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

He washed, using the familiar worn but clean towel left for him and brushed at his moistened hair. A recent newspaper, atop the discarded pile on the shelf, caught his eye. He carried it back to the table and spread out its front page of dramatic and disturbing pictures, frowned as he studied the blurry images of a Russian armoured car and crew guarding Budapest airport and a Soviet tank blocking the highway to the Austro-Hungarian border.

The doctor’s wife re-appeared with the large teapot, wisps of her long wavy hair caught in the pot’s steam as they strained at her tight hairclips. “I will bring some cakes, later, Peter… we are also eating our lunch.”

“Danke,” he grinned and nodded. He welcomed all manner of food, and in this Viennese household there was an abundance.

She looked across to the pictures of tanks and soldiers, and the headline, ‘Russians Overrun Budapest’. She frowned. “Scham, scham,” she whispered, and shook her head. Their eyes met. Though from different countries of origin, and from different strata in society, each knew what it meant to leave a homeland that one loved. She sighed, then, deep in thought, she returned to the safety of her home.

He, too, sighed. There were such contrasts in the lives of people in this world. Here, in peaceful Australia, there was optimism and such a youthful exuberance for the enjoyment of life. Yet Europe was still bedevilled by the Cold War antics and resultant misery of so many hapless innocents. The Berlin blockade may have ended, but the invisible ‘Iron Curtain’ of the Cold War brought a new intensity of rivalry between east and west. He studied the front page: the tanks and military jeeps, the evident chaos and distress of Budapest’s invasion by Soviet troops made clear even to a Ukrainian migrant not conversant in English. He folded the top sheets and put them to one side. He would show these disturbing pages to friends familiar with the language who would interpret the details.

Four hours of work in the garden had given him an appetite. He ate with gusto, quaffing down several mugs of strong black tea sweetened with sugar. He marvelled at how quickly time passed in this gardening work. The expansive grounds had come alive and nature once again provided so generously in this leafy northern suburb of Sydney. He closed his eyes and smelled the blossoms, listening to the competing birdlife as mother birds fed and trained their young. Another honeyed fragrance wafted past. He breathed in a long remembered scent as dappling sunrays and blooms swayed in a light afternoon breeze. This grand old garden was half a hemisphere away from a certain kolkhoz garden he had visited all those years ago, in which he first walked with Evdokia, but in the warmth and ambience, and temporary removal from other cares in the world, they were similar.

He took a deep breath as he shook himself from his reverie. Stalin had gone, but the new Politburo was now one of a constant rotating door, through which his henchmen came and went, and returned again, with Khrushchev and Bulganin the present surviving heavy-weights. He shook his head and laughed as he remembered the absurdity, the tense atmosphere, those two years ago at the Alexandria factory, as news of the Petrovs’ defection broke around the nation. “You’re not one of those, are ya, Peter?” the alarmed Paddy had spat out at him, his rough Irish accent confusing him. “You’re not a commo are ya, mate?” Paddy had ribbed him, only half-jesting. “You know his missus was dragged off a plane at Darwin, dontcha? What’s ’er name…?” Peter’s face had reddened: he had already been told the details of Vladimir Petrov and his wife Evdokia Petrova, as each dramatic day unfolded. It had cost him dearly that pay-day at the Erskineville hotel, to salvage his Ukrainian pride and convince his fellow workers that he was not a Communist. “But,” he thought now as he returned to his gardening work, “these Petrovs are now in hiding, with new identities… it can’t be an easy life for them, living under these conditions, even in sunny Australia.”

He hurried up the platform stairs, but still had to queue at the busy turnstile barrier of their new home’s suburb of Bankstown. He smiled as he looked around. He was still surprised at the pace, the life and vigour of this working-class suburb which seemed to be transforming even during these past eighteen months since he and Evdokia settled here. Already, on this late Saturday afternoon, the streets were crowded with residents and visitors dressed to travel by train to the city, or to frequent one of the three cinemas near this station. A new small shopping mall across from the station enticed the inhabitants, and Australians and migrants converged and frequented several new ‘delicatessens’, some even ordering ‘cappuccino’ coffee at the mall’s milk bar.

He stood a few moments, observing a young generation of tanned tennis players and casually dressed swimmers who had returned from the Olympic-sized pool a short distance from the station. The resounding success of the recently ended Olympic Games, in Melbourne, had at last given Australia a place on the world stage in a way that no government could achieve. He grinned as these tall bronzed children reminded him of how swiftly his own Nadia and Ola were growing, as they participated in their sports at school and through the social clubs at their nearby Australian church.

He passed the local hotel, closest to the station. The happy larrikin sounds of Australian men laughing and joking drew him, but he hesitated and decided to continue on his way home. He needed every pound he earned to reduce their bank loan, which was compressed to a punishing five year term, and required both his and Mykola’s wages. He strolled the short distance to their small post-Federation brick bungalow, the last of the sun’s rays almost blinding him as they fanned out from a breathtaking pink-hued cloud. Through the softening haze at a cross-street he waved to Katya, another of Evdokia’s many new acquaintances in this multi-lingual suburb. He still paused for those few moments before crossing the road to their new home, and marvelled at his good fortune in settling on a home closer to his Alexandria factory work, still wondrous that the miracle had happened, that he had found good people in the bank and solicitors who had made this purchase possible.

Evdokia looked up as he walked into the dining room, a strange expression on her face. “What is it, Dyna?” he asked as he touched her shoulder and kissed her brow. The room was dim. Then he caught sight of an envelope in her trembling hand. Tears rolled down her cheeks, her self-control dissipating.

“Dyna… is it bad news?… Let me see!” His first thoughts were of Mykola. He took the letter, held it up and frowned. He took a deep breath as he opened out the folded pages and studied them. A lightning rod, it seemed, hit him in the pit of his stomach as he read the Ukrainian words; his fingers smudged at the indelible ink markings of words eradicated by a Soviet bureaucrat. He felt momentarily lightheaded, a strange mix of elation and fear: feelings he could not explain even to himself, at that moment.

“Why, Dyna… it is from your family… your older sister Olha has written this!” He shook his head, puzzled. “How has this been possible? We have not approached any Australian officials. Could it be…?” He looked up, his eyes settling on the framed picture of Christ on their mantelpiece, honoured with its small embroidered linen cloth Evdokia had hidden through all the years since leaving their Ukraine.

“This must be our priest’s work, here, in Sydney! But… it has been some years since we placed your family’s name on his list to the Russian authorities!” He swallowed as he remembered how difficult it was for him to exclude his own family’s name, in order to protect Vanya, if he was still alive.