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

“Ah, fellows! Look! Only half the vodka bottle drunk! What sort of party is this, without more shots to merry us along?” He grabbed the bottle and poured small shots for the company, interrupting their bombastic neighbour’s probing. “Na Zdorovia! Na Zdorovia! And may your baby girl grow to be as pretty as you, Anna, and as strong and healthy as you, Jacov!” Glasses clicked, people congratulated them again; the party continued, the atmosphere saved, just in time.

“Some song! Some song!” Vasyl’s cheeks were glowing, his thick black hair slightly matted and stuck to one side from constant handling. The vodka bottle was near-empty and the party guests were restless for more entertainment. The priest, sensing the moment, blessed the group and left surreptitiously, on pretext of being needed elsewhere.

They were all in good voice, the good food and plentiful spirits making them game. “Veprahaete xloptsi, koni…” they all returned to their favourite folk songs, of horsemen and countryside and gallantry steeped in their own Ukrainian villages. Peter stood with his friends, arm over shoulders as they sang one song after another and, as if it were second nature, Evdokia and the women harmonised to the men’s gusto.

Mykola knocked politely at the back door, but no-one heard. He stepped into the crowded lounge room and blushed as he realised how jovial the group had become. He carefully placed the gramophone to one side against the wall, but held on to the box of vinyl records. He stood alone, enjoying the conviviality, but somehow not being a part of it. His face gleaming, blonde hair brushed back and with his new shirt still creased at its folds, the only sign of his day’s work at the Gosford quarry was the residual dirt beneath his fingernails which he could not remove at the kitchen sink of their garage home. He winked at Nadia and Ola: he had promised them this music, if he returned early enough from the quarry.

He placed the record box on a small side table in the corner and took out a newspaper. Despite his lack of formal education, the elementary English he had self-taught enabled him to make out enough words of significance.

“Look, Batko,” he used the formal address as he handed the Sunday newspaper to Peter. “They’ve announced it in the newspapers, and on the wireless as well! They say it’s espionage, right here, in Sydney! They say Stalin’s men are still on the lookout, even though he’s been dead a year!” Their friends quietened, and urged him to go on.

“This Russian official in Sydney—Vladimir Petrov—he secretly defected, asked for political asylum to stay in Australia, some weeks ago. And now his wife, Evdokia Petrova—she’s also an official here, in Sydney—she was being forcibly taken back to Russia! Look…” he held up the newspaper’s photograph, “the Australian officials had to struggle with the KGB men to stop her being bundled out of Darwin, back to Moscow!”

Peter again felt that pitted sensation, which even the potency of fiery liquid could not dispel. Stalin’s regime was still attempting to spread out its tentacles, even to the opposite side of the globe. Malenkov and Khrushchev now had new suits and new slogans in their dealings with the Western democracies. But the lessons of gain they learnt during Stalin’s long reign were too useful, too profitable, for them to make any real changes to their new-found authority.

The men now talked politics. The women turned to each other to chat about family concerns, encouraging their restless children to continue their play outdoors.

Nadia and Ola hung back. They had waited many weeks for Mykola to play his records and had eyed the box he had placed up high on the kitchen dresser for safety. He opened the gramophone, wound its handle and tightened the glistening needle, then carefully took out the vinyl record from its brown paper cover and, as if conjuring some magic for a moment or two, placed the needle exactly on the right groove of the vinyl. The guests hushed as the lilting notes of ‘La Paloma’ reached out across the room. The men hummed, the women swayed to the strains of the lingering romantic piece that they had heard many times across the squares of Naples. Evdokia’s eyes filled with tears. Peter, too, felt his eyes moisten, as bittersweet memories of their Ukraine and of Naples flooded back unexpectedly. He knew how much they loved their music, and their dance. He also remembered his Vanya, his ‘double’ in the back streets of the Neapolitan city, the pursuit that ended in so much heartache.

“Tato,” Mykola took Peter aside, “I have to tell you something… Mama must not know yet…” Peter sensed this was a moment his son could not put off. They moved to the adjacent kitchen. “Tato…” Mykola blushed, uncertain how his news would be received. “You know how difficult it is to get full-time work, even now…” He looked at his cut hands, his chipped nails that were unprotected in the torn gloves given him for the casual work in the quarry. “I know you and Mama are doing all you can… The house… we will never be able to save quickly enough for that, as things are.” He took a deep breath, stood taller, his eyes levelling with Peter’s.

“A few friends of mine… from the quarry, and friends from the farm I worked at… we are all going together, to Cooma. They have work there—they call it ‘Snowy Mountains Scheme’.” He paused, watched Peter’s brows furrow. “It’s a huge government project… there is work for everyone… and as many shifts as we will want.” He stopped and put his hand out, touching his father’s chest, anticipating the question. “It’s for young men, Tato… they all live in large dormitories, in camps scattered in the bush—and they don’t see their families. They’re constructing this Adaminaby Dam… They want as many of us young men as possible. And…” he swallowed and lowered his voice, blushing again, “it will be the best way for us to save our money. I’ll be sending money home for you and Mama, to put into your savings book.” He cheered up, his burden relieved. “Then we can build our home here, much sooner—and we will even have a bedroom each!”

Peter’s eyes glistened, his feelings of losing Mykola to work away from home again mixed with feelings of pride for his son, who was still not yet of legal age but was a man in all respects.

Someone had changed the vinyl record again. The strains of Mykola’s favourite record, of Mario Lanza’s song from ‘The Student Prince’ soared above all other songs. Peter felt the gnawing pang as he took in the beauty of the music and the voice, and poignancy of the moment. ‘The Student Prince’ may have been a co-incidental title for Mykola’s favourite record. But Peter knew that, both in his outward actions and in his inner goodness, even before he left for the Snowy Mountains, his son was already a prince in heart and in life.

“Peter, it is time for lunch!” Peter looked up from the far end of the lush garden and waved to the doctor’s wife as she waited at the sun-drenched kitchen door, then he continued tugging at the stubborn growth. He had to complete the new drain that ran through the thicket before the day was done. The back screen door snapped shut, then opened a few minutes later.

“Peter, it is such a nice day… will you have your lunch under the trees?” the modulated voice enquired. He looked up again and rested his aching arm on one knee, watched as the doctor’s wife carried the tray to a weathered timber table that had the appearance of a speckled tablecloth as sunlight flecked and danced through the leaves. He sank his trowel at right angles on a grassy patch and took off his gloves as he strolled to the outside laundry. He gauged it was already midday, the sun perfectly placed overhead, the shadows not yet forming in this large, rambling garden.