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

He closed his eyes momentarily as he removed his dusty cap, and ran trembling fingers through his hair. The tension was crippling. He felt more overwhelmed, at this moment, than he had felt when he was holding the torturous fire hose nozzle at the massive walls of flames in the Wilhelmshaven bombings during those horrendous months of war. At least there the pain would have been immediate, life’s ending swift. He pushed to the back of his mind the horror of the alternative now awaiting him and Evdokia. He could not contemplate being returned to Stalin’s Russia, to the waiting labour camps swelling stealthily in the gulags of Siberia and Asian Russia, or even to Stalin’s satellite states in the eastern bloc, where misery and starvation were perpetuated in the name of Soviet progress.

The Cold War that was sprung unawares on them in Europe even as Germany’s surrender was imminent, overnight changed the political structure of the continent, leaving displaced persons with even less certainty than they could have imagined during the fire-burst of the war. The ‘Iron Curtain’ had come down not just to put a divide between east and west Germany, but now also between east and west Berlin. It crushed the hopes of so many peoples, who had looked forward to only peace between nations and safety for their loved ones. Now, both these dreams were gone. Left in their wake, he and Evdokia, with millions of other displaced people, were but pawns in the political melee that, like an uncontrollable glacier, was now spreading over Europe.

He forced himself to scan the list, then gasped, rubbing his eyes almost in disbelief. There it was, at last: ‘Pospile, Petro. Interview Date: 22 July, 1948’. “Ahh!” he cried out, confidence surging and invigorating him. He strode towards the barracks block, to give Evdokia the hopeful news. The difficulties of life in the camp could be minimised now that the hand of hope had opened to them. He could savour the piquancy of her freshly-made borshch, listen patiently to his children’s escapades. And Mykola would now resist the troublesome youths in the camp. With each stride of his skin-blistering boots, he planned his strategy for the fateful date.

“Ha, Petro!” Borys ran across the barracks yard to greet him. “Can you believe! Our priest has agreed to marry Katya and me tomorrow, at service end! ‘A short service,’ he said, ‘but it will suffice!’ Now that is a good holy man! Katya and I will be together… and my interview will have a better chance of success!” He grasped Peter’s hand, then, remembering his older friend’s plight, queried him, beaming with congratulations as they hugged.

“You know, Petro,” Borys dropped his voice, in respect, “our priest could not marry us later… Vicktor’s little Elenia did not survive… The mourning period goes beyond my interview date.”

“Charstvo Nebesno,” Peter bowed his head and crossed himself; then, as Nadia and Ola ran to them, he warned his friend. He would choose the time to tell them, felt the pang of grief for the child’s family. Their tiny Ukrainian Orthodox chapel, adjacent to the school, will be over-spilled with wet-eyed children farewelling their white-veiled princess, who had only recently played with his own daughters.

“Tato! Tato! Borys is going to marry! And Katya wants us to be the flower-girls!” Nadia ran around them, spinning Ola in an impromptu dance. “Flower-girls! Flower-girls! We are going to be flower-girls!” Peter grinned and gently tousled their white-blonde hair, feasted his tired eyes on their innocent exuberance. He determined to take them high up the hill behind the camp to pick the abundant wildflowers for bouquets.

For a moment his heart skipped a beat as Nadia stretched and turned in her child’s-play dance. Though younger, she was now almost Manya’s height, before her passing. Blinking at stray tears, he reminded himself that he and Evdokia were triply blessed, still now with three of his children beside them. He could ask for little more. Others, like young Maria and Andre, had lost their only infant, with no prospect of another. The dice of life tossed at each family was precarious, unpredictable. He would be grateful for just one more chance to toss the dice, have it fall one last time in his and Evdokia’s favour.

An indefinable fragrance floated through their cramped living quarters, awakening senses in Peter too long held in check. He breathed in the mixed scent, then remembered. Even on this day, he awoke early, disciplined by all the years of hard work. He pulled himself up on his elbow, leaned back on the perena pillow Evdokia had recently enlarged for him. His eyes tracked the soft beams of sunlight that penetrated the worn blanket that served as their curtain and watched them ricochet across the patchwork of timbers and boards that gave his family privacy from the adjoining room. The beams darted to the opposite wall, flickered and played among the wildflowers in the bucket near the door.

He smiled as his eyes rested on his daughters’ tousled white curls, pale angelic faces just visible as they slept, side by side, on the narrow bed he had forged for them. He shook his head in amusement as he thought of Nadia and Ola’s efforts to pick these flowers, one by one, seeking his approval and their wide-eyed gasp as he plucked a perfect white lily from its hidden hollow. He sighed, now, as he took in these private moments, unobserved by others, allowing himself scant moments of reflection before the day’s happenings. The hazy warmth was already heavy with summer’s promise of fulfilment: their friends’ nuptials would be savoured today. But, he reminded himself, it was also a day for some reflection, for loved ones lost, as Vicktor’s Elenia awaited her candle.

“Tato, Tato! Please get up! Get up! We’ll be late for their wedding!” Nadia’s voice sang around the room as she tugged at the battered valise under her bed. “I’ll be ready first—you’ll all see!” She pursed her lips as she struggled to dislodge the case. “Kola—help me! You can do this, now!”

Peter grinned, watched as Nadia frowned then stepped aside as Mykola lifted her little bed and dragged out the valise. She snapped open its lid, took out the two Sunday dresses with their accompanying ribbons and, looking proudly at her mother, clicked shut the bag and pushed it back to safety. Evdokia smiled wistfully. Her precious photograph of Manya was now secure in that valise, wrapped in its fine lace and linen handkerchief from the generous gift parcel recently distributed, together with these embroidered white dresses, so admired by others, and delighting Nadia.

Peter laughed as he tease-scolded his excited daughter. “Remember—there is our long church service first. You must behave yourselves all morning!” He winked at Mykola, both understanding the jest.

The young Father Naniuk greeted them at the door of the newly sanctified chapel of Saint Pokrovskii, handing Peter a thin, used candle to represent his family. The tiny chapel, converted from a farmer’s store-room and refreshed with a motley of available paints simulating the sky blue and gold of Ukrainian Orthodoxy, was already crowded. Peter clasped Evdokia’s hand, squeezed it gently. They exchanged smiles as they watched their children, who were wide-eyed, entranced by the elder Father Mikolaeyev, in his mock-gold regalia, performing his liturgical rituals at the altar. Wisps of candle smoke, mixed with the senior priest’s incense, formed a heady haze, blending in an atmosphere of ritual mystery as the priests alternately read their verses and sang their prayers, allowing their congregation to follow in sung responses.