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

Peter suddenly jerked, as the memory of another portrait flashed at him, from all those years ago: a poster of Stalin willing the workers on to their collectivisation goals. He broke out in perspiration, then collected himself. How different this portrait was, how different its purpose. It took pride of place in a setting representing a system of dual responsibilities: responsibilities of the government and of the people to respect individual and collective freedoms, and of concern not only for oneself and one’s own family, but for the young, free nation that honoured and pursued a respected political and judicial system.

Leaving Nadia and Ola temporarily, he held back tears as he and Evdokia joined the line, as new citizens, to receive their Certificates of Naturalisation from the proud robe-bedecked Mayor. The date, 21st June, 1959, typed neatly on each parchment, imprinted on his mind. It was a date he would always remember, and quote proudly to his friends: the date from which he at last had a country that welcomed him and to which he belonged.

Evdokia waited impatiently, trying to contain her excitement, but feeling a certain anxiety, as Peter approached the front gate. They greeted and kissed, but she held on to his arm.

“What is it, Dyna? Is everything all right? You seem agitated.” She could no longer contain herself and pulled out an envelope from her apron pocket. In the receding light he noticed the yellowed colour, not unlike the parchment of the Naturalisation Certificates they received the previous Sunday. He dismissed the envelope: he would wait until he had rested from his work and the overtime hours before dealing with another administrative formality. But she held on. He looked at the envelope again. With the light fading, he squinted to read the words.

“Why, this is addressed to you, Dyna… but the sender seems to be… Vanya?” he whispered, as if to himself. He stepped inside and put down his battered globite work-case, sat at their dining room table adorned with its nylon lace tablecloth and large vase of Evdokia’s favourite imitation flowers. Inwardly shaking, his mouth dry from the shock, he carefully unfolded the yellowing paper with its obligatory bureaucrats’ indelible markings; then smiled, tears rimming his eyes, as he absorbed Vanya’s careful words and simple style. Always shy and self-conscious, Vanya’s words reached out to him as though he were speaking them.

He put the letter down slowly, thoughtfully, and studied the origin’s address again. Vanya had remained in their Sumskaya Oblast, and had been moved further north again and again, and now lived even closer to the Russian border. But he was safe. Simply but obliquely conveyed in his letter, he had married his young sweetheart some years after the war, once the authorities approved their move to the same kolkhoz. Their two young daughters were well.

Peter sat motionless, trying to regain his composure, mixed feelings racing through him: elation alternating with despair, the memories of that last night in the hillside hide-out flooding his mind like a film’s image repeating itself over and over again.

Evdokia, keen to read the letter, struggled at deciphering the Russified words. At last, she placed the letter carefully on the mantelpiece, subconsciously symbolising that this was now one more record of a loved one to hold closely in one’s heart and mind, each new day.

Agay atmosphere greeted Peter and Evdokia as they stepped onto the visitor’s deck of the Aurelia . Peter retrieved the visitor’s pass from his pocket and, studying the cabin numbers, looked about for Alexai.

“He should be here, Dyna… we are on the right deck… and we’ve not come late…” Then he noticed Alexai, dressed formally in an ill-fitting suit but with clean white shirt and nondescript tie, in close company with three other men. Peter watched them closely. His stomach tightened, his suspicions confirmed. The other men were like clones, almost indistinguishable from each other: pokerfaced, eyes watchful. All wore uniform-like black suits, which could merge easily in a crowd. “They could be mistaken for undertakers,” he thought, to relieve his concern, but he knew better. Alexai looked up, and blushed as he recognised Peter. He excused himself from the men and strode across.

“Good people! This is unexpected! I sent you those passes, but never expected you could come at such short notice to farewell me! My other friends, from the wedding… they did not come, they said their farewells earlier…” His face saddened. Then he noticed Peter still observing the other men. “Oh! That’s Yuri, my sponsor, and his companions… they all met at the Russian Social Club… you know, in Sydney, the one I told you about!” Peter’s gut reaction returned. This Yuri and his cohorts had not befriended Alexai out of a genuine desire for friendship. They were too determined, too calculating for that. He sensed they would now have a hold on this gentle innocent and somewhat naive man for a long time to come, through their contacts in Russia and the Ukraine.

Alexai, unable to sense this at such a momentous time for him, took them to his cabin, which he shared with other male passengers. They clicked half-shots of vodka with him for his future and dipped the fresh rye bread in the smetana that they had brought for the occasion.

The first short, sharp horn sounded. Peter’s heart sank. He feared for his friend, who had not found ways and some comfort in forging a new life for himself in a new country. He wished him well, but sensed that their excited and somewhat agitated friend would, ultimately, suffer reprisals. Alexai had placed all his hopes on his re-union with his ailing mother and his sisters. But there were no guarantees that he would be placed in the vicinity of his remaining family, and he had convinced himself that life was different in their Ukraine now that Stalin was dead. His loneliness, his love for his ill mother, was greater than his understanding of the Soviet system, even under their new leader.

Ultimately, Alexai would have to play the Soviet’s game: either he would ‘co-operate’ if he wished to see his relatives again upon returning to the Ukraine or he, too, would face a modern-day gulag sentence, as had so many other hapless returnees. The new Soviet poster may now have a new face and a new ‘benevolent’ leader, but the system remained the same. It was too effective to change.

As the tug-boats pulled determinedly and unsettled the Aurelia from its dock, Peter leaned his arms on the high rail of the wharf, watching each movement as the ship gently swayed and pulled further and further from the shore. Nearby, Italian picnickers had already spread out their blankets on the grassy patch and began laying out their simple food and carafes of wine in bottles reminiscent of the Mediterranean tradition. Someone had set up their wind-up gramophone player, balanced carefully on a low stool.

Peter turned and watched, then caught his breath as the lilting, even plaintiff, words of the young Maria Callas soared across the park in the calm of early evening:

He stood motionless, enraptured. He had not heard such purity of voice since that fateful day in the back streets of Naples, when he happened upon the children’s choir. Tears swelled without warning. Although he didn’t understand the words, he understood their emotional reach: the yearning.

The light was fading. His heart felt laden with emotion. Surreptitiously, this tourist ship returning to its Naples base was fading before his eyes, merging with the glistening inky-black that was creeping in from the open waters. Almost without warning, as night cloaked Sydney’s harbour, the stars began to appear, sprinkled across this great southern hemisphere evening sky.