21/10/2015
Voices from Chernobyl, S. Alexievich:
"Is this something I can talk about? Give it words? There are secrets—I still don’t understand what that was. Even in our last month, he’d still call for me at night. He felt desire. He loved me more than he did before. During the day, I’d look at him, and I couldn’t believe what had happened at night. We didn’t want to part. I caressed him, I petted him. . . . Do I need to talk about it? Can I? I myself went to him the way a man goes to a woman. What could I give him aside from medicine? What hope? He didn’t want to die.
But I didn’t tell my mother anything. She wouldn’t have understood me. She would have judged me, cursed us. Because this wasn’t just an ordinary cancer, which everyone is already afraid of, but Chernobyl cancer, even worse. The doctors told me: if the tumors metastasized within his body, he’d have died quickly, but instead they crawled upward, along the body, to the face. Something black grew on him. His chin went somewhere, his neck disappeared, his tongue fell out. His veins popped, he began to bleed. From his neck, his cheeks, his ears. To all sides. I’d bring cold water, put wet rags against him, nothing helped. It was something awful, the whole pillow would be covered in it. I’d bring a washbowl from the bathroom, and the streams would hit it, like into a milk pail. That sound, it was so peaceful and rural. Even now I hear it at night."