The Man From Talalaivka

by Olga Chaplin

  “Vanya, Vanya … son, you must come back immediately with me … there is no time to lose. The partisans are all over this area. There will be fighting any time now. Vanya, you can’t stay here. It’s too dangerous now. You must return with me!” Peter’s hoarse whisper broke. He gripped his son in a desperate attempt to persuade him. In the flickering miniscule candlelight, he could just make out Vanya’s hollow-eyed appearance, despite his youthful defiance. He knew that look of inner despair. His son, too, was torn in his loyalties: to his country, to his family, to his loved ones.

  Heart hurting despite his self-control, Peter held onto his son. In that flash moment, he realised Vanya was his last link to his own first love, to his deceased infant son, and to his own idealism of life under Lenin’s modified utopia, before the cruelty and madness of the Stalin regime took hold over every part of their lives. He wanted desperately to hold onto his last soul connection with the unblemished love of life that his own youthful mind had so embraced. He realised, at that moment, that finding Vanya, and pleading with his son to stay with him, meant more to him than the possibility of that stray bullet from a partisan’s rifle. Already, his heart was being torn open by Vanya’s hesitation, his uncertainty.

  Eyes downcast, Vanya avoided his father’s pleading stance. He was lost for words, his natural shyness endearing him even more to Peter. “Tato, don’t worry for me … Kysma will be coming soon. He wants me near him … Please tell mother not to worry for me. I will be all right.” Defiant but respectful, not yet a man at sixteen, he was making a man’s decision to remain behind. Peter felt immobilised, the pain jabbing him within. In the urgency of the situation he had not prepared himself for this, was stunned at Vanya’s resolve. He held him close to him, embracing, willing him to safety. “Come back to us, back home, my dear son,” he pleaded gently, one last time.

  He could do no more but to return to the relative safety of the kolkhoz farmhouse, protect his remaining little family as best he could. Whichever way he turned, the situation was precarious. Propaganda from both adversarial armies was now at fever pitch. The partisans, ever more confident by the day, trigger-happy and nervous, and increasingly distrustful of villagers who had harboured the German menace in these parts, had ‘shoot to kill’ orders from advance groups of the Russian army, and to speedily bring the Ukrainians back under Stalin’s control. His ‘scorched earth’ policy had left the Ukraine barren, its people at the mercy of Hitler and his armies. Now, they were once more pawns in the struggle between the two tyrants: a struggle to the end. There was no knowing what would become of Vanya now.

  Chapter 25

  In pre-dawn darkness a German soldier threw open the farmhouse door. “Achtung, achtung!” he called out to the sleeping families. More soldiers positioned themselves, grim-faced, rifles ready. The German captain took charge. “Attention, everyone. We are evacuating. Put on warm clothes. Put on your coats. No luggage … I repeat, no luggage. One bundle of clothing for each family allowed. That is all. Hurry! We move immediately!” He approached the shaken elders of the farmhouse, nodded to them. “Return to your bed. You will stay.” Peter guessed, correctly, that the area commandant had been anticipating this and readied his area for this urgent evacuation and retreat. The commandant had good reason to act so quickly. The katyshka-like bombs were more frequent, aiming closer to his quarters. In the quiet panic of the farmhouse, Peter whispered to Evdokia, reassured her, helped dress the children.

  “Hurry, hurry!” an anxious German soldier on horseback, rifle pointing, commanded the farmhouse occupants to waiting wagons, then Peter was ordered to lead. He grasped the horse’s reins, checked his wife and children were securely beside him. The captain signalled to move. Evdokia, with little time to think, felt for the tiny photograph of little Manya she had slipped inside her rough work shirt, close to her heart. It would stay there, hidden for protection for an indeterminate time, before it would see safety again.

  Another bomb blast, followed by a volley of machine-gun fire from Russian artillery, burst through the dawn air in the direction of the eastern fields, the woods and the hill. It was highly likely the Russian army’s advance party had linked up with the partisans, and was preparing for a major attack. The German soldiers must have known this, hence their nervousness. They were short of supplies, and even shorter of ammunition, despite their menacing and deadly rifles. The rumours whispered these past days were true: under Marshal Zhukov’s brilliant direction, Rokossovsky’s central east army was pushing relentlessly towards Kiev, re-occupying village after village, railway after railway, at breakneck speed. Even at the fast pace they were pushing their horses, on the captain’s orders, it would be a miracle, now, if this small convoy arrived at Talalaivka railway station before it, too, was destroyed by Stalin’s air fire, which did not distinguish captives from captors.

  Peter glanced towards Kysma’s kolkhoz farmhouse, close to the woods, close to the area of threat and destruction. It showed no signs of life. He prayed that Kysma and his family, and Vanya, were safe and perhaps even heading in the same direction, towards Talalaivka. He turned to look back one last time in that early dawn, as their kolkhoz farmhouse, which had been their home for these past dozen years, receded from view. Now, only their memories remained. They were forced to leave all else. Most of all, they were forced to leave their Ukrainian heritage, their Ukrainian soil. It was a double punishment: forced to leave at gunpoint, forced to give up what they cherished most in life.

  The early morning sun warmed them. Peter gauged they could not be far from Talalaivka. Suddenly, the convoy stopped, on orders from the captain. The wagons forked their way around a nearby wood. They were ordered to look ahead, on pain of reprisal. It was too late. The smouldering remains of a burnt-out village, its smoke permeating the pure morning air, warned them. But not enough. Not even the acrid smoke could hide the stench of human carnage nearby. In a clearing, at a short distance from them, exposed to passers-by as a warning, was a mass grave. Hitler and his henchmen, as vindictive in retreat as they were in the initial invasion of the Ukraine, had urged such carnage and destruction so that little could be left for either Ukrainians or Stalin’s regime. Peter grasped Evdokia’s hand, tried to warn her, too late. In those few moments she, too, could see the open mass grave in the field beyond the trees, the stench confirming this execution massacre. Peter knew this was the shocking reprisal for disobedience. The retreating German army needed little excuse for such horror: partisan activity, or even support, was enough to trigger a vengeful response such as this: the consequent horrific, collective end.

  Evdokia blinked and gasped involuntarily at the horror, her eyes wanted to deceive her, but could not. She shuddered, the early Ukrainian morning sun unable to warm her. All those many, many bodies: so many innocent men, women and children paying the ultimate price for simply being in their own homeland, caught between two tyrants’ armies. Her tears of sorrow for these hapless innocents blurred her vision, as she held tiny Nadia and little Mykola closer to her. She felt helpless in those sickening moments of discovery and realisation. She could not imagine the last moments of those victims, lying on the warm bodies of their compatriots, some finding within them the comfort of words to whisper to the already dead and dying, before they, too, would suffer the same fate moments later. How many “Hospode pomelyue” were whispered; how many “Requium in pachem”, “Borach dayan haemet” were whispered to their Maker that day.

  “O God!” Peter cried inwardly, sickened. He bowed his head, tasted the bitter reality of his powerlessness in the situation. His mind registered the full extent of the imminent danger, and forced cold logic to over-ride his almost overwhelming emotions. He could not put his little family at any risk. He could not search out for Vanya again, even if an opportunity arose. The risks were too great, the punishments unthinkable. He could only hope and pray silently that Vanya was safe from harm. He could do no more. He could only, in these moments of horror, be thankful that the commandant of his kolkho
z area, and his disciplined captain who was leading them to Talalaivka, had not taken such inhumane revenge on the Ukrainians under their control. For that, he could be thankful.

  * * *

  Talalaivka railway station was almost unrecognisable. Fast Russian fighter planes, now having little opposition from Goering’s limping Luftwaffe, had succeeded in wiping out part of the railway line. Supply carriages, smashed and unusable, lay scattered, creating chaos, as acrid blue-black smoke billowed from the debris. As he reined his horse to one side, on orders from the captain, Peter could see the frantic efforts of teams of soldiers unchaining the damaged carriages in a desperate attempt to prepare the remaining supply carriages at the front of the line for fast evacuation. Their group was ordered to a holding yard, ready to board as soon as each supply carriage was checked. The monstrous locomotive, fired up before the attack, was choking to be released to its destination, somewhere westward, to a place unknown. Peter sensed his family’s fear and held tight little Mykola’s hand. He whispered to Evdokia to stay close as he reassured her and the children. Still, his eyes searched again for Vanya. Straining, he looked over the waiting prisoners in the holding yard. There was no sign of Kysma or his family. Nor of Vanya. No-one from that kolkhoz farmhouse for him to enquire.

  Moments later, the captain signalled for them to move. The German soldiers, rifles pointed to the ground, but with safety locks off, ordered their kolkhoz captives into the crude supply carriages. Peter helped Evdokia into the massive cabin, lifted the children to her. He positioned himself at an open window, watching with strained eyes for any sign of Vanya. A soldier, avoiding eye contact, slammed the great bolt shut on the outside. A signal came from somewhere. The carriage jerked, in anticipation of its race westward before the Russian pack of aircraft returned. He leaned out, straining to catch every last moment of the platform. Only a young German soldier, rifle idling, wistfully looked westward in the direction of his own homeland, then turned back to the chaos, for further orders. The platform was empty.

  From an alcove of the platform a figure emerged in full German uniform, officer’s hat partially hiding his face. It was the commandant of their kolkhoz area. He walked up the platform and stood at a short distance from Peter’s open window, then looked up at him. The early morning sun was dazzling. Peter could not be sure: perhaps it was a trick of light, the movement of the carriage. The commandant seemed to raise his hand, tip his officer’s hat, as if in respectful salute. Peter had no way of knowing what this meant: whether it was perfunctory, or honourable.

  The supply train was no longer under the commandant’s control. Its occupants were now at the mercy of new masters, dissociated leaders and bureaucrats, commanding recklessly from OKH in far-off Berlin: ordering trains to every part of German-controlled territory, ordering trains to labour and extermination camps as expedience suited them. “Dear God, where are they taking us?” he cried silently as the massive engine’s ash, and black smoke, overtook him. They were being pulled in a direction not of their choosing, destination unknown, uncertain in which direction fate would take them.

  Chapter 26

  High above them, like black-winged birds frenetically darting in playful flight, three fighter planes circled their target. The hazy blue sky flashed, signalling the deadly game was over. Peter’s strained eyes followed the Russian bomber as it spiralled towards them, its contact with the ground shuddering the train tracks, its flames licking the carriages as they passed. He could taste the pungent smoke long after the train had snaked its way past the crater that had become the pulverised burial site of another Russian bomber crew. He glanced at Evdokia and the children. The carriage, crammed with fellow prisoners, was silent. Then a child whimpered in its mother’s arms.

  “Dobreye Bohe,” he murmured to himself, “it’s difficult to know which way to turn.” He pondered the irony of their situation: the tragic death of the Russian fighter pilots, who were not unlike himself and his countrymen in their love of their nation and who had done their sacrificial duty, and the retreating German army and its desperate pilots, who had just moments earlier saved all their lives. He swallowed the bitter pill of calculated compassion. Whatever the outcome, there would be tragedy on both sides. And for this prisoner train, there would be further dangers as the carriages nosed westward. The Russian forces grew more confident by the day, even, it seemed, with each hour. It would be a miracle if they survived this journey.

  Each winding bend, each minute pause on the railway tracks, increased the pent-up tension. Anxiety suppressed their thirst and hunger. Interminable hours dragged on. Droning bombers and fighter planes spat at each other again and again, almost anaesthetising the train’s inmates to the constant danger.

  Peter skimmed his eyes across the late afternoon vista. They had now left the Kievsky Oblast. Somehow, amazingly, their long cargo of prisoners had criss-crossed railway gauges, evading Kiev. They were now heading into the western Oblasts. The German forces would move faster now, their control of these regions more certain, for the time being at least. Night would protect them, and partisan disruptions to transport were less common in these German-controlled parts.

  * * *

  In near-darkness, at a clearing near the woods, the train jerked suddenly to a halt. A posse of German soldiers, rifles ready, stood at each carriage door. At a signal from the commander, the occupants were ordered out. “Oi Boje mye,” Evdokia groaned, fearing the worst as she grasped Peter’s hand. Heart thudding, he whispered reassurance. “Dyna, they wouldn’t have brought us all this way to finish with us now.” He squeezed her hand tight, stroked tiny Nadia’s hair as she clutched Evdokia’s jacket. “We will see, Dyna … they have to give us water … some food … and they have to let us relieve ourselves.” Minutes later, the long train belched its steamy fumes again, hassling them back to the carriages, then lurched again into the blackened night.

  * * *

  Even before the train reached its Drohobych junction, south of Lvov, more Russian bombers streaked across the dawn sky. “They’re softening up Lvov now,” Peter surmised, as the reprisal explosions met their target. The German army was racing against time and would soon be forced to retreat from this vital westernmost city of the Ukraine. Only Russia’s approaching winter could temporarily stop Stalin’s armies reclaiming it now.

  The train screeched to its halt in a huge junction yard. “Attention! Attention!” a seasoned soldier shouted his command. “Move quickly! Quickly! You will move to the waiting train!” Panicked, their captives pushed as one towards the carriage door. Peter grabbed Evdokia’s arm. “Wait; wait,” he whispered. “We’ll be crushed if we move! Kola,” he woke his little son, “stay close to us …”

  He peered into the semi-light. Two powerful engines at the front of their next transport train awaited them, their markings distinct: ‘Reich Wehrmacht Transport’. His heart sank. Wherever they were being taken, the next part of their forced journey would be faster, and further from their homeland. “They must be desperate for labourers, to take us so far … wherever it is,” he thought. He spared Evdokia the heartache as, tending to the children, she was unaware of this.

  As he stepped across the rough platform, his boots heavy, thumping the damp soil like a slowing heartbeat as he walked, he realised, at that moment, that his footsteps were feeling his Ukrainian soil for the last time before being taken to foreign lands. An almost overwhelming sense of grief hit him. He did not know when he would return to his Ukraine, to the life that had meant everything to him. And Vanya’s last image came to him. Tears stung his tired eyes. He had nowhere to turn to, to contain his sorrow. Nausea gripped him. He looked at Evdokia, so dependent and trusting, and at Nadia and Mykola. He swallowed hard, somehow controlling himself. He had to stay strong for them, whatever lay ahead.

  * * *

  With Drohobych behind them, a new confidence pulsated from the armed guards as they signalled with their rifles for their captives to take water from huge milk urns. The massive engines
now powered almost effortlessly northwest through acquiescent Poland. Peter steeled himself, sensing they still had far to travel. He gazed intently at the passing meadows and forests, looking for changes that would indicate their location. Significant railway junctions now had duplicated German signs. Four long years of German occupation of these lands had stripped its people, rendered them harmless in Reich hands. He closed his eyes, exhausted. The late morning sun warmed his face as it pressed, unconscious, against the window pane.

  At a change of pace, the train eased to a stop. Peter jerked awake, familiarising himself with the surroundings. They had stopped at a country station, with no signage. Nearby, cottages with curtains drawn, hid their mute occupants. Soldiers, astride army trucks, waited stiffly as their officers approached the train.

  The carriage door flew open, startling the dozing prisoners. The SS officers moved slowly, deliberately, through the carriage without speaking, eyed each prisoner carefully. Peter’s stomach felt a sickening bolt as he guessed their purpose. “My God!” he suppressed a gasp. “They’re searching for more Jewish people!” He forced himself to stay calm, glanced surreptitiously through half-closed eyes beyond the ghost-town houses.

  In the far distance, and almost out of view to the unwary, he could see the barbed wire fence of a concentration camp, its furnace stacks almost obscured by the trees. He had heard rumours of Hitler and Himmler’s extermination camps, most of them in Poland. But he had hoped—prayed—that these rumours were part of Stalin’s anti-Nazi propaganda. A wave of revulsion hit him. He closed his eyes, willing himself not to react, pretended he was dozing. He could not risk revealing his true feelings at that moment. Hitler’s SS men did not need to justify who they singled out for the waiting trucks. The SS officer stood over them, eyed him and his blonde-haired family coldly, then moved on in his inspection.