The Man From Talalaivka

by Olga Chaplin

  “O God!” he despaired, his mind racing to thoughts of his own Yosep and Palasha. This was what they and his young sister Halka had experienced at the end of their own nightmare journey. Only, their icy prison was even more remote and desolate. Most Ukrainian ‘kulaks’ were sent to the farthest labour camps that spread out from Novosibirsk. Stalin’s warped mind saw to it that the disease of independence was cut off at this farthest outpost, to wither in the frozen veins of this vital artery of the Soviet state. There was little need to heavily guard the hapless prisoners there. Icy weather and life-threatening conditions were the Oblast’s natural guards.

  Day merged into night, and into day again, as the great train rocked seemingly protectively on its snow-laden tracks. The journey took on a dreamlike quality. Streaks of daylight merged with the horizon as the bleak tundra plains transformed into an eerie world that stretched beyond human comprehension. The countryside was reshaped by the falling snow. Only a dull lamplight, or a smoking chimney, revealed some life in the snow-white huddled villages in the mystical stretch of Oblasts. On one day, at a break in the snow, a child played outside a hut, oblivious of the muted sounds of this distant train. Peter remembered the loved Ukrainian poet Taras Shevchenko’s words: “Children my children, children my flowers …” He turned away from this innocent scene. It was too painful. The train moved on towards its destination. The snow began falling again.

  Somehow, incredulously, Novosibirsk was there before them. No police guarding the chilly, dishevelled shed posing as a railway station. Not even officials. Only a black muddy track wending its way through waist-high fresh snow gave hint or direction of any life past the life-saving artery of the railway line. Peter tightened his grip on his satchel and touched Mikhaelo’s sleeve reassuringly. They made their way carefully, their long army coats dragging in the muddy snow as they trod. It was still daylight, but the sombre sky put an eerie silver-grey hue on the world. The snow-covered forest hovered about them menacingly. Little wonder the inmates needed few guards to bring them back to camp each day at dusk. Anyone left behind once the gates were locked faced certain death. The natural elements of these distant prisons were as harsh as the masters were ruthless.

  Trudging silently, they reached the indistinct gates at the end of the track. Before them, snow-burdened huts appeared like discarded snowdrift mounds. They stood momentarily, hoar-like breath meeting in waning light. Peter grasped his friend’s shoulder in encouragement and pointed to a barely visible hut number. “Go on, Mikhaelo; your elders are located close by.” He watched thoughtfully as Mikhaelo headed towards a marked hut, then sighed in relief as he heard him being welcomed. “Mikhaelo’s parents are much younger … and only recently sentenced,” he reminded himself as he continued his search in the near-dark.

  He faced the door of the shabby hut that housed his Yosep and Palasha these past two winters. He dared not think that a stranger might open the door, evidence that his family no longer had use of the hovel. Excited at the prospect of seeing them, yet fearing that he was too late, he paused one more moment. He drew a deep breath, readied his familiar positive smile, and knocked. Muffled sounds from within meant there was life inside. Instantly relieved, he involuntarily sighed, let his guard down.

  Whatever he had told himself, all through this treacherous journey, it could not prepare him for what was to come.

  Chapter 11

  A grotesque figure, rags loosely hanging from the body like a spent banshee in the Siberian mists, hunched before him in the half-light as the door partly opened. Peter’s skin pricked with tension, pain in the pit of his stomach. This figure was unrecognisable. It couldn’t be his mother. He put his arm out to the door to steady himself. The silent rag figure crept back, uncertain of the visitor. “O God,” he cried inwardly, despairing, “I’m too late!” But he had to know. Somehow, he found his voice. “Good people, please tell me if Yosep and Palasha live here,” he softly enquired.

  The grotesque shape opened the door slightly further. A scarfed head leant forward, eyes peering into the twilight. A sickening moment passed. Then, “Peta … Peta … is that you?” The shape seemed to collapse as she repeated, “Oi Boje mye, oi Boje mye.” He fell to his knees, now at her height. He couldn’t yet comprehend his mother’s condition. He only knew he had arrived just in time. The regime’s brutality and Siberia’s winters would be reaping several more souls before long.

  His father, lying death-like in a crude straw bed in one corner of the hovel, raised his eyes in recognition. Whispers of light from one small candle picked up a spark in the proud elderly eyes. He tried to talk, but the pneumonic condition was too painful. Too ill, unable to work, he had lost his rations of food. The guards profited by this. They bartered their bounty of suffering for black market tobacco and vodka, their stomachs filled from the misery of others. His mother had tried to do a man’s job, to keep them alive. It was an impossible task. Her back told the story. Only her previous agility and inner strength saved her from leaving her frail husband to find peace at last with her Maker.

  Halka, his little sister, now so tall, so skeletal, clung to his army coat as if afraid he would vaporise in the dim light. Mother, son, daughter huddled protectively at Yosep’s corpse-like frame and prayed silently, tears blending with tears; it was as if an invisible village priest and his spirit passed his blessing over them. They each knew their fate. They would have little time together.

  A broth made up of rancid pickled cabbage and forest vegetation that had long-since dried and become mouldy, lifted their spirits. Peter cut wafer thin slithers of the salted pork, just enough to give them sustenance for the night. They relished each tiny morsel. “Charstvo Nabesno.” In whispered gratitude they gave thanks as they had done each time after Easter fasting and the midnight vigil of the death of Christ. Christmas was not far off in this scattered, forgotten part of Stalin’s empire. Perhaps Saint Nikolas may yet indulge them, make his presence there, sustain them longer.

  With military precision, Peter cut and re-wrapped the salted pork into tiny portions. He knew if his parents had any chance to survive this winter they would have to discipline themselves and their starvation even further. They had already survived whilst many others had lost their daily struggle in this godless wilderness. Their resourcefulness and hope had kept them alive. Now, they hid the tiny parcels in secret places in the hut, in hollowed-out half logs of the walls and crude table legs. The guards were more interested in pilfering items they could barter easily, for their black market sport. There was little left in this hovel to take, and the death mask of disease kept them at bay these past weeks.

  Despite himself, Peter slept soundly on the makeshift straw bed at his father’s side. The haunting sounds of forest wolves became enmeshed in a dream that passed into his subconscious. The dream that awoke with him was gaiety and goodwill in their family village of Kylapchin as Saint Nikolas celebrated Christ’s birth. Sombre dawn light brought a different reality. It had snowed heavily through the night, and the hut was now immersed in new snow up to the window.

  Very soon, life would stand still in this region. They had already heard that the last transportation of prisoners was arriving in a day or two. Then the snowstorms, the icy conditions and the incomprehensible temperatures would stop the Trans-Siberian Railway going either east or west. “O God … there is so little time with them,” he realised, as he watched his ailing parents. He knew he and Mikhaelo had to return on that last delivery train before the elements would cut them off. They stood no chance if discovered in the labour camp. Their mission would fail. His parents, and Mikhailo’s, would be executed for their complicity.

  It was a strange no-man’s land of time, of punishment. Halka, the only one able to move freely in and out of the camp on pretext of caring for her ill parents, conveyed vital messages. She also readied herself. Her parents willed her to leave them to their fate. She wanted to live. There was little more she could do for her pitiful parents. They did not want to watch their yo
ungest child suffer during their last struggles with life. She became a vital conduit between the two friends as she listened for accurate information of the coming of the train.

  * * *

  “Petro!” Halka’s hushed whisper suppressed urgency after she rushed back early one day, pulling him to one side. “It’s already here! The train! The new prisoners are being taken this very minute to the holding yard!” Peter felt his heart lurch in sharp pain as if it had stopped. He knew what this meant. He could not look immediately at his grieving parents. He turned away, ostensibly to prepare himself. They knew they would not see another winter, would not see their Ukraine, or their family. He knew his eyes would not meet their loving ones again.

  Yosep and Palasha blessed their son and daughter in a ritual of prayer long remembered from their days of religious freedom in their beloved Ukraine. Peter could not speak. His throat so tight, he felt he would choke with the pain. But he knew he had to turn his back; hope that what little pittance he had brought them might sustain them a little longer. He could not bring himself to look one last time at that door, at the hunched diminutive figure that had given him life and hope and joy for so many years.

  Gloomy daylight still remained as they made their way to the train station, weaving in and out of the muddy snow path wherever they could to avoid detection. To no avail. A handful of orphans, excited at the prospect of leaving this death hole, tagged behind them. Peter pleaded with them not to follow, but it was too late. He had warned Halka to keep going, no matter what happened. She had her forged papers with her, and she must be on that train.

  With the tension mounting, he reacted instinctively to an unlikely shadow. “Halka! Break now! Hide! Break from us!” he urged her. “From now on we are strangers, if you’re questioned. Hurry!” He grabbed her arm, quickly pushed her towards a snow-mound. Just in time, she and the other children scattered, out of view.

  From nowhere, it seemed, burly guards with their ancient but deadly rifles pointed, gave the men orders to stop and marched them to a back shed of the station, hidden from public view. There, stripped of boots, coats and warm clothing, they were strapped to well-worn chairs. These guards knew what they were doing; they were practised at this. Two Stalinist secret police, almost casual in their confident manner, strolled in, ready for their interrogation. They, also, were seasoned at this. No guns, no visible signs of tormentors. Peter’s mind raced. He and Mikhaelo had talked about such an eventuality. But their journey thus far, so long and tortuous, had been relatively uneventful. It didn’t seem possible that they would lose their lives at this juncture.

  His thoughts flashed, at counterpoint with his logic as he tried to anticipate the interrogation. “Mikhaelo won’t withstand this … I must divert their attention,” he bargained with his mind. He was the instigator, the leader, the originator of their plan. He would try to save his friend, whatever the consequences. But his pounding heart, his logic, told him otherwise. It looked to him, in his military calculation, and with a veterinarian’s smell of looming death, that that would be nigh impossible. They were both dead men.

  Chapter 12

  A shot of fire seared through him as the ancient syringe penetrated deep into his left arm. Peter knew it had to be sodium pentothal, the truth drug. Stalin’s NKVD had been culled, streamlined, given extraordinary powers. The senior secret police bureaucrat leaned patiently against a grubby table. The serum took little time to do its work. No point in teasing out superfluous material. Wait for the truth to be revealed. His patience will pay off.

  Peter knew he had only seconds to warn Mikhaelo, to prepare him for the inevitable. He had to take the brunt of the interrogation, divert the secret agents’ attention from his friend. Blank terror registered in Mikhaelo’s eyes. Younger than Peter, he was less experienced, less worldly than his trusted friend. Peter’s army and veterinary experience had exposed him to lethal drugs, and their consequent effect on brain and body. This truth drug could kill its victims. He hoped, irrationally, that these were experienced agents. They might give more measured doses of the drug, not kill their victims outright.

  “Divitsa xloptsi,” he called out, his voice confident, official, his colloquialism ‘fellows’ authenticating his Ukrainian origins. “Be reasonable. You can see from the documents we’re on official business. No need to examine my assistant here. I can confirm anything you want to know about my mission.” He felt the serum taking hold, constantly shooting pain like an electric charge. The NKVD men watched, and waited. “We had some bad vodka to keep warm, and missed our last stop at Omsk. We need to get back to headquarters in Romny, in our Sumskaya Oblast. We’re already behind schedule. These blasted trains. We never know when they’re arriving.” Peter prayed he had thrown enough doubt to slow down, or even soften the interrogation.

  The senior NKVD agent rifled through Peter’s briefcase again and scrutinised the documents, then frowned. There were so many changes in the Oblasts these days. It was difficult to discriminate genuine from forgery. There was little proof of espionage with these men. And they were leaving to return to Soviet Russia. Still the doubt persisted. Eyes half-closed, the senior agent gave a moment’s reflection: eyed his captives coldly, impassively. His nostrils widened, sniggered exasperation. The cat had its mouse. The game might as well begin. He nodded to his junior. Mikhaelo screamed, shock and fear overtaking him as the syringe came at him.

  It was too late for Peter to plead further. The truth drug was doing its deadly work. He was hallucinating, drowning in a huge whirlpool, monsters enveloping him, talking at him through an ocean of foghorns. His brain felt as if it had exploded. His eyelids fluttered, trying to clear his vision and brain. To no effect. He sensed his mouth moving, but couldn’t comprehend what he said. He, too, spoke through incomprehensible foghorns. The burning sensation in his arm had surged through his body, penetrated the circuitry of his brain. It was in over-drive, over-kill.

  One current of his brain told him he was related to Nikita Khrushchev, Stalin’s right-hand axeman in the Ukraine. “You do know, fellows,” he cockily exploded, “that Khrushchev is my kym, my godfather, don’t you? How else do you think I’d be entrusted on our Bolshevik Party business so far from Romny?” His mind raced to the absurd. “And Kaganovich! It was he who suggested this journey anyway!” His voice almost broke in explosive conviction.

  He had no cognition of their response. There was more fumbling through documents. The senior NKVD bureaucrat picked up the telephone receiver, paused without dialing, then slowly returned it to its cradle. He signalled to his junior. They spoke in muted tones, observing their prisoners. The interrogation had not gone well. Their prisoners had no recollection of any counter-revolutionary activity. Except for their stupidity in drinking bad vodka, common these days, there was no hardcore evidence they were a danger to the Party, or to the NKVD. Their mission was unusual. But the seasoned NKVD apparatchiks knew the Oblast headquarters decreed ridiculous undertakings these days, just to outdo each other to demonstrate their loyalty at the Central Party meetings. Stalin himself had been Commissar of Nationalities and travelled throughout Russia, wreaking havoc. Though highly unlikely, it was just possible, in these crazy times, Khrushchev had sent trusted ‘connections’ to check on ‘orders’ in these Oblasts. These idiots had gained nothing by their trip: no black market money, gold, or precious stones, the currency of illicit travel. It was frustrating. Innocent or guilty? Either way, their limited serum was wasted on these two drunken idiots.

  Peter sensed, rather than understood, that he and Mikhaelo were being dumped outside the station, in the dark. The train’s engine was heaving in readiness, steam gushing in the icy air, billowing around them, inadvertently protecting and warming them and hiding them from guards on the platform. He pulled at Mikhaelo’s arm, held on to him as they crawled towards an open goods carriage and, hauling themselves in, they lay shivering violently from the cold and serum. Next moment, someone outside heaved the heavy door shut. They were prisoners,
but at least they were on the train. The carriage jerked. The train was moving, returning to civilisation.

  In the safety of darkness, the life-long friends slept, arm over arm, the deadly serum doing its work in the continuing nightmare. Demons tormented them as they slept in a drugged state, amid piles of sooty used sacks and supplies. Too afraid to raise their heads at Omsk, they lay semi-comatose until they saw civilisation. They gauged it was Ekaterinburg. Though the carriage was partly warmed by putrid steam from the massive locomotive, they were frozen and near starvation. The sodium pentothal had weakened them. They could not survive without food or water. The rancid scraps of rotting cabbage and beetroot leaves amongst the sacks were negligible, would not sustain them.

  Ironically, their weakened condition aided their survival. Their depraved appearance, rags on body and feet, leaning heavily on makeshift rods, elicited kindness from unlikely passers-by on the station platform. This was still the Siberia of mystique and superstition, from whence Rasputin had emerged to cure the young Tzarovich, to break the Romanov curse. Religion may have been outlawed by the Bolsheviks, but the people’s hearts and minds had not much changed. “Hospode Pomelyue, Hospode Pomelyue,” Peter, still hallucinating, whispered in priestly liturgical blessing as each passer-by gave a morsel of food or a kopek. These tiny portions, yet so generous in these hard times, might just see them back to their own Sumskaya Oblast.

  Saint Nikolas must have passed over them, pointing the direct route to the safety of the Ukraine, and Romny. Just in time. Hallucination and deep sleep had given way to shaking and starvation. Sub-zero temperatures froze them. Once he was assured his friend had survived, Peter let down his own defences. He was gripped by fever, and began to slip in and out of consciousness. He was vaguely aware of Mikhaelo crying, of people calling out, of being transported in some form of vehicle. Life slipped into a different phase yet again. No longer any monsters, or demons. Just quiet, muted sounds. And the sound of medical instruments. Sometimes pale-garbed people murmured, moved in a blur around him. He knew not how long he lay there. At times, he became aware of being raised, something gently sweet oozing between his cracked lips: natural antibiotic, honey, precious and costly. Still time passed. Several times heavenly white figures beckoned him to the light: he moved closer towards them, somehow came back. Months passed. Time passed. Time stood still. He was no longer certain where he was. Who he was.