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

He felt his way between the bunks, gripping the timber rail of each upper bunk to steady himself as the ship swayed and lurched with each pounding swell. The sobs, more muffled now, were emanating from a far corner of this large dormitory in which a hundred men nightly cohabited.

“Fedor,” he whispered. “What is it?” He touched his friend’s shoulder. “What is it, my friend? What’s distressing you so?”

Fedor turned to him, his tormented face protected in the dark, his tears brushing Peter’s face. He was inconsolable: gasping, his shoulders heaving. Peter feared for him as he grasped his shoulders. “Come, Fedor, what has happened here? You must tell me, man.”

“Vera and I…” he groaned as he tried to control himself. “I have just returned… from the hospital bay… Vera and I… O God!” He broke down again. “We didn’t know… no-one could save our Galina. O God!” Still sobbing, he clung to him. Peter could feel the trickle of tears through his night shirt, felt the prickling sensation of tension and adrenalin as he tried to comfort Fedor.

“Petro… they are to give her a ‘burial at sea’ at dawn—before other passengers become aware of it… They are a superstitious lot, you know… these sailors. They’re afraid it may cause panic among other passengers.” He leaned closer, to whisper. “Some of them even believe there must be a ‘kraken’ in this southern ocean…” He pulled back, took a deep breath, readying himself. “Petro… my Vera will not attend… she is medicated, in the hospital room. Will you stand beside me, Petro?”

Peter held Fedor’s shoulder and whispered his support. He had known his own loss, of his loved ones, of his children. Yet somehow since boarding this ship to freedom, the relatively casual manner of their shipboard life had put a veneer, even an expectation, that all the displaced people would reach their destination safely. Even as this ship left Fremantle, there had been a cavalier atmosphere on board, as if concrete certainty had swept over all those who were sailing on to Sydney.

Now, he could no longer be certain. Fremantle and the southwestern point of Australia were now far behind them. There were still too many days at sea before they would reach the major eastern metropolis that was so akin to Naples. He bit his lip, his anxiety unrevealed in the dark. He remembered how light Ola felt in his strong arms as she hugged her godfather. He now realised, with dismay, that her white, windswept hair and sunburnt face belied her weakening strength. He shook his head and shuddered, could not contemplate the fear, the pain, as he comforted Fedor in his grief.

A roaring wind, whipping up even further a great angry swell in the barely visible morning light, made almost surreal the small line of ship’s officers, standing solemnly in sombre grey uniform in accordance with the ritual, as an infant’s casket was brought to the deck’s handrail. Peter whispered to Fedor and, letting go of his arm he stepped forward and crossed himself, then picked out two white flowers from the coffin’s bouquet that had been provided by the captain. He stepped back and stood beside Fedor, shoulder to shoulder for support, and gave him the only reminders of this funereal occasion.

The steel sliding tray was locked to the handrail, its angle adjusted to the sea’s surge. A final prayer in an unintelligible language was passed over the tiny coffin, the word “Amen” repeated by the officers. “Amin, Amin,” Peter and Fedor repeated as they crossed themselves again. “Charstvo Nebesno,” Peter added, knowing, even now, that he had said these words too many times for his heart to erase.

The sea churned and thrashed at the ship. The foaming spray from the wind-lashed swell welcomed the weighted coffin as it disappeared into the green-grey depths of a treacherous southern ocean. Peter, sensing his friend could collapse at any moment, grasped Fedor’s arm and led him away, his jaw stiff with tension, his heart reaching out to his bereft friend. He could not gauge how this voyage would end. Freedom had a price, whatever one did, wherever one sought it. This eerie daylight service confirmed this all too clearly.

Mykola proudly scraped at his plate and grinned as he rose from the pew-like seat of the cafeteria table. Evdokia looked up, surprised; queried him. “Oh, we’re still playing ‘tors’ on the deck—before it gets too dark!” he exclaimed, mimicking the nickname the ship’s staff gave the tile game in which Mykola and his friends tossed and scored along the lurching deck.

“Kola…” Evdokia hesitated, resigned these days to soothing reprimands. “You know it’s too risky, now… that deck is always awash with seawater.” She looked to Peter for support and paused as she observed him eyeing Ola’s untouched meal. Mykola blushed, his natural shyness always over-riding his bravado as he made his halting steps towards adulthood.

“I promise, Mamo, we’ll be careful… and we don’t run for the ‘tors’ until the water washes back. It’s all right, really!” He waited another moment for his mother’s approval, then a boyish petulance returned. “And, anyway… what else is there to do here, now? They show us a film they call ‘Coming to Australia’,” he mimicked the words, grinning cheekily, “but it’s the same film, every day… the same animals, and birds… and it’s not in our language!”

Peter watched as Mykola, white-haired and sunburn-blistered but happy and well, ran off. He turned to Evdokia. Their eyes met, each understanding the other. Their Nadia, too, ate well. Indeed, she had even grown stronger on this voyage, the fresh sea air and liberal meal portions agreeing with her. Evdokia pursed her lips, held back a rebuke as she watched Ola pick at her food. She could not understand it. Her own near-death experience in her Ukraine all those years ago did not allow her mind to accept that nausea and seasickness could have such an extreme effect, and her older children were thriving on the generous servings on this voyage.

“Petro… tempt her with something…” She tried to contain her frustration as she watched his thoughtful demeanour. He realised, with dismay, that these days the ship lunged so much from frightening depth to peak in the furious latitude of the ‘roaring forties and fifties’ that even the ship’s officers no longer joked about their ‘sea legs’. And he could see Ola weakening, with each day. He calculated the days before their arrival in Sydney, felt the fear return as he realised that there was little hope she would improve in these extreme weather conditions.

“Come, Nadia and Ola,” he cajoled them, taking them by the hand, “let’s watch Kola and his friends at their ‘tors’ game! Then we’ll see how quickly you can run back and finish your meal!” Evdokia smiled in relief, grateful for the distraction. She dreaded joining the queue of the now constantly sick passengers who found comfort in words but little medical relief in the ship’s hospital room. “Oi Boje,” she pondered, as she remembered Fremantle. It was now long behind them, Sydney still so far away.

Peter stood one last time at the open deck and viewed the southern-most night sky. A strange calm seemed to have befallen the sea and its cargo. He smiled, in spite of himself, at the irony of the situation that, almost at the very point of their departure from the Castelbianco , the sea now seemed lulled into some kind of submission, as if the very spirits of this far away and ancient land had reached out to placate it. He looked up in wonder into the cloudless night. A new universe of unimaginable vastness and depth and mystery held him spellbound. Nowhere, in his upbringing and shortened education in the army, was there an explanation of an infinity of this kind that went hand-in-hand with his Maker.