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

Peter’s mind reeled. He was caught off-balance, unprepared for this counsel and the fast turn of events. “Come, Peter,” Father Chernyiuk continued, the mantle of his Orthodox faith imbued in him. “I must give you my blessing of dispensation from the mourning period. You must do this, my son, for your Vanya’s… for everyone’s sake.” He retrieved an old gold-embroidered ecclesiastical ribbon and small cross from his black shabby cassock and placed his hand on Peter’s bowed head. Incense on holy ribbon mixed with the mustiness of heavy cassock, confusing his senses: holy reverence, harsh reality, bore down on him. For a few moments, the farmhouse and its occupants were transposed by their priest’s solicitations and liturgical verse. Peter closed his eyes, forced himself to be inwardly strong, uncertainty encircling him. At that moment he could not allow himself to think of his Hanya and Mischa. The pain of these past months was too raw, too real. “But how do I tell this heart to not bleed… to heal?” he cried silently. He knew not how he would make the transition from widower to husband.

He stood in the old cobbled courtyard as the priest’s buggy made its way towards Kylapchin and beyond, and watched as the afternoon haze shimmered and enveloped the visitor as he disappeared behind the swaying corn and sunflower fields. He stood there for some time, pensive, capturing this remaining moment of permanence and security in his family’s farmhouse. He feared that his life, and his parents’ lives, were about to change at a faster pace than he could have envisaged. The uncertainty he faced, though precarious and unclear, was bearable, tolerable. But the uncertainties his parents faced were dangerously menacing. His skin pricked with anxiety: he sensed it would not be long before they would have their answer.

Evdokia sat quietly, her face an enigma, shadowed in the great room of the ‘collective’ farmhouse. She smoothed her long black skirt; felt the tightness of her coiled hair. Her eyes darted to her gentle, anxious mother, Klavdina. Her heart lurched, eyes pricked with a painful memory, now carefully concealed in the half-light of the cavernous room. She knew, instinctively, that this meeting was as important to her beloved mother as it was to her.

Her eyes followed the grain of the great oak table as she watched the closed door, averting her father Yakim’s eyes as if, incomprehensibly, by some twist of fate she might jeopardise the arranged meeting. She knew his cautious, unflinching firmness. She had been scorched before by his resolute will, his denial for her to follow her heart. She had known painful disappointment: had had to watch her moment of opportunity pass as a loved one found happiness elsewhere, in circumstances she could not change but was forced to accept. Now, her family’s discomfort had increased immeasurably since collectivisation left them homeless, eking out the seasons in this once-grand farmhouse, vying with other families as they awaited the bureaucrats’ orders to place them in a kolkhoz, to an area yet unknown. She closed her eyes, hid away the past painful memory and her anxiety for their future; looked ahead, to the great beamed farmhouse door, to hope.

The massive door suddenly opened, nature’s light warming the enormous room. To all around, she was neatly poised: attractive in her long embroidered petticoat shirt. Yet inwardly, like a fawn caught in bright light unable to escape, she quivered, stomach compressed sickeningly tight. Her emotions were contradictory, difficult to control: trepidation, fear of rejection; yet, still, a certain excitement. She reached for her cup and sipped the cool spring water, distracting herself from her inner turmoil.

Stasyia, the old priest’s sister, looked kindly at her young protégé seated beside her. She patted Evdokia’s tightly clasped hands, her eyes smiling reassuringly as she rose to greet the party. Seasoned in these matters, she fully understood her role as the chosen intermediary, and knew the singular importance of this arranged meeting.

“Dobreye dene, dobreye dene,” she enthused, embracing them. She kissed Father Chernyiuk’s proffered hand and acknowledged his blessing. “Welcome, our good people, Yosep and Palasha Pospile, and your son Petro; welcome, our dear Father.” She ushered them in to the great room, invited them to sit at table opposite Yakim and Klavdina.

“So… you had a good journey to Yakemovitch, Peta?” she enquired, smiling warmly. “You know the way in these parts well enough, with all your travels for your work. A short distance, really, these ten or so kilometres, but such a long way in heavy winter snows!” Her soothing voice allayed the awkwardness, and prepared the two families she knew well, but who had not previously met.

Peter responded in the affirmative, taking his place beside his elders, and nodded respectfully to the hosts. His quick eye observed Evdokia in the half-shadows. At that moment sunlight from a nearby window shafted across, flickered at her head. “My God,” he thought, taken off-guard, “her hair is so blonde.” His own beloved Hanya was dark-haired. Until that moment he had not considered how different this young woman, Evdokia, might be. He realised the enormity of responsibilities on him that would emanate from this crucial meeting. He could not let his family down. He had to impress the host family, be a credible suitor. But he also had a higher responsibility: to be honest, to be true to himself, to not deceive this woman, Evdokia.

With the blessing of the victuals complete, Peter took the initiative. The grape wine chaffed at his throat; the borshch-like broth was delicate in taste but sparse. But he knew their difficulties, and generously thanked the hosts for their gifts of hospitality. His praise was exaggerated, but it pleased them. They warmed to this attractive young man who, despite suffering widowhood so recently, remained well-mannered and understood the value of conviviality.

Evdokia listened quietly, intrigued. The voice was warm, expressive. She had only briefly glimpsed him as he entered the great room. Now he aroused her curiosity. She eased her stiff posture. She had no preconceptions, but had not expected a potential suitor to be articulate, intelligent, entertaining. Stasyia sensed the moment. “Peta, I am told your family’s orchards are among the best in these parts,” she smiled, tilting her head as she half-winked at him. “The orchard here is in such disrepair now… but still, some fine specimens remain—before the soviet officials turn even those into another wasteland! Evdokia,” she nodded encouragement, “perhaps you could show Petro the remaining orchard… some of the fruits might yet be saved, with his knowledge.”

Evdokia blushed, and complied politely. Sunlight dazzled her as she stepped into the courtyard. Her heart skipped a beat as she saw him clearly for the first time, in radiant daylight. He was taller, more handsome than she had expected, unlike anyone she had previously met. He had an exuberance that surprised her. “Will he find me exciting enough?” she could not stop her inner voice asking. Her own life with her parents and siblings had been so ordered, even controlled. She held her breath, unable to gauge the situation, and could only smile at his gallantry as he held back heavy branches as she passed along the pathway amongst the gnarled old orchard trees.

The last of the trees’ blossoms fused with a honeyed scent as Evdokia passed him. The scents evoked tender memories Peter had kept hidden these past painful months. Now, he observed Evdokia in a different light, watched as she walked elegantly before him. He realised there was much to discover in her. He had to dissociate himself from his early love; to not compare her with Hanya. “How is it that she is still unmarried?” he wondered to himself. He determined to ask her mentor, when next they talked privately.