we were newlyweds. we still walked around holding hands, even if we were just going to the store. i would say to him, “i love you.” but i didn’t know then how much. i had no idea . . . we lived in the dormitory of the fire station where he worked. i always knew what was happening—where he was, how he was. one night I heard a noise. i looked out the window. he saw me. “close the window and go back to sleep. there’s a fire at the reactor. i’ll be back soon.”
the paris review publishes a text written by svetlana alexievich. this is quite a different story than elena is telling us with her rough ride through the tschernobyl area. two ways to see the world.