by Olga Chaplin
“Dear God,” he pleaded silently. He hoped fervently this new government could signal that he and Evdokia would not be transported, even at this stage, back to Stalin’s Russia and the obligatory labour camps, as had recently happened, inexplicably, with some of the camp’s ‘displaced persons’. He prayed his information to the migration officer would hold. In such uncertain times, all was fluid, even quicksand. The four years’ encampment at Heidenau could still count for nothing, if some untrue or malevolent information fell in unsympathetic hands.
He sighed philosophically, his psyche of these past years matured now to accept uncertainty and inconsistency in this ‘new world’ of freedom in bondage, democracy in a split new nation state, immense international goodwill and welfare in an unrelenting daily climate and blast of Cold War diplomacy, and outbursts of Stalin’s belligerence in his threats of reprisal, even as the Berlin blockade ended and ‘normalcy’ resumed.
He watched as a group of men and women, with giggling children, stepped out a traditional dance in a clearing: the women’s skirts brushing the nettles, thorns stopping them in their turns, their laughter as they faltered. He smiled, in spite of himself. He thought of the steps he took in life, turning this way, then that, doing everything possible to stay alive, keep his little family together. It was a haphazard, unpredictable dance he negotiated, almost like a minefield in this political and social milieu of a new Germany, that still was strapped with the problems of recent war. Yet his heart still held hope. He desperately wanted to increase his family’s chances for safety, and happiness, one day.
“Aha, Petro! Here is our song! Come! I know you are in good voice, my friend, when the throat is whetted!” Hryhori slapped his back and cued in the tune, as a Polish folksong ended and strains of their Ukrainian were chorused. Peter laughed and drew his arm over his friend’s shoulder, tousling his daughters’ hair as they stepped to join their waiting friends, his eyes teasing Evdokia to follow them in song. “Xodite, xodite, nashi xloptsi i ridni …” The vodka and schnapps had kicked in: his natural wit and humour and optimism came to the fore. He confidently led the men in heartfelt verse, to the applause of those around them. “Od moyi ochi padyt sloze … Ale me do novi domue yidem …”
The accordion, Christos’s balalaika, another’s harmonica, raised them in crescendo:
“Come on, come on, good men and loved ones …
Though tears flow freely as our hearts are aching …
We will find our new abodes in other havens…”
He embraced the camaraderie as he joked with Evdokia and their friends, felt delighted at how easily his witty regaling could make them laugh. Music filled the hillside, the chorus was raised ever higher: the celebration of a community of nationalities imprinted in their memories before they scattered to, as yet unknown, parts of the globe.
In the distance, trudging up the long pathway from the camp, several guards in unfamiliar uniform headed for the revellers. The accordion quietened, the balalaika strings paused. Someone steered them towards Peter’s group and pointed to Peter. Instinctively, his stomach shut tight, all those years of habitual fear and anticipation over-riding even the schnapps and vodka looseners. Aware he was being singled out, he whispered to Evdokia to console her, pretending the camp commandant had information for him, and stepped forward.
“What is it, sir?” he called out to the senior guard, who was already displaying his badge. “Please don’t concern yourselves to climb further … I will come to talk with you.” His friends, emboldened with drink, waved him on: “Good man, go and tell them, you are one of us, and you are ‘clean’!” He followed the officials to the level ground as the temporarily quietened party again took up song.
“Herr Pospile,” the senior official addressed him, his shiny Polizei insignia adding gravity to his orders, “you are instructed to attend a Police hearing tomorrow morning at the Heidenau/Tosted Police quarters with our senior Police Administrator. I am instructed to inform you that you will not be told prior to the appointment the nature of this matter. Your camp commandant has been advised. He will arrange your transport to the Police Headquarters. Are you clear about these instructions? You are advised not to miss the appointment, as it will be viewed gravely, and will go against you.” Peter nodded thoughtfully, thanked the police guards for their duty. They quickly saluted, as if still on wartime patrol. He returned a short salute. His early training and years of army service instilled a respect for these government officials.
He stood frozen, shoulders still stiff and proud, holding up a tired body now racked with even more uncertainties. “What possible reason could the police have to interview me, separately?” he wondered. His mind quickly tore through possible misdemeanours of these past four years in the camp. His only crime—if it could be called one—was the tiny clandestine cellar beneath the floorboards of their crowded living space, dug out with his bare hands and lined with waste timber, in which he stored precious supplies of cabbage and green apples to help his family, particularly Ola, survive the winters and springs of camp rations. And he could not allow his mind to dwell on the only truly significant ‘misdemeanour’ of fact, of his and Evdokia’s origins. Their survival as a family depended on this. “God!” he cried inwardly. “Tell me these new blisters won’t come to naught! Evdokia needs our few feniks for her trunk of worldly goods—if we are to be approved!”
Caught off guard, he looked up in a moment of bewilderment as he sought an answer from Above. No Word came to him. Only the music responded: teasing, playful, as the merry-makers, emboldened again, continued their celebrations. He stood there for some moments, trying to make sense of his own situation: the music whirling about him yet pushing him, the outsider, out. The music, his fears, the momentary despair, his pent-up hope—all seemed to collide, like dancers with secret inexplicable steps, each with intriguing goals and outcomes of their own, unconcerned with others’ actions.
Stretched, his nerves jangled, he felt his life was like a macabre dance, the intricate steps of which were not revealed to him until—too late. He turned away from the partying crowd: back to the cramped conditions of his barracks block, his life’s successes and failures flashing before him as he tried to take hold of his emotions, tried desperately not to feel crushed, yet again.
In that moment of truth, as the music faded and the revellers’ laughter receded out of reach, he realised at last that his dance was a dance with destiny: that only the direction of a chance ship would point him to a final home. Yet even now at this one last, late moment, one slip, one wrong step, could still take them out of safety, back eastwards, to an unthinkable Siberian oblivion.
Chapter 37
A jag of lightning slashed across the sombre sky, awakening tree-tips of the gorge in crystal candles like a premature Christmas mass. Peter jerked awake, stunned by nature’s revelatory force, then leaned back in his carriage seat. The Black Forest was so dense, the hills and mountains so steep above the lurching train as it headed southward to Switzerland’s border. Instinctively, he felt for the vital documents in his coat’s chest pocket and sighed in relief. Across from him, Nadia and Ola slept folded within Evdokia’s arms; Mykola slumped next to him, succumbing at last to the day’s long journey.
He closed his eyes as the lightning flashed again in the dusky night, heavy snowfalls slowing the train to a near-crawl as it wended its way on elliptical bends. He carefully retrieved the precious documents and re-read their simple contents, still felt a sense of disbelief. From the moment he was ordered to present himself to Administration Headquarters for interrogation, miraculous wheels of action were set in motion. Police records were incomplete, inconclusive. Someone, a stranger who must have dogged him, and now recently disappeared, had assumed his identity.
The Cold War undercurrents, even espionage, thrived on these transient political systems, as east and west Europe struggled for political advantage. The camp commandant, aware of Peter’s precarious position, stood alongside him at the tribunal
and produced the vital document, long hidden in his archives, authenticating Peter’s transfer from the Wilhelmshaven to Heidenau camps those four long years ago; further, he appealed to his friend, the Kreis Harburg Burgermeister, as witness. The final authorisation was signed, approval stamped. Peter, with heart pounding in the charged moments, was handed the two life-changing documents which allowed him and his family to leave Heidenau camp, and Germany.
As if a magician’s cloth had ripped away uncertainty, within the few rushed weeks inoculations were completed, Evdokia’s trunk sealed, heartfelt farewells shared with those still languishing in the camp. In the heightened tensions and frenetic arrangements, Peter still could not know which country would take them, the choices limiting: his concerns of damp climates affecting Ola’s health were confirmed by the camp doctor, his own fear of Stalinism, and of Cold War repercussions, made his eyes look afar.
Lightning flashes flicked on and off Evdokia and their daughters’ slumbering faces, ghostly, yet ethereal, in their heavy dark coats generously given by others for their journey. “God,” he prayed silently, hands clammy from inner tension he hid so well from his family and those about him, “give us strength to come through this unscarred … keep Ola well for our ship from Naples!” They were heading to their port of embarkation, their final destination still unknown. Borys and Hryhori had already left in their America-bound ship, migration to that country increasingly competitive, and the quota for displaced persons almost full. Canada, Brazil and other destinations, were less inviting. Above all else, he needed to be among people who believed in democracy and who had respect for the rule of law. And Ola’s health had to be accommodated. If America could not take them, they would go to another country that was equally fair in political and geographical climate.
He gazed up in wonder at the night sky, its vast blackness dotted with gently falling snow. The fir trees bordering the snow-covered rail tracks were being shrouded in feathered cloaks anew, becoming the night’s battalions of mystical guardians which were guiding this migration train to its ultimate destination.
Chapter 38
“Ah!” Peter braced himself as he splashed his face with the icy water and blotted it with thick towelling, thankful that his reflection in the large ornate mirror was now less gaunt. His eyes skirted the capacious marbled bathroom of this grand old hotel, their temporary home these past months, paused as he noted the shrapnel pock-marks along the walls, the legacy of Naples’ pitched fighting in the war, ostensibly long-since gone, that set country, village and neighbour against each other in the madness of extreme idealism and aggression.
He stepped onto the terrace and smiled as Nadia and Ola, who were oblivious to an adult’s concerns, sang and danced in their child’s play. He leaned on the marbled balustrade. “My God,” he marvelled, “this was a place for kings!” The lofty location, far enough away from the city noise and bustle, was well-placed to meet their daily needs. The view was expansive, yet serene: a long sliver of Mediterranean blue-greens merging gently with hazy azure sky, the hillsides and villa gardens covered in foliage of recovering olive and citrus trees, unrepentantly hiding recent scarring of wartime bombs. He sighed, savouring the tranquillity of this setting.
He reached into his pocket for the tobacco, then paused. He would not open this rationed pouch; he would need it to barter for citrus and vegetables. Ola’s wellbeing depended on these. He watched as she played, still pale and underweight, but active enough after the last injection. “Thank God these officials have good authority,” he thought, viewing the seemingly innocent setting of the metropolis, now harbouring infectious diseases, as ships came and went and as migrants from all over Europe congregated in cramped city spaces. In an unprecedented move, the IRO commander had ordered last-minute inoculations for the most vulnerable, Ola among them.
“Dyna,” Peter touched Evdokia’s arm gently, distracting her from her mending. He smiled confidently. “I’m going to the marketplace … I’ll look for cabbage, and beetroot … whatever there is, for the borshch … and citrus for the little ones.” Their eyes exchanged gratitude: he for her forbearance under all circumstances, she for his energy and optimism with each new day.
“You might yet see Kola in one of the nearby squares,” she ventured. “He and his friends play football with the local boys.” He nodded. He was glad that Mykola and his friends occupied their time in harmless ways. Naples was a mecca for gaiety, but also for renewed underworld activities, as local groups competed for control of parts of the city.
He walked the familiar route to the market place, carefully negotiating steep laneways and ancient uneven stone steps. Everywhere along this unpretentious back route there were visible signs of war not long over: the buildings scarred or partly demolished, makeshift shutters hiding glass-shattered windows, and evidence of shrapnel everywhere. Yet the verve of the city dwellers excited him, helped him look past the carnage, to optimism in the future.
By now, his daily walk to the market place had become almost automatic. He crossed from sunlit streets to shadowed lanes, to sunlit streets again, his eyes adjusting to light and dark, and light again. He was almost at the market place. As he stepped out of a shadowed laneway into a bright street, something—someone—caught his attention. He stopped to check his step, then blinked, gasped. It was Vanya! His Vanya! He was too far ahead for Peter to clearly see his face, close enough to observe his walk, his dark hair, even the way he kept one hand in his pocket as he strode swinging the other. Peter followed him, each of them walking quickly, Peter unable to run as he controlled his urge to shout, his eyes glued to Vanya’s back, stepping the cobblestoned streets and laneways, finally half-running, about to call him. At last, the young man stopped and turned slowly as he became aware someone was following him. Peter felt a sickening blow to the heart as he realised the young man was indeed, like Vanya, but he was younger. Slightly shorter than his own firstborn, perhaps even slightly stockier—he could not be certain, any longer—this youth, so like Vanya in many respects, was a Neapolitan, and barely fifteen. The young Italian turned slowly away, and disappeared into an alley.
Peter leaned back against a dilapidated stone wall, his heart beating wildly, still panging. He was momentarily lost, unaware of his surroundings. He realised he had followed this youth for some minutes. Disoriented, upset at his own depth of longing, he bent his head, unable to weep, the pain biting at him.
As he drew breath, he looked across the narrow laneway to a darkened doorway, from where choir song could be heard. Instinctively, he was drawn to it. He slowly made his way along the dimly-lit aisle, to a pew at a small distance from the altar. As he sat, shoulders hunched, a nun walked softly towards the choir, paused as she passed him, her face of kindness gracing her ebony habit, a garb now worn with dignity and pride, not the humility of shame at Mussolini’s doings. She smiled her understanding and continued to the altar, nodding to the choir boys to continue practising:
“Ave Maria, gratia plena
Dominus tecum, benedicta tu …”
Peter felt himself become immersed in the beauty of the music, and purity of the children’s voices. He had never encountered such gentleness, yet such strength of spiritual feeling, as he experienced in this prayerful song. He bent his head, silently praying in song with it: tears of pain, and sorrow, and anguish, all washed in human caring and understanding, whatever the circumstances, wherever the location. He wept for Vanya, for his beloved Hanya and baby Mischa, and little Manya, for all those souls gone and missing, whether it was for Stalinist totalitarianism or Hitler’s imperialistic gains. In each circumstance, in each of the countries where he was forced to work and travel, good souls could be found that outweighed the evil; good souls could be found wherever one was sent, in this ever-widening arc of the globe.
“God, give us good enough health, take us wherever You want … let us live a life of freedom from the oppression of the past. For my family’s sake … for my children’s sake …”
At last, he realised the choir was finished. The nun silently receded. He was alone in the dimmed cavernous light of the church. He stood up slowly, held firmly to the pew before him. He had cried the last time for his homeland, his lost loves on European soil. He would accept whatever ship came next, to take his family to safety. He had to think of them, above all, even if it meant being taken to the far end of the globe, even further still from so many of his friends now journeying to America. He had made his pledge to his Maker, had reconciled his heart. The universal music, passed on to him so freely and unexpectedly through children’s voices, reminded him of the value of love, through unselfish giving, even at a cost to himself. He had paid dearly before this: perhaps the bill for the remainder would be lighter yet.
Chapter 39
“Oi, Petro, hurry on, or else they’ll leave you behind!” a welcoming shout alerted Peter’s attention. He laughed and waved to familiar faces among passengers already positioned on the deck. Handing his family’s embarkation papers with their newly standardised surname to the officer, he nodded respectfully to the posse of police displaying IRO armbands. He looked about him, murmured to Evdokia and the children to stay close. As haphazard as the procedures were, the security prior to boarding was over-burdened as each individual was checked and double-checked by IRO officials from different persuasions. He realised Italy’s recent inclusion in western Europe now meant that Cold War diplomacy required greater controls. His eyes scanned the massive steel wall of the Castelbianco and sighed in relief that generous IRO sponsorship had released ships such as these for long voyages.