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

Evdokia wept quietly as Peter stood at the window and read her sister Olha’s simply written letter. He swallowed hard, the pages trembling in his hand. His eyes filled with tears.

“All these years, Petro… my Klavdina and Yakim died all those years ago… my Klavdina, even before the war ended, my Yakim soon after. All those years… and they never knew, then, if we were still living, or dead…” She let out a wrenching sob.

“Dyna, Dyna…” Peter was still lost for words, but he tried to comfort her. “Dyna… perhaps this is our God’s way… They may have suffered more had they known we were taken so far away, to the German camps, to the thick of the fighting…”

She looked up, and around her, her eyes searching for something, resting on the enlarged and now tinted photograph of Manya, in its gilt frame, then to the neat bundle of letters from Mykola bound by a tight rubber band as symbolically as he, too, was bound in his man’s work at Adaminaby Dam. Her eyes returned to Manya, fixated on the gilt frame. Suddenly, she turned to him, eyes red, glaring. She had not heard his attempt to comfort her, only ‘fighting,’ ‘German,’ ‘camps.’ Something, from somewhere deep within her subconscious, seemed to unhinge, loosen, let go. She turned on him, her face contorted, her voice unlike anything he had heard before: of anguish, venom-like, accusative, uncontrollable.

“Why,” she lashed out, “if you had paid more attention, you would have seen my Manya limping… you would have done more to save her… you… you could have saved her, if you really tried!” She stood up, her deep unresolved anguish, all those years ago erupting, seemingly inexplicably, like an unidentified volcano, unable to stop. “And Vanya… your Vanya! He was my Vanya, too!… I took care of him all those years… Do you think he would have lived if it had been left to you?” She moved to go out, turned on him again. “And Ola, our Ola… we almost lost her, too, thanks to all your careless card-playing with your friends on the deck! You never knew how languid she had become… so close to…” Then, “And now my Mykola, my poor Mykola…” She caught her breath, pulling back a sob, hiding her gnawing concern about their shy but dutiful son, doing a man’s heavy work. “If it weren’t for him, and his big wages at the Dam, you wouldn’t have any of this!” She waved her arm wildly at the room.

“Dyna, whatever has brought this on? Why do you say these things, after all this time?” He appealed to her once more: “We have all suffered, Dyna… we can’t keep score of these things, now… not here, after all this time…” He moved towards her, to calm and comfort her, but she waved her arms away from him, her fury expended, though strangely the pain still ached deep within her. She retreated to her vegetable garden for solace, unable to even remember any of the accusations she had just poured out at him. The invisible worm, borne of pain and despair at Manya’s passing, and locked in all those years ago in the chrysalis of hopes and expectations that could not be reached, in the circumstances of their lives, had made its way to the fore, had surfaced: too late for it to metamorphose into a butterfly, no longer able to hide its festering, redundant poison.

Peter stood frozen, unable to comprehend what had happened. He slowly put his hand in his pocket to search for his handkerchief; instead, took out the neat white envelope the doctor’s gentle wife had given him, with his day’s wages. His eyes rimmed with tears as, at each accusation that ran like a repeating recording through his mind, he answered as best and as truthfully as he could.

He blinked away at his moistened eyes, looked at his watch. There was still time to walk to the local hotel, buy some lubricating and anaesthetising liquid before the six o’clock closing time. He knew he could not return to the house too soon: knew he would need to tramp the streets of this pulsating town until the hotel opened again for its eight o’clock session. He also knew, as he stepped out into a mild but cooling night, that by night’s end, he would have found a coterie of drinking mates to share his day’s wages with.

The priest sang his last blessing to the congregation as the choir, located in its tiny upper box, harmonised: “Hospode Pomelye, Hospode Pomelye, Amin, Amin, Amin.” Peter crossed himself again and looked past the row of men he stood with in the small Granville church, caught sight of Evdokia and smiled. She, too, smiled and blushed, then crossed herself as the service ended. They moved towards each other in the queue, to kiss the old priest’s cross, before leaving the service.

“Petro,” she said gently, still somewhat flushed as they stepped outside, “do you think we could thank our priest for his recommendations… They must have heeded his requests, those officials in the Ukraine.”

Peter nodded. Their eyes met: both recognising that, though some things never remain the same, other things abide with them both.

“Petro…” her voice faltered, “you write so much better than I do… Perhaps if you write our reply to my sister Olha, you could ask her—very obliquely, that is—of any news of your family… That way… perhaps we may even one day have some word of Vanya… without him risking reprisal from the authorities… if he is still with us…”

Peter smiled and nodded, then winked at her. She blushed again and bit her lip, holding back her emotions. He took a deep breath, the first that did not cause an ache in his heart since that day, weeks ago. He knew her goodness throughout all these years, knew what they had both been through: that they had been through so much, perhaps too much. And even though the inexplicable happened, that fateful Saturday, that seemed to have no apparent logic or reason to it, he could not condemn her for her depth of feeling. He would write to her sister Olha, use words couched in such a way so as not to offend the Soviet authorities, do everything possible to facilitate news of Vanya.

As they farewelled their friends at the church steps, the bright late-spring day welcomed them, even embraced them, giving them hope. He looked up to the modest spire of this compact Orthodox church. Already, he and Evdokia had received their share of miracles in the turmoil of these past decades of war, migration and peace. He could only wish that, whatever happened to Vanya, he had not suffered unduly, unnecessarily. That is all that logically, and reasonably, he could now pray for. All else was superfluous, in this unpredictable life.

“Horko! Horko!” a hundred wedding guests called out across the plain hall beautified with ribbons and tulle embellished with the last of summer’s heady flowers. “Horko, horko! Show us who’s in command now, Voloda!” others persisted. The young bride and groom laughed as they cut their layered cake and, with the ribboned knife left symbolically secure in the heart of the lowest tier, turned to each other and kissed passionately, to rowdy approval.

Peter grinned and whispered to Evdokia, gently touched her coiled hair as they watched, in happy unison, at a table close by. She blushed, whispering her reply. He laughed as they shared a private joke. Their eyes met, glistened, each recalling their own simple wedding, long ago, under such different circumstances: one that had embraced their affections, their promises and hopes and, even one day, their love.

“Come on, Voloda! Show Raisa your wedding steps! Come on, groomsmen! Bring your lovely ladies out to the dance floor!” The Master of Ceremonies, unused to this task and exuberant after downing his extra shots of vodka to give him courage and authority, waved the wedding party onto the dance floor. Strains of a fine orchestra playing ‘The Blue Danube’ prepared the wedding party as the gramophone’s full volume gave the cue. Peter smiled. This was another of Mykola’s favourite music choices, selected thoughtfully and transported with great care to the wedding of his close friend. Voloda, seeming taller and even more dashing with his dark hair slicked back, grasped his Raisa and, laughing, they stumbled through their bridal waltz in the popular Australian fashion.