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

Soon the guests followed, their Master of Ceremonies commanding the orchestral piece be repeated several times. Peter, following the steps of the wedding party, held Evdokia closely, moved easily to the rhythm of the grand piece. They laughed as they faltered and swayed to the uplifting music. He looked across at the dignified men on the dance floor and smiled: by night’s end the older men, fired up by their powerful clear liquid shots, would dare each other in the obligatory ‘kopak’ dance that was already becoming anachronistic to a younger Ukrainian generation.

Evdokia glowed as they returned to their laden table to chat with their friends and participate in each moment of the joyful occasion. She looked admiringly at Peter and blushed as he playfully patted her. She could smile again at life, at last, grateful that their schism was not long-lasting, grateful that her husband never reproached her for her inexplicable and uncontrolled eruption almost three years earlier. She had returned to her balanced state of mind, thankful that her family remained happy, together.

She watched with tenderness as Mykola sat engrossed with the wedding party, courteous and attentive as Best Man, while Nadia and Ola danced and joked with their young friends at the back of the hall. She realised, with a pang, that four years had passed since her family had shared their last formal occasion together, at that fateful christening. Now, Mykola’s recent news that he would return permanently, perhaps even by the year’s end when their crushing mortgage payments would be completed, excited her. Instinctively she clasped her hand to her heart, to still it. Peter watched closely and, gauging her thoughts, patted her reassuringly. He knew her sense of balance, and composure, would be near-complete once Mykola was safely back home from a national project that already had revealed its many dangers.

His eyes strayed to a farther table, settled on another younger friend he had not seen for some time. He sauntered over and joined him. “Alexai, my good fellow… why are you keeping to yourself here, with all this music and celebration? Come, join me and Dyna and the others… you know Raisa’s family at our table!”

“I can’t Petro… I have my reasons…” He glanced at the wedding party, at the newly married couple laughing and sharing a private conversation, and turned away, to face Peter squarely. Painfully shy, his fingers played with the full vodka shot for a few moments, then he downed it in one gulp, coughing at his embarrassing act of bravado.

“What is it, Alexai, dear man… this is a special occasion… it’s merriment for all of us! And you know Raisa’s family well, I know that much! Come and celebrate with us!”

“I’m too late, Petro… I’m ten years too late!” He frowned, ran his fingers through his hair to distract himself and straightened his neat tie.

“Too late, Alexai?… What are you too late for? There is no clock here, man… and in this fine country, we have all our time ahead of us, every one of us!” he cajoled the gloomy man.

Alexai stole another glance at the newly married couple. Peter followed his gaze, then suddenly realised. Raisa’s family had befriended this sombre gentle man. It had become his family since their arrival and transport to the Bathurst and Parkes hostels, and even on to Sydney. Then, inexplicably, he had moved away to new quarters. Peter eyed him, then looked to Voloda, and surmised that the dashing groom had unexpectedly returned earlier from Adaminaby to be near Raisa.

“Alexai… you are a good man, and handsome… you will find a wife soon, too, I am certain of that!” He patted Alexai and changed the conversation to cheer him. “And you may be sitting near us, too, for our naturalisation ceremony. Look!” he searched the inner pocket of his suit and brought out his prized document authorising the date and seating arrangement. “It’s very soon, within the month!” He leaned forward, closer to Alexai, as a group of inebriated amateur musicians, friends of the bridal party, rammed up the volume of their instruments and belted out a folk song.

“It’s too late, Petro… and there are no girls here… They don’t want a man in his late-thirties, with no prospects… one who can only speak broken English.” He too leaned forward. Usually so reticent, he blurted out: “Petro, I’ve cancelled my form to be naturalised. I’m going back, Petro… back to the Ukraine!” He glanced around quickly, then, eyes widening as if he had just won a prize, continued, “I’ve found a sponsor, to help me go back, very soon… this man, called Yuri… no, you wouldn’t know of him, Petro, he operates from the Russian Social Club, in the city… they have dances, and concerts… in a basement, a kind of nightclub, in George Street!” He cleared his throat, full of vodka courage now. “This Yuri… he says they will give my papers clearance, almost immediately!” He grinned, pleased with himself. “And Petro… my mother and sisters are waiting for me… At least I’m wanted there.” He wiped at his eyes. “And things are different now in Russia and the Ukraine, Petro: that’s what Yuri tells me… and… he knows!” Alexai tapped his nose with his finger, as if he were giving a secret sign.

Peter looked at this emotionally-beaten man who, too, had been forcibly taken to the German labour camps, who had no family here other than Raisa’s and who, still so painfully shy and reticent, could see no future for himself in this new foreign land. Peter shook his head and bit his lip, but resisted remonstrating with him. Stalin was not long dead. Now Malenkov was removed as Khrushchev’s equal, the new leader’s denunciation of the totalitarian tyrant seen among optimists as the sign of a new beginning for the Soviet Union, and for the Ukraine. But the Cold War was still spreading its glacial tentacles everywhere around the globe: even tighter, in East Germany, Hungary and other eastern European countries; in Asia, the African sub-continent, even here, in far away Australia. This country may have done its penance for the Petrovs’ defection, with the Soviet embassy’s re-establishment just months ago, but he sensed this meant there would be even more opportunities for Soviet agents to operate within the normal confines of government.

He sighed. He knew what this meant. The Soviet system, now under Khrushchev, espousing all the rights of democracy in its ‘up-dated’ constitution, gave with one hand, but took with both, like a Machiavellian magician intent on twisting the lives and fates of people within its grasp. He bit his lip again, and felt blood run. Alexai could not, would not hear this counter-argument. He would find, tragically, and too soon—and with perhaps even more heartache than he was feeling now—how cruel, and how punishing, his choice to return to Khrushchev’s ‘new democracy’ would be.

Peter smiled at Evdokia as they stood proudly, holding a Bible, and followed the two-thousand throng uttering the Oath of Allegiance at the nation’s largest naturalisation ceremony. His throat tightened with emotion, his eyes moistened as he mouthed the words of a language he had not properly learnt. But he sensed the sombre significance of this pledge and the dignity and importance of the occasion.

The Council and the dignitaries, political and civic, had placed great import on investing into citizenship so large a number of migrants from over twenty countries and had provided a tenor and soprano in a recital of songs from diverse parts of the world, honouring these welcome newcomers. The stage of the Civic Theatre, with its plush red velvet curtain hiding the large screen that vicariously transported its film-goers to other worldly places on week days, was now decked out in red, white and blue ribbons. Above these silky bands a huge portrait of the Queen gazed regally, kindly, at them.