The Man From Talalaivka

by Olga Chaplin

  PART III

  Chapter 32

  Summer 1947

  With one final victorious swing, his body stretching drum-tight as if emulating the soaring trees, Peter brought down his axe with muscular precision, shattering the virgin log. Chest heaving, he stepped back, his parched lips tasting the mix of beech sap and sweat beads in confusing sensation. He pushed back his soaked hair, adjusted his dusty cap. Hryhori and Borys, paused at their unyielding log, watched their friend admiringly.

  “Hah, Petro! What devil are you hunting from here?” Hryhori called out. Peter grinned and waved back, returning the jest: “Come on fellows, show your strength!” as they resumed their chopping. Like brothers, they had followed him to this forest camp after the horrors of the Wilmhelmshaven bombings and had been guided in camaraderie by their friend who, their senior in years but young in hope, had shown courage, even reckless bravery, in the fire-fighting brigades in those long months of Hitler’s war.

  Peter straightened his back as he surveyed the next log, and breathed in deeply in satisfaction. There was honour to be found even in this menial shoulder-crunching work, so different from his veterinary work in his Ukraine. He knew its significance, for his family’s eventual safety. Since transportation from Wilmhelmshaven to their Heidenau camp, uncertainty for their future continued. His quick thinking had temporarily improved their chances, in hastily arranged records upon leaving their wartime camp, the illusory village of Mirohoshtcha, Polish-Ukraine, giving some protection for him and Evdokia. And the Allied Occupation Forces’ control of western Germany reduced, somewhat, the chances of being forcibly returned to Stalin’s Russia and his waiting labour camps. Every stroke of the axe he now made in this back-breaking work was a stroke for his family’s ultimate future. He regained his strength, picked up his weighty axe, began again.

  Absorbed in his work, the piercing yard horn that alerted them to early Saturday finish-time startled him. Despite his exhaustion he moved swiftly towards the office grounds and the waiting transport truck, took the treacherous shortcut, carefully avoiding the ‘danger’ markers that signified unexploded Allied bombs in the muddy undergrowth. He was anxious to see his little Ola: her fretful crying through the night had given him and Evdokia little sleep. He heaved himself onto the truck, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the window of this British Timber Agency office: a dishevelled, drawn face, almost unrecognisable as the man taken from his Ukraine almost four years earlier. He blinked away, caught the commandant’s glance at the office door.

  “Herr Pospile,” the commandant eyed him thoughtfully. Peter nodded, in respect. Fleetingly, conquered proud eyes met dusty hopeful eyes. The commandant stepped back into his office, his uniform spotless, now without its epaulettes, shabby, but worn with resigned dignity, belying the grubby shame he still carried for his generation of Hitler-followers. Peter brushed at the wood-dust on his face, felt the sting of a splinter lodged into the crevice of his gaunt cheek. Stung by the pain, his eyes moistened, momentarily. He felt empathy for this German commandant, now required to do his duty, not for Hitler’s Third Reich, but for the British and American Occupation Forces who controlled northwestern Germany, for reconstruction and reparations. “At least he has stayed to do his duty,” Peter told himself. “At least he found the courage to remain, rectify some of the wrongs … unlike those cowards who escaped the consequences of their murderous acts. Secret vials of potassium cyanide and silenced bullets are an easy sentence of death, when it is self-inflicted, without any show of remorse.”

  As the transport truck swerved routinely into the Heidenau camp grounds, Peter jumped and strode quickly to the barracks block that housed his family. Immediately, he sensed danger. The tiny partitioned room was semi-darkened by a blanket, Mykola and Nadia watching, mute. Evdokia, tending to Ola, looked up, began crying again. Their child was moaning, in pain. Peter rushed to her side, felt the feverish little body. Ola had seemed better, was subdued, at daybreak. He had prayed, when he left for the Ostend forest work, that she would overcome her illness. Her condition had worsened these past days, was now severe. The rock thrown as she passed a group of older children, in child’s play that descended into stone-throwing, had inadvertently found its target.

  “Petro, Petro,” Evdokia’s streaked eyes pleaded, “she is listless … she cannot eat, or even drink … She looks at me the way Manya did …” She sobbed quietly, wiping her youngest child’s brow with the damp cloth.

  Peter’s skin pricked with alarm. He sensed there was no time to lose. The nearest hospital was Hamburg, which was still dilapidated but was equipped with surgeons experienced in emergencies. The Tosted forest labourers were sent there with serious injuries. There was nothing the camp medical attendant could do for their child: the area surrounding her left ear was red-purple, needing urgent attention, possibly even delicate surgery. He gently picked Ola up, her feverish body silent, and carried her swiftly to the camp commandant’s office.

  “Herr Pospile … Frau Pospila … what has happened?” The commandant’s aide rushed forward as Peter pleaded to speak with his senior. At the commotion, the commandant opened his office door. He saw at a glance the panicked parents and their sick child, understood sufficient of Peter’s pleas in fractured German to gauge the urgency. He had witnessed many of these dire personal calamities, was seasoned to discriminate understandable parental concern from serious emergencies. And these times were different, too. In the early days of this Heidenau camp this child almost died twice, through infection and accident. Only the ministrations of an experienced German nurse saved such children in the dark days of 1945, before reconstruction had fully begun.

  He signalled to his aide to order his vehicle to the door and instructed Peter to sit beside him. Evdokia, knuckles white with tension, cried silently as she caressed Ola, comforting her youngest with the precious Red-Cross-parcel shawl sent from a far-off kindly place.

  Gravel potted road gave way to more efficient roadways as they neared Hamburg. Despite his daughter’s suffering, Peter observed the changes taking place in this new Germany, the speed with which rubble had already been cleared, and used, for buildings in reconstruction work. “Gute arbeit,” he heard the camp commandant murmur to himself. The work, admittedly forced on the inhabitants of the defeated nation, now had Allied aid from all parts of the globe. Peter could not help but admire the application of these people to the task before them, could not help but compare Stalin’s decimation of his Ukrainian homeland, even before one German soldier’s boot had stamped on its soil.

  The irony hit him that here he was, travelling in a German commandant’s vehicle, nearing the hospital in which a German surgeon would be asked to save his child’s life, a child born in the heat of the worst bombing Europe had ever experienced. Tears fell uncontrolled down his face. “Dae Boje nam,” he prayed silently, for all the lovers of humankind. He turned his face away, his tear for humanity scorching his parched cheek, cleansing it. It would take another miracle for his child’s life to be saved, and he and Evdokia had already had their share of miracles in their life’s struggles up to this time. All he could ask of the German surgeons was to do their best for his child. This, he felt hopeful, with his veterinary training and having watched life come and go, is what they would attempt to do.

  With only minutes to spare, his inked signature still wet on a consent document, the doctors rushed little Ola to the operating room. Memories of their long night vigil at Manya’s side rushed to sap at his emotions. He drew Evdokia closer to him, put her delicate shawl around her shoulders. Tragedy brought them close together again, their pulse beating as one, silent prayers appealing to the same God.

  Some time later, the surgeon appeared and beckoned them to his office. Too early to yet know, he was hopeful of their child’s recovery: the septicaemia had been arrested, due to quick action and the surgeons’ skills. The doctor, dark hair smoothed and in a clean white jacket, took out a decanter and two thimble glasses, poured the black marke
t vodka for Peter and Evdokia. He watched, with serious brown eyes, as Peter drank the vodka medicine. The medicinal vodka was good; too good. Its anaesthetic effect, blunting his pain, etched and imprinted in his mind, from that moment on. His saviour, henceforth, was not just his Orthodox God, but a pure spirit of fire aiding his faith that was man-made, readily available in time to come, the crutch which blurred the senses, hid the vulnerabilities. He could not know it then, but the sensation of that moment, the relief it brought to his jagged emotions in the uncertainty of his daughter’s recovery, was a moment too well remembered, too well learnt.

  Gratitude to the doctor before him overwhelmed him. He knew, in his heart, this would not have happened in Stalin’s Russia. For all the spiel of Stalin’s ‘new nationalism’ in driving out Hitler’s armies, the Ukraine would continue to suffer under Russia’s yoke, never to be given equality for the duration of Stalin’s life.

  * * *

  Peter knew, as he nightly watched Evdokia prepare their simple meals in their too-cramped quarters of the ex-army barracks, and as their little Ola gradually regained her strength, that they had somehow, miraculously, come out of a blackness, the nightmare of the horror war years, and of their anxieties spanning almost two decades. In spite of their post-war difficulties, as ‘displaced persons’ without status or country, he felt a deep optimism. And that optimism stemmed, not from wealth or land or possessions, but from the outstretched hands of humanity, from the most unexpected quarters, to help them rise to their feet, raise their spirits and look to the future, to find those intangible, best things in life through this humanity, which transcend money, and power, and dogma. He hoped passionately he was right. His heart told him so. His head, given his life’s experience, cautioned him still.

  Chapter 33

  Even as the work truck wound its way back to the camp commandant’s office, Peter sensed the tension of the disparate group of men mutely waiting as the commandant’s aide secured the new list to the board. His stomach felt pitted with anxiety and anticipation, perspiration pricking him. He wiped his dusty face again. It was another warm summer Saturday, yet he felt cold, clammy. He forced his work-weary boots to the board, his stomach tensing again as mixed cries of anguish and elation spread through the group. He did not know how long he could bear this continued, prolonged waiting. He had had to steel himself for months, now. Time was running out, he knew. Most of his friends already had their interviews confirmed. Their youth, his age, little Ola’s illnesses, must have worked against his chances.

  The men had already dispersed before he reached the board. He knew what this meant: it was a short list, this time. Whatever the problems experienced by the UNRRA, the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration office from the Munster region, the length of each monthly list and the haphazard selection of names was never explained, and could not be questioned.

  He closed his eyes momentarily as he removed his dusty cap, and ran trembling fingers through his hair. The tension was crippling. He felt more overwhelmed, at this moment, than he had felt when he was holding the torturous fire hose nozzle at the massive walls of flames in the Wilhelmshaven bombings during those horrendous months of war. At least there the pain would have been immediate, life’s ending swift. He pushed to the back of his mind the horror of the alternative now awaiting him and Evdokia. He could not contemplate being returned to Stalin’s Russia, to the waiting labour camps swelling stealthily in the gulags of Siberia and Asian Russia, or even to Stalin’s satellite states in the eastern bloc, where misery and starvation were perpetuated in the name of Soviet progress.

  The Cold War that was sprung unawares on them in Europe even as Germany’s surrender was imminent, overnight changed the political structure of the continent, leaving displaced persons with even less certainty than they could have imagined during the fire-burst of the war. The ‘Iron Curtain’ had come down not just to put a divide between east and west Germany, but now also between east and west Berlin. It crushed the hopes of so many peoples, who had looked forward to only peace between nations and safety for their loved ones. Now, both these dreams were gone. Left in their wake, he and Evdokia, with millions of other displaced people, were but pawns in the political melee that, like an uncontrollable glacier, was now spreading over Europe.

  He forced himself to scan the list, then gasped, rubbing his eyes almost in disbelief. There it was, at last: ‘Pospile, Petro. Interview Date: 22 July, 1948’. “Ahh!” he cried out, confidence surging and invigorating him. He strode towards the barracks block, to give Evdokia the hopeful news. The difficulties of life in the camp could be minimised now that the hand of hope had opened to them. He could savour the piquancy of her freshly-made borshch, listen patiently to his children’s escapades. And Mykola would now resist the troublesome youths in the camp. With each stride of his skin-blistering boots, he planned his strategy for the fateful date.

  “Ha, Petro!” Borys ran across the barracks yard to greet him. “Can you believe! Our priest has agreed to marry Katya and me tomorrow, at service end! ‘A short service,’ he said, ‘but it will suffice!’ Now that is a good holy man! Katya and I will be together … and my interview will have a better chance of success!” He grasped Peter’s hand, then, remembering his older friend’s plight, queried him, beaming with congratulations as they hugged.

  “You know, Petro,” Borys dropped his voice, in respect, “our priest could not marry us later … Vicktor’s little Elenia did not survive … The mourning period goes beyond my interview date.”

  “Charstvo Nebesno,” Peter bowed his head and crossed himself; then, as Nadia and Ola ran to them, he warned his friend. He would choose the time to tell them, felt the pang of grief for the child’s family. Their tiny Ukrainian Orthodox chapel, adjacent to the school, will be over-spilled with wet-eyed children farewelling their white-veiled princess, who had only recently played with his own daughters.

  “Tato! Tato! Borys is going to marry! And Katya wants us to be the flower-girls!” Nadia ran around them, spinning Ola in an impromptu dance. “Flower-girls! Flower-girls! We are going to be flower-girls!” Peter grinned and gently tousled their white-blonde hair, feasted his tired eyes on their innocent exuberance. He determined to take them high up the hill behind the camp to pick the abundant wildflowers for bouquets.

  For a moment his heart skipped a beat as Nadia stretched and turned in her child’s-play dance. Though younger, she was now almost Manya’s height, before her passing. Blinking at stray tears, he reminded himself that he and Evdokia were triply blessed, still now with three of his children beside them. He could ask for little more. Others, like young Maria and Andre, had lost their only infant, with no prospect of another. The dice of life tossed at each family was precarious, unpredictable. He would be grateful for just one more chance to toss the dice, have it fall one last time in his and Evdokia’s favour.

  Chapter 34

  An indefinable fragrance floated through their cramped living quarters, awakening senses in Peter too long held in check. He breathed in the mixed scent, then remembered. Even on this day, he awoke early, disciplined by all the years of hard work. He pulled himself up on his elbow, leaned back on the perena pillow Evdokia had recently enlarged for him. His eyes tracked the soft beams of sunlight that penetrated the worn blanket that served as their curtain and watched them ricochet across the patchwork of timbers and boards that gave his family privacy from the adjoining room. The beams darted to the opposite wall, flickered and played among the wildflowers in the bucket near the door.

  He smiled as his eyes rested on his daughters’ tousled white curls, pale angelic faces just visible as they slept, side by side, on the narrow bed he had forged for them. He shook his head in amusement as he thought of Nadia and Ola’s efforts to pick these flowers, one by one, seeking his approval and their wide-eyed gasp as he plucked a perfect white lily from its hidden hollow. He sighed, now, as he took in these private moments, unobserved by others, allowing himself scant moments of
reflection before the day’s happenings. The hazy warmth was already heavy with summer’s promise of fulfilment: their friends’ nuptials would be savoured today. But, he reminded himself, it was also a day for some reflection, for loved ones lost, as Vicktor’s Elenia awaited her candle.

  “Tato, Tato! Please get up! Get up! We’ll be late for their wedding!” Nadia’s voice sang around the room as she tugged at the battered valise under her bed. “I’ll be ready first—you’ll all see!” She pursed her lips as she struggled to dislodge the case. “Kola—help me! You can do this, now!”

  Peter grinned, watched as Nadia frowned then stepped aside as Mykola lifted her little bed and dragged out the valise. She snapped open its lid, took out the two Sunday dresses with their accompanying ribbons and, looking proudly at her mother, clicked shut the bag and pushed it back to safety. Evdokia smiled wistfully. Her precious photograph of Manya was now secure in that valise, wrapped in its fine lace and linen handkerchief from the generous gift parcel recently distributed, together with these embroidered white dresses, so admired by others, and delighting Nadia.

  Peter laughed as he tease-scolded his excited daughter. “Remember—there is our long church service first. You must behave yourselves all morning!” He winked at Mykola, both understanding the jest.

  * * *

  The young Father Naniuk greeted them at the door of the newly sanctified chapel of Saint Pokrovskii, handing Peter a thin, used candle to represent his family. The tiny chapel, converted from a farmer’s store-room and refreshed with a motley of available paints simulating the sky blue and gold of Ukrainian Orthodoxy, was already crowded. Peter clasped Evdokia’s hand, squeezed it gently. They exchanged smiles as they watched their children, who were wide-eyed, entranced by the elder Father Mikolaeyev, in his mock-gold regalia, performing his liturgical rituals at the altar. Wisps of candle smoke, mixed with the senior priest’s incense, formed a heady haze, blending in an atmosphere of ritual mystery as the priests alternately read their verses and sang their prayers, allowing their congregation to follow in sung responses.