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

He felt a sense of elation, a heightened awareness as he took in the nebulous beauty of the universe, felt overwhelmed at the magnitude of the inexplicable. He bowed his head, uncertain if his silent prayer would be received, or accepted, from this southernmost vantage point of the planet.

He blinked away the tears of relief, tinged with anxiety. Relief, that they had safely traversed half the globe in a friendly if somewhat uncomfortable voyage, as far away from Stalin’s communism as he could wish for his little family. Anxiety, with every day watching helplessly as Ola lingered in ill-health, requiring visits from the ship’s nurses in attempts to hydrate her before the morrow.

“Dear God,” he pleaded, his voice breaking as he appealed to the Great Almighty of the universe. “Please don’t take her from us… not now…” He held back a sob, his jaw tightening again. Evdokia was waiting for him, in her dormitory. She needed to see his confident self, to be told their Ola would recover, disembark with them. He needed to prepare himself for any eventuality. Each day told a different story, which could have an unpredictable outcome.

Sydney Harbour had put on its finest celebratory robe, as the Castelbianco cruised cautiously between its great rocky headlands that, at last, separated civilisation from the impenetrable sea. In spite of the bustling concern of the passengers, with men and women tugging at their valises as they prematurely queued with their documents, Peter feasted his eyes on the grandeur of the harbour, with its wide expanse of shoreline trees and rocky outcrops, and caught a first glimpse, in the distance, of the famous steel structure that took pride of place on the coloured brochure given them in Naples before their departure. He smiled at yet another irony. Beautiful, the harbour and its surrounds certainly were. But Naples, it was not. The smattering of buildings at its busiest sector had some likeness to Naples. But the scale of this new country was so vast, he realised with sadness, as he reminded himself of that long voyage from west to east coast, from Fremantle to this civilised metropolis.

He took one last memorable look from the ship’s approach in the harbour, then hurried down the steep steel stairs to Evdokia’s dormitory, to prepare his family for disembarkation.

He carried Ola in his arms as Mykola helped Evdokia with the valise and whispered to Nadia to hold Evdokia’s hand. He instinctively felt inside his jacket pocket: the documents were safe, ready for checking.

Confusion seemed to predominate now as passengers squeezed together and tried to position themselves to have their documents checked and stamped by the ship’s officers. Peter smiled and shook his head as he watched the commotion unfolding. Now, as if their charge of displaced persons were disembarking from a pleasure cruise, the captain and his officers were farewelling each family with flourish and gallantry. Peter tempered himself and pulled back, knowing that Ola could not stand, and held her close to him as passengers jostled past. “But she is so light now… like a feather,” he smiled sadly to himself, “this is not a heavy weight to carry.”

A ship’s officer tapped him on the shoulder and beckoned Peter to follow him. The queue of excited passengers made way for the sickly child and her family. “Gratsia,” Peter thanked the officer, feeling sincerely grateful for his gesture. Time was of the essence, now, if Ola was to be allowed by the authorities to travel with him and Evdokia to their ‘placement camp’, wherever it was to be. The documents were cleared, the captain’s handshake given and the token photograph of the ship placed in his hand. His throat tightened with conflicting emotions: the immense relief upon arrival on new land, yet the mounting fear of the unknown. He stepped carefully from the gangway, felt a new generous nation’s soil beneath his feet.

They had entered a great austere building, adjacent to the Castelbianco ’s Pyrmont docking wharf. Evdokia, fatigued and anxious, could no longer remain calm. This great passenger processing hangar reminded her too closely of the engineering workshop outside Berlin in which she and the children were checked and labelled. She grabbed Peter’s arm. “Petro!” she whispered, fearing the worst. “Look! These people are like those commandants in that camp… near Berlin! Oi Boje! What is to become of us all?”

“Dyna, stay calm… these people are immigration officers… we are on Australian soil now!” He looked more closely at the IRO armbands of the United Nations officials. “Dyna, they are like the officers who allowed us to board our ship in Naples. It is all right, now… they won’t separate us.” Then he noticed a Red Cross sign on a nearby door. His heart sank as he watched a sick child being taken from its distressed parents by an ambulance officer.

“We mustn’t let her go, Petro… not now… Tell them she was well, that it’s only today’s excitement that has affected her… You know what happened when we left Manya…” She began to weep. Peter leaned close to her, whispered for her to stay strong. They both needed to convince the authorities that their daughter was well enough.

The IRO officers checked and stamped their documents, referring to their list of ‘Disembarking Displaced Persons’, then paused and conferred quietly with each other as they observed the family. Each family member’s inoculations were in order, but the youngest child was clearly ill. The interpreter stepped forward.

“Your little girl looks unwell. We think it advisable she be taken to the nearest hospital. It is close by, in this city. She will get immediate attention for her condition here… for whatever ails her.” Peter sensed the uncertainty. He broke the impasse, and smiled confidently.

“You needn’t worry about my younger daughter, sir! She indulged in too many sweets at our final dinner last night… the captain’s generous treats got the better of her!”

The officer cautioned. “But there is still a long journey by train, from Sydney—it may take all night, with so many passengers, and carriages.” He saw Peter’s puzzled expression. “Your placement camp is in the countryside,” he clarified. The officials were edgy, sensing the child was very unwell. Yet, seeing the healthy state of the family, the parents competent, they hesitated.

Peter tried one last time. “Ah! A train journey! It is just what she needs! The fresh air will refresh us all, I think, good sir!” He smiled confidently again, tousled Ola’s hair as he kissed her brow.

The queuing passengers behind them shuffled restlessly as the IRO officers conferred again. One officer shook his head; another frowned. At last, they stamped the transport papers for the next part of the journey.

“You are in luck, Mr Pospelyj,” the interpreter said, without smiling. “There is a hospital in the countryside where your family is being placed. You may need to use it, perhaps shortly, should your daughter not recover quickly.” He shook Peter’s hand and nodded politely to Evdokia, looked away as she began weeping.

Peter reached again into his pocket for the container of water and wet his sick child’s lips and brow, gently coaxing her to sip. He, too, felt exhausted and distressed, but had to keep up his facade of confidence. He had to cling now to the hope that their youngest would not need the far away hospital. But inwardly, he knew it was a race against time: a race to contain the fever and dehydration, before it was too late. Evdokia had her wish, to keep Ola with her. He had the anxiety, the knowledge of knowing the risk they were taking to fulfil this wish.