some boiled water. You boil that and pour in some milk. My mom showed it to me and she’d say: “And you, children, will learn this. I learned it from my mother.” We drank juice from birch and maple trees. We steamed beans on the stove. We made sugared cranberries. And during the war we gathered stinging-nettle and goose-foot. We got fat from hunger, but we didn’t die. There were berries in the forest, and mushrooms. But now that’s all gone. They don't let you eat the mushrooms or the berries. I always thought that what was boiling in your pot would never change, but it’s not like that.
Anna Badaeva, re-settler
___
MONOLOGUE ABOUT A SONG WITHOUT WORDS
I’ll get down on my knees to beg you—please, find our Anna Sushko. She lived in our village. In Kozhushki. Her name is Anna Sushko. I’ll tell you how she looked, and you’ll type it up. She has a hump, and she was mute from birth. She lived by herself. She was sixty. During the time of the transfer they put her in an ambulance and drove her off somewhere. She never learned how to read, so we never got any letters from her. The lonely and the sick were put in special places. They hid them. But no one knows where. Write this down . . .
The whole village took care of her, like she was a little girl. Someone would chop wood for her, someone else would bring milk. Someone would sit in the house with her for an evening, heat the stove. Two years we all lived in other places, then we came back to our houses. Tell her that her house is still there.
The roof is still there, the windows. Everything that’s broken or been stolen, we can fix. If you just tell us her address, where she’s living and suffering, we'll go there and bring her back. So that she won’t die of sorrow. I beg you. An innocent spirit is suffering among strangers.
There’s one other thing about her, I forgot. When something hurts, she sings this song. There aren’t any words, it's just her voice. She can't talk. When something hurts, she just sings: A-a-a. It makes you feel sad.
Mariya Volchok, neighbor
___
THREE MONOLOGUES ABOUT A HOMELAND
Speaking: The K family—mother and daughter, plus a man who doesn't speak a word (the daughter's husband).
Daughter:
At first I cried day and night. I wanted to cry and talk. We’re from Tajikistan, from Dushanbe. There’s a war there.
I shouldn’t be talking about this now. I’m expecting—I’m pregnant. But I’ll tell you. They come onto the bus one day to check our passports. Just regular people, except with automatic
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