The Man From Talalaivka

by Olga Chaplin

  * * *

  Evdokia sat at his bedside, weeping quietly. She did not know if her husband would live or die. The doctors and nurses could do no more. Pneumonia and pleurisy had set in. The fever raged, subsided, raged again. Only time would tell. Peter had forgotten her face, her voice, her touch. Days went by before there was any recognition. Fleeting at first, his weak eyes met her tear-stained blue ones. He was aware of, rather than understood, her gentle crying as she silently willed her husband to live.

  He would eventually recover from this ordeal. Except for the solid egg-shaped lump high on his left arm, as living proof of his hell in the inquisition chair, and the deep scar on his right lung, both permanent throughout his life, no other physical damage was evident in this man, who had seen too much for the human spirit to bear. The invisible scars of his journey, his experience—of witnessing his parents’ suffering, his helplessness in the nightmare of the labour camp, their starvation and imminent death—left scars too deep to heal. The scars of sorrow were mortal, put a permanent hole in his heart and spirit, as if Stalin’s bullet had gone through it, done its work.

  Upset, weeping, Evdokia did not know all this; did not understand it. She was also to carry the pain in the heart, from its bleeding. Her news would have to wait. She prayed he would find the strength to live, to hear it. It needed a miracle. Stalin’s Russia had little of those.

  Chapter 13

  February 1932

  Evdokia leaned her aching limbs against the solitary window of the kolkhoz farmhouse, knuckles white as she clung to its withered frame. Paralysed with anxiety, she waited. Her eyes searched the perimeter of the vacuous fields, in vain. Nothing stirred. The Ukrainian mid-winter ghost had passed over them, had dragged a blanched canvas over the depleted countryside. She longed for the familiar outline of her husband’s horse ploughing the snow, carrying its master. Tears escaped her. She did not know how many days she had left, her body now beyond trembling from the gnawing hunger it had endured each agonising day. “Boje,” she prayed silently, “Boje, daue miniue shche sely.” Her only hope, now, was that Peter would return to them in time.

  Though daylight still beckoned, a pall hung over the kolkhoz farmhouse. Whatever victuals scraps remained were furtively hidden from other hungry eyes as each family struggled to live. Acrid vapours from a simmering watery broth permeated the hushed dwelling, testimony of the kolkhoz workers’ desperate plight. Already, the weak and sick had been taken from them, buried in haste by others still strong enough to carry the bodies.

  She winced as her forehead pressed against the blank window, the icy sting of the pane a reminder of the chilling effects of collectivisation. Stalin had indeed exceeded his own dizzy heights, raping the Ukrainian black-soil regions of everything edible. His contradictory orders had come so abruptly, no kolkhoz worker could be prepared. Cruelly, his henchmen and soviet cadres had again ravaged the countryside with their ‘excesses’, on the spurious pretext of finding illicit samohon on St. Nikolas’s feast day. Backed by armed soldiers, they had removed every last grain and morsel of food, over-filling the silos of industrialised areas to rotting point. It was a bitter irony that at the very time of celebrating Christ’s birth, these regions experienced only suffering and death, so carelessly and haphazardly meted out to those least able to withstand it.

  Vanya pulled at his stepmother’s limp body. “Mama, Mama,” he whispered through the weary silence. “Mama … can I have their soup? I’m hungry, Mama …” Evdokia forced back her tears and stooped slowly. Weakened eyes met the innocent, hungry child’s eyes. “Not yet, Vanya, not yet. We will make our own. There is still time before the snow comes.”

  She braced herself at the open door, the numbing cold reminding her of the short but perilous journey. In her weakened state, she could not be certain she would find enough strength. She picked her way slowly, her worn boots crunching the crisp snow as they imprinted on indistinct outlines of footprints that had wended towards the ancient cemetery with the last victim. She turned from the snowy pathway to the white-laden thicket; fell on her knees and crawled beneath its heavy mantle. Her hands searched among the moist debris. She could not return to the farmhouse with bucket empty. She had to do this for Vanya, fill his aching little body with whatever edible growth she could find; will herself to live, for Vanya, for Peter, for their unborn child.

  Her frozen fingers searched the sodden undergrowth for grasses, leaves, seeds from long-harvested sunflowers. With her remaining strength she pulled at the rotting tufts, cold reasoning telling her she would not return. Pain seared through her body. Faint with exhaustion, she held a handful of new snow to her mouth to stifle her sob, her warm tears cutting icily short on her freezing face. In her weakened state, she could not trust herself with the bucket. She watched anxiously as little Vanya carried it before her and dragged herself back, her eyes locked to the safety of the farmhouse door.

  Slowly, like a sleepwalker in the dimness of the dwelling, she prepared their broth. Her fingers searched for a small cloth, hidden in the perena of their straw-stripped bed and carefully unwrapped the last grains of salt that would disguise the putrescent contents of the soup. She tasted the sour concoction and shuddered, but forced herself to consume it. The steamy watery mixture scalded their lips, but she smiled as little Vanya filled his hungry body. Their soup would last two days. She could not think beyond that. “Boje, miue Boje, prevezitue miue Peta do domy,” she prayed silently, hope almost gone that she would see Peter again.

  With her last strength, she carried the broth to her corner; filled Vanya’s jug again, and placed it at their bedside. The cold timber wall numbed her back. She drew Vanya close to her, stroked his hair gently, and whispered for him to sleep. “Father, give me one more day; don’t take my soul yet,” she prayed to her Maker. Her last memory, of Peter’s straight back as he left with the soviet officials all those weeks ago, anguished her; the fear, that he would not return, became submerged as sleep anaesthetised her wasted body.

  Chapter 14

  Peter reeled back in horror as he stepped into the farmhouse. The smell of death hung in the acrid air. Panic seized him. His eyes searched the dim corner for Evdokia and Vanya. “O God, don’t bring me this!” he begged, his mind flashing to earlier memories, to the tragedies of Hanya and Mischa. He stumbled forward, stopping to gently touch the elder’s shoulder as he wept at the babushka’s body. Unshaven for days, he had travelled at first light from the last village of his conscripted veterinary duties. He had seen hunger and deprivation in other kolkhozes as he and the soviet officials salvaged what was left of the livestock in the area. But he had not expected death to so completely ravage his kolkhoz farmhouse: sufficient grain and winter food had been allocated by the bureaucrats overseeing their kolkhoz. His own daily ration of black rye bread and other scraps was barely adequate, had left him gaunt but still healthy, the vodka in his small flask his reward as he guided his horse homeward in the snow.

  Trembling, he knelt at their bedside, steeled himself as he lifted the heavy perena. Little Vanya blinked, momentarily afraid of the wild-eyed, unshaven stranger. “Vanya, Vanya … yak te? Te harasho?” Peter whispered. His little son smiled, reached out for his father. Peter carefully lifted him from the bed, then felt about for Evdokia. He felt sick with tension, fearing the worst. She lay motionless, in foetal position, in a coma-like state, her stomach swollen beyond endurance. Her body had reached a last stage, its final reaction to its unbearable condition before death released it. She was barely breathing; but she was still alive. Hastily he warmed water, added a few drops of vodka. His strong arms holding her, he fed tiny spoonfuls of the warming liquid to revive her.

  Evdokia sensed her husband’s presence, but was unable to acknowledge it. She was hallucinating: the unshaven face of a grim reaper was tempting her towards him. Painstakingly, Peter persevered until the mixture warmed her. At last, her weakened eyes met his as he desperately watched her every movement. “Peta, Peta …” she whispered ina
udibly. He felt choked with emotion, but held himself fast. He could not break down now. His wife’s condition required urgent action. She was too close to death. Searching deep in his coat pocket, he found a crust of rye bread. He soaked it and gently implored her to eat.

  He stood up, his head spinning with tension and exhaustion. He had not eaten that morning; but he was still strong and fit. His ordeal had been one of weeks of slavish work and persistence in his duties in winter’s harsh conditions. He could not afford to delay, even for a moment. Pleading with officials would be futile. With Bukharin’s removal, Lenin’s liberal ideals were now truly extinguished. Stalin’s posse of yes-men, led by Voroshilov and Khrushchev, had put paid to humane considerations. Few would believe that their soviet counterparts were over-zealous and excessive in their cruel and perverse execution of Stalin’s latest orders. Even fewer would care to arrest the starvation and misery, and to amend their orders, upon risk of being labelled ‘kulak supporters’ by those ever watchful to demonstrate their loyalty to Stalin’s demands in his collectivisation madness.

  Peter knew what he must do. He kissed Evdokia’s cold forehead, and whispered gently, “Hold on, Dyna, hold on … I will find bread. Don’t be afraid, you will live, my dearest wife.” Carefully, he removed her simple wedding band, gold cross and tiny ear-rings, wrapped them in a cloth and hid them deep in his coat. He comforted Vanya and emptied the last of the sour broth into his little son’s jug. He steeled himself, uncertain that his horse could withstand the journey to the illicit gold trader, and return him to Evdokia in time.

  * * *

  In the semi-dark of late afternoon, he quickly worked the precious milled flour procured from the trader and added a little fresh hay and drops of oil. He watched intently as the tiny kykyrhyske baked in the ancient earthen oven. He counted each one; life-saving rations for his little family. In the darkness of night, he hid the box high in the rafters. He had to ensure the contents would not be stolen; had to avoid Evdokia’s searching eyes as he rationed each kykyrhyska to her and Vanya in order to keep them alive.

  Evdokia was to eventually recover from her ordeal: her ravaged body pushed closer to the abyss of death than she could acknowledge, in the horror ghoulish winter of 1931–1932. No external scars were evident, as she slowly regained her strength to return to the kolkhoz fields in the spring. Uncomplainingly, she accepted the penalty of quarter-kopeks docked by the kolkhoz overseer for gnawing raw beet hidden in her pocket. And she could look admiringly, in wonder, at her resourceful and energetic husband, who had returned to her and had found a way to save her and little Vanya.

  But internally, the wounds remained. The internal scars never left her. Death had stared her too closely in the face, had permeated her body, had extracted almost her last breath. She could not—would not—ever forget this, ever inwardly overcome this. From that winter, she was a changed woman, her spirit scarred beyond repair. She replaced it with the mantle of caution, of practical considerations, and wore this mantle, permanently, to the very end.

  She would never again allow herself to explore and experience the joy of an unfettered creative spirit. For such a decision, the price was high. Too high. It was as if, in some ghoulish way, Stalin’s poisonous chalice had reached her after all. She never again raised herself to the idealism she had earlier shared with her husband, the altruism and love of life that still fuelled him every joyous day. Though neither of them could have known it, they had already embarked on different spiritual paths in life, crisscrossing at times, but never truly sharing, experiencing, the same ultimate, beautiful moments. For that, she had Stalin to thank.

  Chapter 15

  June 1937

  Another posse of untried soldiers pushed past the buggy. Peter watched thoughtfully, quelling feelings of disquiet. He had seen few battalions in his Popivshchena area before he prepared for this journey, and his Talalaivka office had not previously attracted heavy army presence. He sensed something was afoot although he had no certainty of its import. The rumours whispered in quarters out of reach of officialdom, and Stalin’s NKVD spies, spelt an end to hopes of calm after the last of the tyrant’s purges. Kirov’s murder in December 1934 had already caused a veritable bloodbath, with little need to prolong the mass executions and sentences to Siberian gulags. These marching battalions of Komsomol soldiers were visible proof that yet another of Stalin’s purges was about to erupt. Glancing quickly at his wife and children, Peter sighed and shook his head. He had hoped Evdokia’s long-awaited visit to her elders’ kolkhoz on the extreme side of Talalaivka would bring great joy, but he now feared for their safety.

  At last, he caught sight of the bent silhouette in the afternoon shadows of the kolkhoz farmhouse. “Klavdina!” he called out confidently and waved as he reined his horse from the ragged country lane to the farmhouse track. He hid his apprehension. Though in different kolkhozes, Evdokia and her elders had enough concerns, surviving each day as they could, with the strictures of increased quotas and continued food shortages and privation. Threats of the political kind would only burden them further and could even cause a physical or mental collapse. The countryside kolkozes were already short of workers, who, though overworked, continued to be threatened by accusations of ambitious and desperate supervisors and administrators interested only in securing their own positions in the purges’ melee. There was little left to demolish in the Ukraine; yet still, manipulations were afoot in his own Sumskaya Oblast.

  Manya ran excitedly to the withered figure, dropping stalks of wildflowers in her rush. “Watch where you are running, Manya … don’t fall,” he cautioned gently, as she fell again on the uneven track, scattering the flowers. He shook his head and laughed. Two long summers had passed since their last visit. Their joy at this sojourn warmed him, enabling him to temporarily push aside the political strife and his fears for their future. He lifted little Mykola and then Evdokia to the gravelled courtyard, holding her a few moments longer as they eyed each other gently, knowingly. Klavdina had not yet seen Mykola before this visit, and Evdokia would give her Klavdina news of their child expected before year’s end.

  “Petro!” Yakim waved him to the woodshed. Peter sprinted to the shack and grasped Yakim’s proud shoulders, felt the warmth from his ailing frame. “So, they let you all come, this time?” he queried. “It has gladdened our hearts, Petro … Klavdina has fretted often, that she may not lay eyes on Evdokia and the little ones again …” Peter pulled out the travel documents and smiled wryly as Yakim perused them with raised eyebrows.

  “It takes two of Stalin’s latest officials to let us go, Yakim … and only one over-burdened man on the land to do the work of five. A clever improvement of our times. Stalin’s new laws—and the new constitution—give guarantees to some … and take everything away from all others.” They smiled at their jesting, glad for the privacy of the woodshed. Both knew that such words, if overheard by any one of Stalin’s innumerable officials or spies, would be enough to sentence them to life in a labour camp, from whence few returned.

  Their evening feast was simple but heartwarming, shared with the few remaining staroste of the kolkhoz farmhouse. The few delicacies were savoured in bittersweet awakening of tastes long repressed, of happy feast days before Stalin’s ascendancy to power. Peter opened the small bag, hidden beneath his buggy floor during their journey. He spread out the ripened sunflower seeds that had been carelessly scattered among the grasses by newly-arrived kolkhoz workers from the towns, and offered the hardened rye bread for dipping with their borshch. The staroste beamed appreciation, their food allocation having again been cut too severely since the heightening purges of recent years.

  “Petro …” Vasily, one of the staroste, turned to him at meal’s end. “Yakim tells me you are to go in the morning to your Talalaivka office for ‘urgent duties’? You may surely see my son, Viktor. He was captain of his battalion, before all this …” he gestured, referring to Stalin’s rule. “But something does not ring true, Petro … he was made
lieutenant, and then raised higher still, in Kiev …” He leaned closer. “Petro, I know you … I can trust you, I knew your Yosep and Palasha,” he paused and, bowing his head, he crossed himself. “Charstvo Nebesno,” he murmured, and clasped Peter’s hand once more. “My Viktor has been sent to Talalaivka … no explanation … no questions allowed. I fear for him, for his safety. It would ease my heart, my kym son, if you would look for him … find out what you can.”

  Tears etched the old weathered face. Peter’s heart went out to him. The starosta had recently lost his wife, and his Viktor was the only surviving child. Peter knew he could not take unnecessary risks in this political climate of yet another upheaval, but his duties at Talalaivka ensured that he mingled with bureaucratic officials and the passing army personnel. It was just possible that Viktor may be in the vicinity: the shed that served as a holding stables was but a short walking distance from the office. He nodded, placating Vasily as he placed his hand over the old man’s. There was no need to refuse this burdened starosta now. Circumstances would reveal themselves once he returned to Talalaivka.

  Chapter 16

  Peter sensed, even smelt, the commotion in the Talalaivka office grounds before his horse’s hooves clipped the cobbled gateway. The town was known mostly for its important railway junction, famous for the siphoning-off of harvested food supplies in their area. But even so, already there was a long line of soldiers on horses straggling from the junction-line towards the office building. His horse neighed, nostrils flaring as it flicked its mane in warning. Peter stroked its strong long neck, quietly dismounted and firmly held the reins as he walked towards the familiar courtyard. The yard was overcrowded with new recruits, cautiously practising the morning drill, their officer’s voice barking orders of control.