Radio

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**APRIL 23, 1986**

The cat Vas’ka purred contentedly, curled up in a tight ball on the windowsill, his fluffy face turned toward the warm rays of the evening sun. In the kitchen, water was coming to a boil in a large white pot with polka dots, and freshly molded dumplings lay in neat rows on a wooden board.

An already elderly woman in a green house robe was carefully scrubbing dust and stuck-on grime from the surface of a black, old, and in places battered radio. Sneezing from the swirling dust, she glanced at the clock and bustled about. Quickly brushing off the remaining dirt, the housewife turned the dial and adjusted the antenna.

With a crackle, the radio caught the signal and began broadcasting either *Literary Journalism* or *Literary Readings*. In any case, the woman didn’t care — she had already returned to the kitchen and deftly tossed the dumplings into the boiling water, listening to the program only out of the corner of her ear.

“…And finally the cook appeared with the pancakes. Semen Petrovich, risking burning his fingers, grabbed the top two — the hottest pancakes — and appetizingly plopped them onto his plate. The pancakes were golden-brown, porous, fluffy, like the shoulder of a merchant’s daughter…”

From the hallway came the jingle of keys and the creak of an opening door, and a minute later a tired male voice sounded from the living room.

“All right, Lena’s at your mom’s. She’s happy to sit with her granddaughter, but only until next weekend. Are you frying pancakes? Smells delicious!”

“What pancakes? Dumplings,” the woman waved him off. “Wait a couple of minutes and they’ll be ready.”

“And what is this miracle of technology?”

“You mean the radio? You wouldn’t believe it — Lyudka, the gossip from the neighboring building, gave it to me. Just handed it over — said she had no use for such old junk. By the way, it looks great and works perfectly.”

“And it broadcasts tasty programs. You can practically smell the pancakes.”

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**APRIL 20, 2014**

An entire heap of junk had accumulated in the storage closet, threatening to topple down and bury to death any seeker of antiquities. Sneezing from the dust, a brunette in a tracksuit carefully tried to lift a canvas sack stuffed with who-knows-what.

“And where are those shoes?” she muttered aloud and suddenly bumped her hand against something angular. “Damn. So much trash. Is this a radio or what?”

Propping up the shaky construction of things and broken furniture with her shoulder, the girl with difficulty pulled out an old — even ancient-looking — radio receiver. Curious, the brunette blew on it, causing a small dust storm.

“Well, what did you find?” the guy laughed through a mouthful of sandwich. “What’s that?”

“A radio. Can’t you see? Listen, it probably belonged to my grandmother!”

“Which grandmother? The one from Saratov? What are her things doing here?” the fiancé didn’t understand, momentarily tearing himself away from eating.

“No, the other grandmother. There’s a bunch of her stuff here,” the girl explained, carefully placing the device on the vanity. “I wonder if it works?”

“You never said you had another grandmother.”

“Yeah, sure, my mom was born in a test tube. There *was* a grandmother, but I never met her. And my mom was about six when she died. It’s a strange story in general — no one in the family really talks about it,” the brunette said curiously straightening the antenna. “Turn it on, will you?”

The radio crackled, and through the static voices began to break through.

“…Good morning and have a wonderful day! By this many-voiced choir, dear radio listeners, you can judge how many guests have gathered in our studio today…”

“What is this? ‘Good Morning’? This radio even broadcasts Soviet programs?” the girl snorted. “Come on, tune to something else.”

“…Petro Peru marks the beginning of a new era in the history of their homeland. This is the first state company now owned by Peruvians,” melodic violin music flowed from the speakers, and a female voice continued deliberately. “One hundred and fifty years ago, after a long and bloody struggle lasting more than two centuries, the brave and freedom-loving Peruvians expelled the Spanish conquistadors…”

“I hear greetings from the USSR,” the guy snorted. “Looks like we’ve hit Retro FM again.”

“Do you smell that?” the girl suddenly asked, wrinkling her nose. “What does it smell like? Rot, or something dead. Ugh.”

“Don’t tell me a pipe burst again. Damn! You’re right. Either something fermented or something’s rotting. Did our meat go bad?”

“Go check the pipes, you poor excuse for an engineer! And open the window. It’s stuffy.”

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**APRIL 29, 1986**

The room was filled with the smell of medicine, and wheezing mixed with coughing came from the bathroom. The woman was kneeling in front of the toilet, violently retching. Her usually pale skin had taken on a bright reddish tint, and her hands, weakly clinging to the white rim, trembled from the oncoming convulsions.

The woman struggled to get up, but her legs wouldn’t obey, and another spasm twisted her stomach. In her head, seized by a strange apathy, a thought still flickered — she needed to reach the phone. She needed to call for help.

The housewife retched again, and her head spun like a mad carousel. She couldn’t even stand or cry out.

In the living room, on the floor beside the extinguished but still warm radio, lay Vas’ka. Sunbeams played across his fluffy face, but the cat did not move.

He wasn’t breathing.

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**APRIL 28, 2014**

For once, the apartment was quiet, and nothing interfered with the girl concentrating on writing her report. Nothing except the horrific fatigue from lack of sleep and a complete unwillingness to do anything.

Suppressing a yawn, the girl glanced at the old radio standing on the floor. The gift from the past was strange and clearly brought misfortune. Not only did the only radio stations it picked up belong to Retro FM, but ever since the relic appeared, complete chaos had begun in the apartment.

Either the pipes had started to stink of rot, or the smell was coming from under the floor. The water had acquired a salty taste. And after the girl tuned in to a program about a report on the development of agriculture, the stench in the apartment became unbearable. No matter how much they sniffed around, the newlyweds couldn’t figure out where the manure smell was coming from.

“Fix the pipes properly for once,” the girl muttered under her breath and, obeying a sudden impulse, approached the radio.

It turned on easily, and the brunette didn’t even have to tune the stations. Through the crackling broke through a clear female voice.

“Attention! Attention! Dear comrades! The City Council of People’s Deputies reports that due to an accident at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant, an unfavorable radiation situation is developing in the city of Pripyat…”

The girl couldn’t listen any further, as she felt a sharp, nauseating spasm twist her stomach. She rushed to the bathroom and, collapsing to her knees, instantly vomited.

Her head spun.

Swallowing thick, bitter saliva, the brunette clutched the rim of the toilet with trembling fingers.