Olga Chaplin - The Man from Talalaivka - A Tale of Love, Life and Loss from Ukraine

“O God!” Peter cried inwardly, sickened. He bowed his head, tasted the bitter reality of his powerlessness in the situation. His mind registered the full extent of the imminent danger, and forced cold logic to over-ride his almost overwhelming emotions. He could not put his little family at any risk. He could not search out for Vanya again, even if an opportunity arose. The risks were too great, the punishments unthinkable. He could only hope and pray silently that Vanya was safe from harm. He could do no more. He could only, in these moments of horror, be thankful that the commandant of his kolkhoz area, and his disciplined captain who was leading them to Talalaivka, had not taken such inhumane revenge on the Ukrainians under their control. For that, he could be thankful.

Talalaivka railway station was almost unrecognisable. Fast Russian fighter planes, now having little opposition from Goering’s limping Luftwaffe, had succeeded in wiping out part of the railway line. Supply carriages, smashed and unusable, lay scattered, creating chaos, as acrid blue-black smoke billowed from the debris. As he reined his horse to one side, on orders from the captain, Peter could see the frantic efforts of teams of soldiers unchaining the damaged carriages in a desperate attempt to prepare the remaining supply carriages at the front of the line for fast evacuation. Their group was ordered to a holding yard, ready to board as soon as each supply carriage was checked. The monstrous locomotive, fired up before the attack, was choking to be released to its destination, somewhere westward, to a place unknown. Peter sensed his family’s fear and held tight little Mykola’s hand. He whispered to Evdokia to stay close as he reassured her and the children. Still, his eyes searched again for Vanya. Straining, he looked over the waiting prisoners in the holding yard. There was no sign of Kysma or his family. Nor of Vanya. No-one from that kolkhoz farmhouse for him to enquire.

Moments later, the captain signalled for them to move. The German soldiers, rifles pointed to the ground, but with safety locks off, ordered their kolkhoz captives into the crude supply carriages. Peter helped Evdokia into the massive cabin, lifted the children to her. He positioned himself at an open window, watching with strained eyes for any sign of Vanya. A soldier, avoiding eye contact, slammed the great bolt shut on the outside. A signal came from somewhere. The carriage jerked, in anticipation of its race westward before the Russian pack of aircraft returned. He leaned out, straining to catch every last moment of the platform. Only a young German soldier, rifle idling, wistfully looked westward in the direction of his own homeland, then turned back to the chaos, for further orders. The platform was empty.

From an alcove of the platform a figure emerged in full German uniform, officer’s hat partially hiding his face. It was the commandant of their kolkhoz area. He walked up the platform and stood at a short distance from Peter’s open window, then looked up at him. The early morning sun was dazzling. Peter could not be sure: perhaps it was a trick of light, the movement of the carriage. The commandant seemed to raise his hand, tip his officer’s hat, as if in respectful salute. Peter had no way of knowing what this meant: whether it was perfunctory, or honourable.

The supply train was no longer under the commandant’s control. Its occupants were now at the mercy of new masters, dissociated leaders and bureaucrats, commanding recklessly from OKH in far-off Berlin: ordering trains to every part of German-controlled territory, ordering trains to labour and extermination camps as expedience suited them. “Dear God, where are they taking us?” he cried silently as the massive engine’s ash, and black smoke, overtook him. They were being pulled in a direction not of their choosing, destination unknown, uncertain in which direction fate would take them.

High above them, like black-winged birds frenetically darting in playful flight, three fighter planes circled their target. The hazy blue sky flashed, signalling the deadly game was over. Peter’s strained eyes followed the Russian bomber as it spiralled towards them, its contact with the ground shuddering the train tracks, its flames licking the carriages as they passed. He could taste the pungent smoke long after the train had snaked its way past the crater that had become the pulverised burial site of another Russian bomber crew. He glanced at Evdokia and the children. The carriage, crammed with fellow prisoners, was silent. Then a child whimpered in its mother’s arms.

“Dobreye Bohe,” he murmured to himself, “it’s difficult to know which way to turn.” He pondered the irony of their situation: the tragic death of the Russian fighter pilots, who were not unlike himself and his countrymen in their love of their nation and who had done their sacrificial duty, and the retreating German army and its desperate pilots, who had just moments earlier saved all their lives. He swallowed the bitter pill of calculated compassion. Whatever the outcome, there would be tragedy on both sides. And for this prisoner train, there would be further dangers as the carriages nosed westward. The Russian forces grew more confident by the day, even, it seemed, with each hour. It would be a miracle if they survived this journey.

Each winding bend, each minute pause on the railway tracks, increased the pent-up tension. Anxiety suppressed their thirst and hunger. Interminable hours dragged on. Droning bombers and fighter planes spat at each other again and again, almost anaesthetising the train’s inmates to the constant danger.

Peter skimmed his eyes across the late afternoon vista. They had now left the Kievsky Oblast. Somehow, amazingly, their long cargo of prisoners had criss-crossed railway gauges, evading Kiev. They were now heading into the western Oblasts. The German forces would move faster now, their control of these regions more certain, for the time being at least. Night would protect them, and partisan disruptions to transport were less common in these German-controlled parts.

In near-darkness, at a clearing near the woods, the train jerked suddenly to a halt. A posse of German soldiers, rifles ready, stood at each carriage door. At a signal from the commander, the occupants were ordered out. “Oi Boje mye,” Evdokia groaned, fearing the worst as she grasped Peter’s hand. Heart thudding, he whispered reassurance. “Dyna, they wouldn’t have brought us all this way to finish with us now.” He squeezed her hand tight, stroked tiny Nadia’s hair as she clutched Evdokia’s jacket. “We will see, Dyna… they have to give us water… some food… and they have to let us relieve ourselves.” Minutes later, the long train belched its steamy fumes again, hassling them back to the carriages, then lurched again into the blackened night.

Even before the train reached its Drohobych junction, south of Lvov, more Russian bombers streaked across the dawn sky. “They’re softening up Lvov now,” Peter surmised, as the reprisal explosions met their target. The German army was racing against time and would soon be forced to retreat from this vital westernmost city of the Ukraine. Only Russia’s approaching winter could temporarily stop Stalin’s armies reclaiming it now.

The train screeched to its halt in a huge junction yard. “Attention! Attention!” a seasoned soldier shouted his command. “Move quickly! Quickly! You will move to the waiting train!” Panicked, their captives pushed as one towards the carriage door. Peter grabbed Evdokia’s arm. “Wait; wait,” he whispered. “We’ll be crushed if we move! Kola,” he woke his little son, “stay close to us…”