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

Evdokia, firmly holding her dish of vereneke that she had covered with her favourite embroidered napkin, picked her way carefully along the path that wove through their vegetable plots. She paused as Peter lifted the single strand of wire that delineated their back boundary from Vasyl and Stasia’s, and lifted her black skirt from the tangled grass that signified their neighbours’ property. He smiled, observing her meticulous hold of the heavy dish as she held it away from her new nylon blouse which she had purchased for this occasion.

His big pot of borshch, with its iron handle, was light in comparison to the heavy timbers and crates he now worked on, in the timber-yard of the large factory in Alexandria. Like a juggler, he balanced the pot in one hand, and a large covered dish of venehrad and the token gift of vodka for the party in the other. Walking closely behind her as they made their way to the back of Vasyl’s house, he sensed Evdokia’s renewed pride in her appearance, her deep blonde hair held gently in a bun at the nape of her neck with a new clip. He smiled again as he remembered her relieved expression when he announced he had at last found full-time work. More than a year of precarious living conditions after his family’s move from Glen Davis had at last come to an end: their economic survival made possible during that time by growing their vegetables, supplemented by Peter’s casual gardening work for doctors and business owners in Sydney’s leafy suburbs; then finally his eventual capitulation to apply for the meagre government unemployment payments.

He shuddered as he thought of the fear that reverberated through him as he approached that unemployment counter and faced the official. Too many years, too many experiences under Stalin and Hitler’s rule, had created these subconscious responses that shot out at him and shook him to the core, in ways that still surprised him. He knew he and his family were safe here, in far away Australia, and in sunny and friendly Sydney. But in many ways, it seemed more confusing, even isolating, than he had experienced, even in Germany, where he was expected to work and be usefully employed. This recent single, long year without regular work had left a dent, a certain shaking of his confidence, and had made him feel less valued. He grasped the vodka bottle tightly by its neck as he entered his friend’s house. He knew, now, that even in their most uncertain of situations there was a simple, acceptable aphrodisiac to be found, to ease the pain of the unpredictability in life.

“Ah, Dynasha,” Vasyl winked at his friends, knowing how to flatter them. “You well know how to please me… you’ve brought my favourite dishes!” He smacked his lips and patted Evdokia’s back. She blushed, then turned and busied herself next to Stasia, knowing Vasyl’s teasing and flattery of others upset his much younger wife. Peter grinned; he knew his friend’s teasing was all jest. But he sensed the situation and touched Stasia on the shoulder. “Our good friends… your generosity knows no bounds! You offer us your home here, even before it is completed, while your builder, Bayliss, put up our garage home—with all of us doing what we could to help him. And now, you are offering your home for Jacov and Anna’s christening party! There are no better friends than you, Stasia and Vasyl… we are all fortunate to have met you in Heidenau camp!” Now Stasia blushed, her tears forgotten, her generous smile returned. She turned her attention to the lunch preparations in her new kitchen which gleamed in her care.

Two dozen people were made welcome, and crammed into the lounge room, which had been cleared of its sparse furnishings. The trestle tables, dressed with white linen sheets, were laden with Ukrainian food and delicacies. The baptismal group arrived, the party began: drinks poured, shots of vodka prepared, heartfelt speeches volunteered. Peter observed the large gathering and took in the warmth of the feelings and the camaraderie of the group. He felt a sense of amazement at life’s turn of events. Half a dozen families, taken from disparate parts of the Ukraine during the German army’s retreat in the war, and placed in different labour camps within Germany, were now safe and well, meeting and sharing their gifts of food and wine in the most auspicious and optimistic of circumstances.

He looked along to the table’s end, to the children sharing seats as they squeezed together, Nadia and Ola among them. He sighed as he looked around, and contemplated. Each man and wife at this gathering had waited for moments such as these: each one had made a commitment to give their children a life of security and safety, of freedom of opportunity, and freedom from the stresses of Europe and the Cold War that were still dogging the old continent. And each man and woman knew what it meant to have lived under a totalitarian regime, be it Stalin’s or Hitler’s.

He touched his thumb and felt the pain. It still throbbed, the extensive dark bruise a reminder of the inconsistency of hard timber and bent nail no matter how accurate the hammer in his factory work. He watched Evdokia as she turned to each of her companions, offering them the food and saved-for delicacies. His heart panged as he realised, again, how much she enjoyed the comfortable conditions of a normal household and completed house. His chest tightened as he realised with dismay the receding dream of a complete home of their own on their block. His ‘average’ labourer’s wages were so controlled, the overtime hours so sought by other union members, that he had to be satisfied his weekly pay packet was able to feed his family and left just enough for incoming bills. He sighed. He was not a pessimist but, realistically, he could not see a way out of this dilemma. He was grateful for what he had. But he could do no more at this present time. This was no longer Glen Davis, in which generous shifts were offered, but Sydney, the state’s capital, where more than a few extraneous costs were incurred in order to hold on to a menial job for which he left his ‘garage’ house at dawn and returned to in the dark.

Jacov broke his thoughts. “Did you know, Peter, next week the builder will start on the foundations for our new house!” Jacov’s booming voice held everyone’s attention. “That builder, Bayliss—he is such a good man—he stepped over the ground at the back of our big army tent. Why, he’s even found a plan to build the foundations behind the tent! This way, we will still live here, just as we do now, and save for the new house at the same time!” His huge shoulder jostled Peter’s, in nudging jest. “And when are you starting on your new house?” He looked from Peter to Evdokia and saw her blush, but pushed on. “Ah, yes! You have that problem of the canal running right across your block! Won’t the Council let you build there, now?” He grinned as a dozen curious adults listened with interest. Peter blinked and hesitated, caught between joking at the situation and expressing his real concerns of affordability. But Evdokia spoke first.

“Why, Jacov, we already have our house plans… they have just recently been drawn up. The Council says we can build our house in front of the canal—it will still be in the right place at the street front.” She blushed again, glancing at Peter. He smiled as he watched his dignified wife state their case. The party’s atmosphere calmed and the children returned to their excited chatter.

Jacov’s voice boomed out again. “Ha, ha! But it will have to be a small house, then! Smaller than ours, when we finish!” Evdokia blushed again and bowed her head. She was lost for words. They had all come together to celebrate his baby’s baptism and had brought these specially prepared dishes for the party. She had not expected to be confronted, even exposed like this. Peter moved quickly to diffuse her discomfort. Jacov could be somewhat raucous, even boastful at times, and Peter now sensed that their near neighbour, charged up with drink, was enjoying prolonging Evdokia’s discomfort.