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

He eased his grip on his suitcase, and smiled: he had trinkets for his little Nadia and Ola, hurriedly purchased at Lithgow before changing trains, and he could anticipate Evdokia’s joy when he walked in to their shack. He was glad, now, that he had decided to act swiftly, once his friend Vasyl had written that few blocks remained, and it was with their good friend’s contacts that the purchase was expedited. Now he had the certainty of providing a home for his family, and they would be reunited with friends from their Heidenau camp days.

He looked about him, his eyes scanning the great surrounding cliffs of this mountainous volcanic valley, his nostrils alive with the unique pungency of crushed fern and bark as the afternoon’s shadows encroached on the blue haze of eucalypt. He realised, now, how much he had missed Glen Davis, though he had left it barely two weeks earlier. This valley haven was gradually, mysteriously filling the psyche of his being, nourishing him in the most unexpected ways, despite the extreme conditions. He and his family, along with all the other inhabitants in this cut off sanctuary, had to live within the confines of a harsh environment: freezing winter nights, searing summer days, the red glow of bushfires worming their way along the escarpment floor; all this, interspersed with the intermittent flooding of the Capertee River.

But in these past eighteen months of admittedly tedious shift work, punctuated by an unparalleled freedom, he had come to share in the camaraderie of all the men and women of the cultural melting pot of such diverse nationalities. At last, he was being rewarded for his hard work. At last, one day, Evdokia would have her home in a suburb not too far from Sydney, and near their many friends. And, he reminded himself, he would still feel the bush and nature at his door, their chosen block in a street that ended at a bush reserve. He brushed at the flies again, as he calculated: one more year of work at this Glen Davis shale oil factory, and then they would have their modest new home, for life. It was a small commitment, for such a secure future. The tedium of the work, the heat, the flies: such memories would dissipate for such an opportunity.

From the safety of an arching branch, high up on a centuries-old gum, a kookaburra guffawed at him. He laughed at the watchful creature, and he imagined the laughter he and Evdokia would share as they drank a celebratory shot of vodka and played again her favourite record, even attempting to sing to the words of ‘Irene Goodnight’. He headed for the old wooden bridge spanning the river that separated the formal part of town from the ‘bag town’ shacks and dwellings, when he suddenly stopped and looked back. Stepping off the bus he had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he had not carefully enough observed the shale works. To the east of the town, the massive structure with its buildings and retorts beamed vibrant as August’s afternoon rays hit the columns. This was a busy mid-week day. The humming sounds suggested activity, but the massive plumes of steam and smoke that were the by-product of full production, and which were funnelled daily by the westerly winds, were gone.

He hesitated, puzzled. Something did not ring true. There had been talk of changes in the factory, even of some ongoing problems in extracting the shale. But the Chinese whispers of the union leaders evinced such an outpouring of emotion and overwhelming support from the several thousand residents that even Jimmy, his hard-headed foreman, had laughed off Peter’s concerns before he left for Sydney.

He backtracked to the hotel’s bar, squinted as he searched for Jimmy’s familiar tall frame at his usual place at the bar’s end. Stern jaw in cupped hand, Jimmy looked solemn, his beer untouched. His sole team companion today, the burly Scot, usually dust-covered, appeared strangely passive in his clean clothes.

Jimmy raised his hand in greeting, but without his usual gusto. He attempted small talk: “A short shift today, Peter,” as he brushed at a few specks of dust. Soothing his lips with a gulp of the dark brew, he turned to face Peter squarely, his red eyes angry. “We’ve been duped, we have, Peter!” Jimmy’s voice boomed over his head, evoking instant agreement from others in the bar. “They told us we would fight this all the way to Canberra, and win!” He snorted in exasperation. “And all those newspaper reporters clambering to get our story! Ha! Well, they sold more papers in the big smoke, didn’t they!” He picked up his schooner, and put it down again, his heart not in it. Peter bit his lip. He understood his foreman’s tone of anger and distress, but he could only obliquely guess at the full meaning.

Jimmy stood up, his tall frame bearing over all around him, searching out his interpreter friend, then remembered. “And Wally’s gone too, now! He smelt a rat when all this started! He’s headed to the big smoke to look for regular work!” Peter didn’t understand the English but sensed that their work prospects had changed. He touched Jimmy’s arm and, as if he were playing at a game of charades, gestured the motions of pulling shaft-levers, a large part of his job. “Moya ‘sheft’? Kaput?”

Jimmy nodded, then shook his head in dismay. “Kaput it is, my friend! Isn’t it, fellas?” The other drinkers groaned in agreement. Someone muttered angry expletives.

“Benny and Tom? No here?” Peter asked, of the loyal miners who worked in Jimmy’s team.

“Nope!” Jimmy shook his head again. “Only Geordie here is left with me, God help us!” He lowered his voice and eyeballed Peter, as if this would help in his understanding. “Benny and Tom… well, you know, they see things we white fellas don’t… They said their ‘totems’ have moved away… that there’s trouble ahead. They’ve gone back to ‘country’, as they say in these parts—back to the bush.” He leaned even closer. Peter noticed, for the first time, Jimmy’s lips quiver. “They gave a warning… they said something is going to break… but they wouldn’t tell me how they know. They somehow ‘divine’ these things…” Jimmy shook his head, uncertain of what next to believe.

Peter’s schooner, barely sipped, began to lose its froth. The usually welcome bitter taste he had only recently come to enjoy had lost its appeal, the flat beer now symbolic of the men’s flattened spirits.

He greeted Evdokia and his daughters cheerily, but the earlier feelings of elation he held back. That unease, that familiar sense of uncertainty and anxiety had returned. All their bank savings had been withdrawn for this land purchase. And now, Jimmy hinted their work life at the shale factory could end any day. He pretended all was well: he had not had time to think of what next to do. The past weeks had been heady, even uplifting. But they had also been tiring, with many hours of uncomfortable travel and long days with excited friends in Sydney. He had not given himself time to consider what job prospects he might ultimately have in the capital city. His friends were much younger and were already secure in government project works on the roads and the railways. And he had counted on his family staying in this isolated valley: their new home one day was dependent on this.

Still, he smiled as he set out the newly signed document on the dresser and watched with pride as Evdokia beamed and appeared to study it. She looked up, her face flushed. “Why, Petro… this is to be our land, now! Our very own land!” Her brow furrowed as she hesitated. “And… we will be permitted to build our own home on it, one day?… They won’t be able to take it from us?” She touched his brow, her finger brushing at a stray lock of his hair. He felt the tightness in his chest, but he could not disappoint her now.