by Olga Chaplin
“Petro … they are to give her a ‘burial at sea’ at dawn—before other passengers become aware of it … They are a superstitious lot, you know … these sailors. They’re afraid it may cause panic among other passengers.” He leaned closer, to whisper. “Some of them even believe there must be a ‘kraken’ in this southern ocean …” He pulled back, took a deep breath, readying himself. “Petro … my Vera will not attend … she is medicated, in the hospital room. Will you stand beside me, Petro?”
Peter held Fedor’s shoulder and whispered his support. He had known his own loss, of his loved ones, of his children. Yet somehow since boarding this ship to freedom, the relatively casual manner of their shipboard life had put a veneer, even an expectation, that all the displaced people would reach their destination safely. Even as this ship left Fremantle, there had been a cavalier atmosphere on board, as if concrete certainty had swept over all those who were sailing on to Sydney.
Now, he could no longer be certain. Fremantle and the southwestern point of Australia were now far behind them. There were still too many days at sea before they would reach the major eastern metropolis that was so akin to Naples. He bit his lip, his anxiety unrevealed in the dark. He remembered how light Ola felt in his strong arms as she hugged her godfather. He now realised, with dismay, that her white, windswept hair and sunburnt face belied her weakening strength. He shook his head and shuddered, could not contemplate the fear, the pain, as he comforted Fedor in his grief.
* * *
A roaring wind, whipping up even further a great angry swell in the barely visible morning light, made almost surreal the small line of ship’s officers, standing solemnly in sombre grey uniform in accordance with the ritual, as an infant’s casket was brought to the deck’s handrail. Peter whispered to Fedor and, letting go of his arm he stepped forward and crossed himself, then picked out two white flowers from the coffin’s bouquet that had been provided by the captain. He stepped back and stood beside Fedor, shoulder to shoulder for support, and gave him the only reminders of this funereal occasion.
The steel sliding tray was locked to the handrail, its angle adjusted to the sea’s surge. A final prayer in an unintelligible language was passed over the tiny coffin, the word “Amen” repeated by the officers. “Amin, Amin,” Peter and Fedor repeated as they crossed themselves again. “Charstvo Nebesno,” Peter added, knowing, even now, that he had said these words too many times for his heart to erase.
The sea churned and thrashed at the ship. The foaming spray from the wind-lashed swell welcomed the weighted coffin as it disappeared into the green-grey depths of a treacherous southern ocean. Peter, sensing his friend could collapse at any moment, grasped Fedor’s arm and led him away, his jaw stiff with tension, his heart reaching out to his bereft friend. He could not gauge how this voyage would end. Freedom had a price, whatever one did, wherever one sought it. This eerie daylight service confirmed this all too clearly.
Chapter 42
Mykola proudly scraped at his plate and grinned as he rose from the pew-like seat of the cafeteria table. Evdokia looked up, surprised; queried him. “Oh, we’re still playing ‘tors’ on the deck—before it gets too dark!” he exclaimed, mimicking the nickname the ship’s staff gave the tile game in which Mykola and his friends tossed and scored along the lurching deck.
“Kola …” Evdokia hesitated, resigned these days to soothing reprimands. “You know it’s too risky, now … that deck is always awash with seawater.” She looked to Peter for support and paused as she observed him eyeing Ola’s untouched meal. Mykola blushed, his natural shyness always over-riding his bravado as he made his halting steps towards adulthood.
“I promise, Mamo, we’ll be careful … and we don’t run for the ‘tors’ until the water washes back. It’s all right, really!” He waited another moment for his mother’s approval, then a boyish petulance returned. “And, anyway … what else is there to do here, now? They show us a film they call ‘Coming to Australia’,” he mimicked the words, grinning cheekily, “but it’s the same film, every day … the same animals, and birds … and it’s not in our language!”
Peter watched as Mykola, white-haired and sunburn-blistered but happy and well, ran off. He turned to Evdokia. Their eyes met, each understanding the other. Their Nadia, too, ate well. Indeed, she had even grown stronger on this voyage, the fresh sea air and liberal meal portions agreeing with her. Evdokia pursed her lips, held back a rebuke as she watched Ola pick at her food. She could not understand it. Her own near-death experience in her Ukraine all those years ago did not allow her mind to accept that nausea and seasickness could have such an extreme effect, and her older children were thriving on the generous servings on this voyage.
“Petro … tempt her with something …” She tried to contain her frustration as she watched his thoughtful demeanour. He realised, with dismay, that these days the ship lunged so much from frightening depth to peak in the furious latitude of the ‘roaring forties and fifties’ that even the ship’s officers no longer joked about their ‘sea legs’. And he could see Ola weakening, with each day. He calculated the days before their arrival in Sydney, felt the fear return as he realised that there was little hope she would improve in these extreme weather conditions.
“Come, Nadia and Ola,” he cajoled them, taking them by the hand, “let’s watch Kola and his friends at their ‘tors’ game! Then we’ll see how quickly you can run back and finish your meal!” Evdokia smiled in relief, grateful for the distraction. She dreaded joining the queue of the now constantly sick passengers who found comfort in words but little medical relief in the ship’s hospital room. “Oi Boje,” she pondered, as she remembered Fremantle. It was now long behind them, Sydney still so far away.
* * *
Peter stood one last time at the open deck and viewed the southern-most night sky. A strange calm seemed to have befallen the sea and its cargo. He smiled, in spite of himself, at the irony of the situation that, almost at the very point of their departure from the Castelbianco, the sea now seemed lulled into some kind of submission, as if the very spirits of this far away and ancient land had reached out to placate it. He looked up in wonder into the cloudless night. A new universe of unimaginable vastness and depth and mystery held him spellbound. Nowhere, in his upbringing and shortened education in the army, was there an explanation of an infinity of this kind that went hand-in-hand with his Maker.
He felt a sense of elation, a heightened awareness as he took in the nebulous beauty of the universe, felt overwhelmed at the magnitude of the inexplicable. He bowed his head, uncertain if his silent prayer would be received, or accepted, from this southernmost vantage point of the planet.
He blinked away the tears of relief, tinged with anxiety. Relief, that they had safely traversed half the globe in a friendly if somewhat uncomfortable voyage, as far away from Stalin’s communism as he could wish for his little family. Anxiety, with every day watching helplessly as Ola lingered in ill-health, requiring visits from the ship’s nurses in attempts to hydrate her before the morrow.
“Dear God,” he pleaded, his voice breaking as he appealed to the Great Almighty of the universe. “Please don’t take her from us … not now …” He held back a sob, his jaw tightening again. Evdokia was waiting for him, in her dormitory. She needed to see his confident self, to be told their Ola would recover, disembark with them. He needed to prepare himself for any eventuality. Each day told a different story, which could have an unpredictable outcome.
* * *
Sydney Harbour had put on its finest celebratory robe, as the Castelbianco cruised cautiously between its great rocky headlands that, at last, separated civilisation from the impenetrable sea. In spite of the bustling concern of the passengers, with men and women tugging at their valises as they prematurely queued with their documents, Peter feasted his eyes on the grandeur of the harbour, with its wide expanse of shoreline trees and rocky outcrops, and caught a first glimpse, in the distance, of the famous steel structure that to
ok pride of place on the coloured brochure given them in Naples before their departure. He smiled at yet another irony. Beautiful, the harbour and its surrounds certainly were. But Naples, it was not. The smattering of buildings at its busiest sector had some likeness to Naples. But the scale of this new country was so vast, he realised with sadness, as he reminded himself of that long voyage from west to east coast, from Fremantle to this civilised metropolis.
He took one last memorable look from the ship’s approach in the harbour, then hurried down the steep steel stairs to Evdokia’s dormitory, to prepare his family for disembarkation.
* * *
He carried Ola in his arms as Mykola helped Evdokia with the valise and whispered to Nadia to hold Evdokia’s hand. He instinctively felt inside his jacket pocket: the documents were safe, ready for checking.
Confusion seemed to predominate now as passengers squeezed together and tried to position themselves to have their documents checked and stamped by the ship’s officers. Peter smiled and shook his head as he watched the commotion unfolding. Now, as if their charge of displaced persons were disembarking from a pleasure cruise, the captain and his officers were farewelling each family with flourish and gallantry. Peter tempered himself and pulled back, knowing that Ola could not stand, and held her close to him as passengers jostled past. “But she is so light now … like a feather,” he smiled sadly to himself, “this is not a heavy weight to carry.”
A ship’s officer tapped him on the shoulder and beckoned Peter to follow him. The queue of excited passengers made way for the sickly child and her family. “Gratsia,” Peter thanked the officer, feeling sincerely grateful for his gesture. Time was of the essence, now, if Ola was to be allowed by the authorities to travel with him and Evdokia to their ‘placement camp’, wherever it was to be. The documents were cleared, the captain’s handshake given and the token photograph of the ship placed in his hand. His throat tightened with conflicting emotions: the immense relief upon arrival on new land, yet the mounting fear of the unknown. He stepped carefully from the gangway, felt a new generous nation’s soil beneath his feet.
They had entered a great austere building, adjacent to the Castelbianco’s Pyrmont docking wharf. Evdokia, fatigued and anxious, could no longer remain calm. This great passenger processing hangar reminded her too closely of the engineering workshop outside Berlin in which she and the children were checked and labelled. She grabbed Peter’s arm. “Petro!” she whispered, fearing the worst. “Look! These people are like those commandants in that camp … near Berlin! Oi Boje! What is to become of us all?”
“Dyna, stay calm … these people are immigration officers … we are on Australian soil now!” He looked more closely at the IRO armbands of the United Nations officials. “Dyna, they are like the officers who allowed us to board our ship in Naples. It is all right, now … they won’t separate us.” Then he noticed a Red Cross sign on a nearby door. His heart sank as he watched a sick child being taken from its distressed parents by an ambulance officer.
“We mustn’t let her go, Petro … not now … Tell them she was well, that it’s only today’s excitement that has affected her … You know what happened when we left Manya …” She began to weep. Peter leaned close to her, whispered for her to stay strong. They both needed to convince the authorities that their daughter was well enough.
The IRO officers checked and stamped their documents, referring to their list of ‘Disembarking Displaced Persons’, then paused and conferred quietly with each other as they observed the family. Each family member’s inoculations were in order, but the youngest child was clearly ill. The interpreter stepped forward.
“Your little girl looks unwell. We think it advisable she be taken to the nearest hospital. It is close by, in this city. She will get immediate attention for her condition here … for whatever ails her.” Peter sensed the uncertainty. He broke the impasse, and smiled confidently.
“You needn’t worry about my younger daughter, sir! She indulged in too many sweets at our final dinner last night … the captain’s generous treats got the better of her!”
The officer cautioned. “But there is still a long journey by train, from Sydney—it may take all night, with so many passengers, and carriages.” He saw Peter’s puzzled expression. “Your placement camp is in the countryside,” he clarified. The officials were edgy, sensing the child was very unwell. Yet, seeing the healthy state of the family, the parents competent, they hesitated.
Peter tried one last time. “Ah! A train journey! It is just what she needs! The fresh air will refresh us all, I think, good sir!” He smiled confidently again, tousled Ola’s hair as he kissed her brow.
The queuing passengers behind them shuffled restlessly as the IRO officers conferred again. One officer shook his head; another frowned. At last, they stamped the transport papers for the next part of the journey.
“You are in luck, Mr Pospelyj,” the interpreter said, without smiling. “There is a hospital in the countryside where your family is being placed. You may need to use it, perhaps shortly, should your daughter not recover quickly.” He shook Peter’s hand and nodded politely to Evdokia, looked away as she began weeping.
Peter reached again into his pocket for the container of water and wet his sick child’s lips and brow, gently coaxing her to sip. He, too, felt exhausted and distressed, but had to keep up his facade of confidence. He had to cling now to the hope that their youngest would not need the far away hospital. But inwardly, he knew it was a race against time: a race to contain the fever and dehydration, before it was too late. Evdokia had her wish, to keep Ola with her. He had the anxiety, the knowledge of knowing the risk they were taking to fulfil this wish.
Chapter 43
The setting sun was playing a game of hide and seek between crevice and mountain top as the train laboured its way uphill and westward. Soon, streaks of softest pinks and deepening cerise splashed across cumulus and stratus clouds, transforming them to floating silken capes ready to shroud the blue-tinged valleys of the Great Dividing Range. Peter shook his head, amazed at the vastness of seemingly endless trees and rocky crags, and in wonderment at the changing spectacle of colour before him as the train paused to grip the railway tracks at yet another incline. “But where could this migrants’ camp be—so far in this wilderness?” he wondered. “Surely no settlement could survive here, among this bush and rock.”
“Cuppa tea, sir?” A waitress pushed her trolley before her and deftly poured the pungent brew into metal mugs for Peter and Evdokia. She frowned as she noticed their limp child in his arms, glanced at Evdokia’s distressed face. “She not well, sir?” she queried. Peter sensed her concern and shook his head. The waitress pursed her lips for a moment, then braked the trolley. She seemed to grow in stature as she pulled out a small notebook and pencil from her uniform pocket and recorded the carriage and cubicle numbers.
“My name is Doreen,” she said, pointing at her chest. “What is your name, sir?” Peter comprehended this, and gave her his name. The waitress’s large frame stood even firmer. “Peter, you say … hmm, that will do,” she recorded it, dismissing the surname.
“You take this tea, sir—your little girl needs to drink.” She handed him one full mug after another, then doled out spoonfuls of sugar from her tin canister before moving to the remaining cubicles of the carriage. Within minutes she returned, her face flushed.
“Come with me, sir,” she smiled, pointing to Peter, then to herself and the end of the carriage. He gauged this woman was attempting to help them. He quickly folded his jacket into a pillow and laid Ola on the seat.
“Dyna, perhaps we may be fortunate—there may even be a doctor on this train.” He squeezed Evdokia’s hand, observing her relief, and smiled at Mykola and Nadia, who remained quiet and wide-eyed. “And surely this journey will end soon.”
He followed the buxom waitress through several more carriages, but hesitated as she pointed to the guard’s door. “Go on in, sir … he should be able to do somet
hing for your little girl.”
Peter stepped into the guard’s carriage. Still wary, he noted its tidiness, the labelled parcels and other items secured by a rope on one side. On the far side was a stack of newspapers, tightly tied, ready for distribution. An accompanying headline placard rested against the stack. He could just make out the words: ‘Stalin Agent …’ The guard rose slowly, as if preoccupied. He brushed at non-existent crumbs as he turned to Peter. His desk was devoid of paraphernalia: a sturdy metal mug of the dark brew, and that day’s newspaper, The Sydney Morning Herald, Thursday 2nd March, 1950, was spread out across it. The guard looked at its headline, then at Peter, then back to the newspaper. His eyebrows furrowed as he surveyed Peter for a few moments.
“You a German, mister? You a Kraut?” he blurted out, unable to control himself. “You speak Deutsch?”
Peter sensed that this Australian guard was querying his origins. He quickly glanced at the guard’s hat hanging on a hook near his desk and breathed a sigh of relief. The man’s uniform was a simple shirt and dark trousers and jacket, unlike the military uniforms of police or militia who had dominated their lives in Europe. He glanced again at the newspaper, as the guard continued to eye him.
“You read English, mister?” He was curious now. He had not yet met any of these newly-arrived displaced persons, and none had ever stepped into his private space until now. “You see what they’ve uncovered in the Old Bailey?” He picked up the newspaper and, raising his voice, read with authority: “‘Atom spy gets fourteen years. Fuchs pleads Guilty’.” He misunderstood Peter’s querying look and continued. “Here … listen to this: ‘Doctor Klaus Fuchs, a top British atom scientist, was sentenced to fourteen years imprisonment today after he pleaded guilty to having divulged atomic research secrets to Russian agents.’ This man was German … this Doctor Klaus Fuchs … and the British government trusted him, and gave him a home, and protection!” He slapped his hand on the newspaper’s photograph of the sentenced scientist as if he were swatting a renegade fly. Peter blinked, surprised at the man’s vehemence. Then he remembered he had heard the words ‘Russian agents’ during their Heidenau camp years.