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

Stasyia could hear their voices, and laughter, as she strolled towards them along the unkempt path. She smiled to herself, relieved. This meeting seemed to be developing well. She returned to the farmhouse, to the burdens of the families: the uncertainties of daily life, of survival under collectivisation and Stalin’s rule.

Suddenly, a voice called out from the courtyard. Peter stopped, puzzled by its urgency. His brother Fedir ran to the orchard, panting. “Petro!” he burst out, almost exploding with agitation; then, seeing Evdokia, stopped for a moment and excused himself as he caught his breath, his face red with perspiration.

“Petro,” he gasped, his voice strained. “We must return to the farmhouse this minute! The soviet dogs are after our elders. They’ve come to question them… to interrogate them. Some idiot told them our parents are in hiding from the authorities! The fools! They’re threatening us with a warrant for their arrest! They wouldn’t listen to Ivan’s explanation—they’re holding him as a surety. They say if our parents don’t return now, then ‘he will do’ as the eldest son—the bastards! I’ve given them my word I would return with them immediately. We must move quickly, Petro… before those madmen torch our farmhouse!”

Peter looked at Fedir, who was usually so steady but was now almost wild-eyed, agitated. He shook his head, more to himself than to Evdokia, and pursed his lips, his face intent. He said nothing. But he knew this was the moment he had been dreading these past months, now that the farm was in full summer production, ripe for the taking. Somewhere in his psyche the absurd reached out to him: ‘Pospile,’ their precious family name: ‘ripe’ in name, ripe for the pickings by these lazy Stalinist cronies.

He beckoned Fedir to fetch his parents and turned quickly to ready the buggy for their journey back to Kylapchin. Preoccupied, he barely remembered the formalities of departure, could not be certain if he acknowledged Evdokia as she stood silently nearby, watching, confused.

Evdokia stood stiffly beside Stasyia watching as the buggy, driving speedily behind Fedir’s fast horse, receded through the haze of sunlight and churning dust in the direction of Kylapchin. She could not be certain if he had looked one last time to the farmhouse and their hosts. She watched them disappear along the narrow countryside road, and stood passively for a time to regain her composure. She could not explain her feelings of abandonment, even though this was an extraordinary misfortune for Peter and his family. She was too inexperienced in matters of the heart to know whether or not she had made an impression on Peter; too afraid to think of the consequences of being rejected by this attractive, lively man. She could only contain these doubts, these uncertainties, deep within her, and hide her disappointment yet again.

“Boje,” she prayed silently, “bring some good from this meeting.” Fate had already dealt her a double blow: it had first worked inadvertently against her through her older sister Hannah’s grief at losing her fiancé in the Great War, refusing to marry another suitor; dealing her a second blow, later, when her own young suitor could wait no longer. She closed her eyes and pictured Peter, capturing their moments in the orchard. She at least could say to her heart that, for a fleeting time, one perfect summer afternoon, she briefly played with love, almost lost her heart again. That was the legacy Fate left her, this time.

Now, Fate snatched her chance of finding happiness again in love. If she never saw this appealing widower again, she would always remember his liveliness, his winning smile, his hazel eyes communicating with the world. That would be her reward for being tricked yet again by Fate.

Jugular veins visibly pumping, rifle strap held tense at the shoulder of his ill-fitting uniform, the soviet guard eyed Peter coldly as he unlocked the dilapidated cell door. He stood at its opening, legs stiffly astride, finger twitching at rifle’s trigger-lock. “A few minutes only!” His edgy voice punched at the stale basement air.

“He’s even younger than my brother Hresha,” Peter gauged silently, watchfully. He sensed the guard’s nervous disposition; he had been witness to such breaking-point tension during his own army experience. This young militia recruit to Stalin’s massive police bureaucracy was unpredictable, could not be trusted with his deadly weapon.

“Harasho, dakyuy,” Peter nodded respect for the man and his rifle. It was too risky to ask for more time. He guessed, accurately, the reason for this young guard’s edginess. Upstairs he and his comrades were massively outnumbered in the packed oppressive hall of this outpost prison of Romny by anxious men and women clutching visit permits. Peter could still smell the acrid adrenalin of the crowd’s collective anxiety. The silent swarming mob could easily overwhelm the few guards. Only their fears for their imprisoned relatives kept them in check. There were no guarantees they would set eyes on their loved ones, no guarantees their relatives were still alive. In this tense, almost surreal atmosphere, and now alone in the basement, the guard’s rifle had become his ultimate authority.

“Batko… Mamo,” Peter called out into the vaporous semi-dark. He sensed his elders’ presence, their discomfort in the dankness as his eyes searched out their silhouettes. Yosep clasped his son’s arms, held tight his strong shoulders, as if for a moment of reassurance. Peter felt a surge of relief rushing through him. His parents were still safe, for now. He kissed his mother’s uplifted cheeks, felt her thinness as he embraced her.

“They give us so little time here… on purpose,” he warned, softly. He searched deep into his jacket pockets. “I’ve brought a little sustenance… God willing, I’ll be back in a day or two with more.” He brought out the cloth-wrapped parcels of black rye bread and kobasa, and hid them quickly beneath the thin perena Palasha had been grudgingly permitted to bring.

“Batko,” he lowered his voice, trying to remain calm, “what is your situation now? Ivan told me they were interrogating you. We all know they can only be trumped-up reasons. You have done everything they wanted—met their quotas. It must be the farm they’re after!” He straightened, his tone determined. “I intend to speak to the officials here… plead your case, to get you released. They know they are getting all the produce they can, with us working the farm to the maximum!”

Yosep gently pressed his outstretched hand on his son’s chest, in an affectionate gesture to quiet him. “Petro… it is no use.” He hesitated and, glancing warily at the guard, dropped his voice to a whisper. “It is too late. They have sentenced us… The NKVD dogs! They’ve deputised NKVD men as judges for this so-called court. There is no trial here… No appeal… Just the sentence.”

He drew back for a moment as he collected himself. “They’ve sentenced us to five years… five years, in a hard labour camp in Siberia! They call us ‘kulaks’! We are but proud Ukrainian farmers! We’ve rarely crossed the threshold of a kulak’s door in all the years of toiling our own land!” He nodded his head, knowingly. “We understand the reason. A convenience to remove us from the farm. They will send us as far from our Sumskaya Oblast as their cattle trains will go… to a hell-hole that none of us have ever heard of!” He paused and smiled wryly into the dimness, despite himself. “What good will our old bones be in that Siberian permafrost? There are already enough Ukrainian souls there, to fertilise their icy forests!”