Disasters Judgment at Chernobyl

By John Greenwald

Camera shutters clicked and high-intensity television lights flooded a makeshift courtroom last week in Chernobyl, the Ukrainian town whose name has been forever emblazoned in the pantheon of nuclear disaster. In the blinding glare, dozens of photographers zeroed in on six haggard-looking men seated in the defendants' box. Thus began the trial of the once obscure former plant officials and technicians charged with primary responsibility for history's + worst nuclear accident. The April 26, 1986, mishap, in which the No. 4 reactor at the Chernobyl power station exploded and burned out of control, killed 31 people, forced 135,000 to be evacuated and spewed poisonous radiation across Europe and much of the rest of the world.

Moscow has been at pains to make the trial a showcase for Soviet Leader Mikhail Gorbachev's policy of glasnost (openness). Though Chernobyl has been virtually deserted since the accident at the power plant eleven miles away, the town has recently bustled with new life. Workers swarmed over the squat yellow-and-white Dom Kulturi, or Culture House, and converted its auditorium into a 162-seat courtroom. Briefcase-bearing lawyers and expert witnesses appeared last week on tree-lined streets that had lately been occupied mainly by soldiers armed with decontamination gear. A dozen foreign journalists traveled from Kiev in a police-escorted tourist bus for the four-hour opening session and were given front-row seats. At the building's entrance, white- suited technicians checked everyone for radiation contamination. Noted one official: "There is a logic in holding the trial here at the scene of the crime, as it were."

While it may be rich in symbolism, the trial is also a hardheaded exercise in damage control. By blaming relatively low-level technicians for the disaster, Gorbachev hopes to deflect responsibility once and for all from the top Soviet leadership and the country's beleaguered nuclear power agenda. The program continues to roll ahead, with about a dozen new plants under construction. The court proceedings, moreover, are not completely open. Under ground rules set by Moscow, foreign reporters may cover only the first and last sessions of what is expected to be a three-week trial that will hear more than 50 witnesses. So far, 67 plant workers have been fired or demoted since the Chernobyl accident, and 27 of those have been expelled from the Communist Party.

Western observers had a close look at Soviet justice on its best behavior as the case got under way. One by one, the defendants gave their names, ages and work histories in reply to questions put by Supreme Court Judge Raimond Brize, chairman of the three-judge panel that is hearing the case. Brize paused solemnly between each answer, as though hearing the information for the first time. When the judge asked if anyone in the jammed gallery had witnessed the disaster, a man rose to say that he was scheduled to testify this week. Brize politely asked him to leave, presumably to avoid his hearing something that might prejudice his testimony.

The court then got down to business. For three hours a clerk spelled out the charges in daunting detail. They told of systematic safety violations, inept supervision and deliberate departures from plant operating rules in an effort to coax more electricity from the nuclear-fired generators. One account accused the defendants of failing to notify those living near the plant of high radiation until 36 hours after the accident. Murmurs rippled through the audience when the document charged Anatoly Dyatlov, 57, deputy chief engineer at the time of the accident, with sending four workers to check the reactor hours after the disaster without warning them of the danger or providing them with protective clothing. The four later died of radiation poisoning.

If convicted of the minutely itemized charges, as seems almost certain under the tightly controlled Soviet legal system, five of the defendants face sentences of up to ten years in prison. They include Dyatlov, former Plant Director Viktor Bryukhanov, 51, and former Chief Engineer Nikolai Fomin, 50. The three men have already been stripped of Communist Party membership and have spent the past year in a Kiev jail, awaiting trial. Wearing plain dark suits and shirts open at the collar, all three looked gaunt and weary.

Moscow allowed the remaining defendants to continue to work at the plant, but they were demoted and required to notify authorities regularly of their whereabouts. Included among them are Alexander Kovalenko, 45, who supervised the No. 4 reactor, and Boris Rogozhkin, 52, the boss of the midnight-to-8 a.m. shift (the fatal explosions occurred at 1:25 a.m.). Both could receive ten- year sentences. The sixth defendant, Government Inspector Yuri Laushkin, 50, faces up to two years in prison for failing to carry out his responsibilities.

When asked whether they understood the case against them, the men admitted some guilt but denied outright responsibility for the accident. Several blamed faulty equipment or design errors. Shielding his eyes from the TV lights, Bryukhanov conceded that he had been partially negligent. He insisted, however, that he was not guilty of safety violations. Dyatlov provided the most emotional moment. Grabbing a microphone and holding it close, he denied in a firm voice that he was directly to blame for the death of any plant workers. Then Dyatlov added, "With so many human deaths, I cannot say I am completely innocent."

Despite glasnost, the Soviet public had only a limited view of the proceedings. Official press accounts stressed that the investigative report blamed flagrant breaches of safety rules for the accident. The nightly television news program Vremya (Time) showed a few minutes of the opening day without mentioning that the defendants had denied some of the accusations. Subsequent sessions were not reported at all.

Outside the courtroom, the surrounding Ukrainian countryside remained desolate 14 months after the Chernobyl accident. Farms were devoid of livestock, gardens were untended, and weeds grew above the windowsills of abandoned houses. The town of Pripyat, once home to some 50,000 workers, may never be resettled. Nearby, 27 villages are still so heavily contaminated that workers have abandoned cleanup efforts. Signs warned against driving on road shoulders, which could stir up radioactive dust, and army trucks made up most of the traffic on two-lane roads that once were thoroughfares to markets.

Little by little, though, the Soviets have been making progress. Two hamlets just beyond the 18-mile security zone were recently reoccupied, and families have started moving back to 16 other villages. The town of Chernobyl itself has been declared largely decontaminated. Thousands of cleanup workers reside in a temporary settlement optimistically named Zelony Mys (Green Cape).

Elsewhere in Europe, the nuclear catastrophe seemed to have faded from memory. French shoppers who once used Geiger counters to help them select produce during the height of the radiation scare now buy fruits and vegetables without concern. In West Germany, though, 20 institutes and eight community groups continue to monitor samples of suspected foods. Checks recently found excessive radiation in certain chocolates, dried mushrooms and beef.

In Eastern Europe, which suffered some of the heaviest fallout, the public paid close attention to the trial. Newspapers and television programs carried reports of the proceedings. The accident has even stirred up several nascent environmental movements. In Poland, for instance, an outlawed group called Freedom and Peace opposes construction of a nuclear power plant, the country's first, near Gdansk. Movement leaders have seen the future 400 miles across the Soviet border in Chernobyl, and they are convinced it will not work. The trial at Dom Kulturi is unlikely to reassure them.

With reporting by Ken Olsen/Chernobyl, with other bureaus