The Man From Talalaivka

by Olga Chaplin

  “Dyna, these belongings will be wet, but they can be saved … it’s this mud that will destroy everything it seeps into … We must go now—we cannot save any of this, now!” He waved his hand in surrender at the sparse kitchen furniture that his wife had so proudly cleaned and polished. Already the white-washed walls had ugly brown mud stains two feet from the floor. He grabbed the tied-up tablecloth containing whatever Evdokia could remove in those minutes, hauled the heavy bundle to the higher ground, then returned to unlatch the gate of the duck-pen.

  He looked across at the changed scenery, unrecognisable from the calm and beauty of the previous day. The river, the valley, had turned into a floodplain. Only a flapping cardboard poster of last week’s film atop the corrugated roof of the local cinema shed gave any hint of the depth of the water. He peered closer at their shack as muddy water sucked at its unsteady old brick piers. It seemed to be swaying with each surge of rushing water. He struggled back to the kitchen door, watched in dismay. The furniture was already damaged beyond repair and, as if a massive rogue machine was working underfoot, items were being dragged around and about, churning in the debris.

  A sullen morning greeted them as people called across to each other, offering help. Already, the larrikin family above them had sent their adult son, offering accommodation to their foreign new friends.

  Peter stood at the door of the dilapidated shed at the back of the allotment, looked back at the scene before him. He smiled wryly as he thought of life’s turn of events. He and Evdokia had waited all those years in Heidenau camp to find a place of safety, to eventually come to a place they could call home. Their single piece of furniture, the large wooden trunk, specially built for their sea voyage to another country, was squeezed into this shed, the only safe place now on their valley allotment. All that they could save of their belongings had gone into that shed and, except for the battered suitcase which he clung to, with its precious irreplaceable photographs and documents, all their remaining material possessions were again placed into that one large trunk.

  He ran callused fingers along the edge of the well-worn trunk, observed the buckled and twisted iron strips of its lid, the result of the journey’s transits. He bit his lip, thoughtful, as he swallowed hard. These past weeks had pulled the emotional strings too well. The Glen Davis shale factory was to be closed, the workers to be paid off in paltry fashion. His family’s place of refuge was now three feet under water, with no prospect of returning to it before leaving the valley. He blinked away tears of dismay. He had prepared himself for the ravages of war, eventually, during the bombings. But not for this devastation, here, in far away peaceful Australia. He looked out again from this higher vantage point, and saw in the distance a church spire swaying precariously on its roof in the town’s centre. Neither singly, nor combined, could the three established churches of the valley divine a secure future for its inhabitants.

  He looked up into the gloomy sky, which pretended to lighten with the morning. Jimmy had been right about his loyal darker-skinned Benny and Tom: they did see things that their relatively new arrivals in the valley could not. They may not have predicted the ‘sit in’ within the dark caverns of the mine by a group of miners, nor the arrival of the controversial visiting ‘Players’ from a sophisticated city who acted out scenarios for them within those caverns, just days before the flood. But their totems sensed with greater accuracy the disaster which was about to befall the valley.

  It was as if there had been a visitation on this natural primeval haven: that somehow the valley had disinterred some of the ancient spirits that continued to remain a mystery to all within it. Living with nature had its dangers. But living with misapplied man-made laws, and ignoring the laws of nature, had even greater perils. The Glen Davis shale mines, the Capertee Valley and all its inhabitants, old and new, would suffer a fate, both economic and emotional. And Peter and Evdokia were a part of this.

  Chapter 47

  Evdokia, firmly holding her dish of vereneke that she had covered with her favourite embroidered napkin, picked her way carefully along the path that wove through their vegetable plots. She paused as Peter lifted the single strand of wire that delineated their back boundary from Vasyl and Stasia’s, and lifted her black skirt from the tangled grass that signified their neighbours’ property. He smiled, observing her meticulous hold of the heavy dish as she held it away from her new nylon blouse which she had purchased for this occasion.

  His big pot of borshch, with its iron handle, was light in comparison to the heavy timbers and crates he now worked on, in the timber-yard of the large factory in Alexandria. Like a juggler, he balanced the pot in one hand, and a large covered dish of venehrad and the token gift of vodka for the party in the other. Walking closely behind her as they made their way to the back of Vasyl’s house, he sensed Evdokia’s renewed pride in her appearance, her deep blonde hair held gently in a bun at the nape of her neck with a new clip. He smiled again as he remembered her relieved expression when he announced he had at last found full-time work. More than a year of precarious living conditions after his family’s move from Glen Davis had at last come to an end: their economic survival made possible during that time by growing their vegetables, supplemented by Peter’s casual gardening work for doctors and business owners in Sydney’s leafy suburbs; then finally his eventual capitulation to apply for the meagre government unemployment payments.

  He shuddered as he thought of the fear that reverberated through him as he approached that unemployment counter and faced the official. Too many years, too many experiences under Stalin and Hitler’s rule, had created these subconscious responses that shot out at him and shook him to the core, in ways that still surprised him. He knew he and his family were safe here, in far away Australia, and in sunny and friendly Sydney. But in many ways, it seemed more confusing, even isolating, than he had experienced, even in Germany, where he was expected to work and be usefully employed. This recent single, long year without regular work had left a dent, a certain shaking of his confidence, and had made him feel less valued. He grasped the vodka bottle tightly by its neck as he entered his friend’s house. He knew, now, that even in their most uncertain of situations there was a simple, acceptable aphrodisiac to be found, to ease the pain of the unpredictability in life.

  “Ah, Dynasha,” Vasyl winked at his friends, knowing how to flatter them. “You well know how to please me … you’ve brought my favourite dishes!” He smacked his lips and patted Evdokia’s back. She blushed, then turned and busied herself next to Stasia, knowing Vasyl’s teasing and flattery of others upset his much younger wife. Peter grinned; he knew his friend’s teasing was all jest. But he sensed the situation and touched Stasia on the shoulder. “Our good friends … your generosity knows no bounds! You offer us your home here, even before it is completed, while your builder, Bayliss, put up our garage home—with all of us doing what we could to help him. And now, you are offering your home for Jacov and Anna’s christening party! There are no better friends than you, Stasia and Vasyl … we are all fortunate to have met you in Heidenau camp!” Now Stasia blushed, her tears forgotten, her generous smile returned. She turned her attention to the lunch preparations in her new kitchen which gleamed in her care.

  Two dozen people were made welcome, and crammed into the lounge room, which had been cleared of its sparse furnishings. The trestle tables, dressed with white linen sheets, were laden with Ukrainian food and delicacies. The baptismal group arrived, the party began: drinks poured, shots of vodka prepared, heartfelt speeches volunteered. Peter observed the large gathering and took in the warmth of the feelings and the camaraderie of the group. He felt a sense of amazement at life’s turn of events. Half a dozen families, taken from disparate parts of the Ukraine during the German army’s retreat in the war, and placed in different labour camps within Germany, were now safe and well, meeting and sharing their gifts of food and wine in the most auspicious and optimistic of circumstances.

  He looked along to the tab
le’s end, to the children sharing seats as they squeezed together, Nadia and Ola among them. He sighed as he looked around, and contemplated. Each man and wife at this gathering had waited for moments such as these: each one had made a commitment to give their children a life of security and safety, of freedom of opportunity, and freedom from the stresses of Europe and the Cold War that were still dogging the old continent. And each man and woman knew what it meant to have lived under a totalitarian regime, be it Stalin’s or Hitler’s.

  He touched his thumb and felt the pain. It still throbbed, the extensive dark bruise a reminder of the inconsistency of hard timber and bent nail no matter how accurate the hammer in his factory work. He watched Evdokia as she turned to each of her companions, offering them the food and saved-for delicacies. His heart panged as he realised, again, how much she enjoyed the comfortable conditions of a normal household and completed house. His chest tightened as he realised with dismay the receding dream of a complete home of their own on their block. His ‘average’ labourer’s wages were so controlled, the overtime hours so sought by other union members, that he had to be satisfied his weekly pay packet was able to feed his family and left just enough for incoming bills. He sighed. He was not a pessimist but, realistically, he could not see a way out of this dilemma. He was grateful for what he had. But he could do no more at this present time. This was no longer Glen Davis, in which generous shifts were offered, but Sydney, the state’s capital, where more than a few extraneous costs were incurred in order to hold on to a menial job for which he left his ‘garage’ house at dawn and returned to in the dark.

  Jacov broke his thoughts. “Did you know, Peter, next week the builder will start on the foundations for our new house!” Jacov’s booming voice held everyone’s attention. “That builder, Bayliss—he is such a good man—he stepped over the ground at the back of our big army tent. Why, he’s even found a plan to build the foundations behind the tent! This way, we will still live here, just as we do now, and save for the new house at the same time!” His huge shoulder jostled Peter’s, in nudging jest. “And when are you starting on your new house?” He looked from Peter to Evdokia and saw her blush, but pushed on. “Ah, yes! You have that problem of the canal running right across your block! Won’t the Council let you build there, now?” He grinned as a dozen curious adults listened with interest. Peter blinked and hesitated, caught between joking at the situation and expressing his real concerns of affordability. But Evdokia spoke first.

  “Why, Jacov, we already have our house plans … they have just recently been drawn up. The Council says we can build our house in front of the canal—it will still be in the right place at the street front.” She blushed again, glancing at Peter. He smiled as he watched his dignified wife state their case. The party’s atmosphere calmed and the children returned to their excited chatter.

  Jacov’s voice boomed out again. “Ha, ha! But it will have to be a small house, then! Smaller than ours, when we finish!” Evdokia blushed again and bowed her head. She was lost for words. They had all come together to celebrate his baby’s baptism and had brought these specially prepared dishes for the party. She had not expected to be confronted, even exposed like this. Peter moved quickly to diffuse her discomfort. Jacov could be somewhat raucous, even boastful at times, and Peter now sensed that their near neighbour, charged up with drink, was enjoying prolonging Evdokia’s discomfort.

  “Ah, fellows! Look! Only half the vodka bottle drunk! What sort of party is this, without more shots to merry us along?” He grabbed the bottle and poured small shots for the company, interrupting their bombastic neighbour’s probing. “Na Zdorovia! Na Zdorovia! And may your baby girl grow to be as pretty as you, Anna, and as strong and healthy as you, Jacov!” Glasses clicked, people congratulated them again; the party continued, the atmosphere saved, just in time.

  “Some song! Some song!” Vasyl’s cheeks were glowing, his thick black hair slightly matted and stuck to one side from constant handling. The vodka bottle was near-empty and the party guests were restless for more entertainment. The priest, sensing the moment, blessed the group and left surreptitiously, on pretext of being needed elsewhere.

  They were all in good voice, the good food and plentiful spirits making them game. “Veprahaete xloptsi, koni …” they all returned to their favourite folk songs, of horsemen and countryside and gallantry steeped in their own Ukrainian villages. Peter stood with his friends, arm over shoulders as they sang one song after another and, as if it were second nature, Evdokia and the women harmonised to the men’s gusto.

  Mykola knocked politely at the back door, but no-one heard. He stepped into the crowded lounge room and blushed as he realised how jovial the group had become. He carefully placed the gramophone to one side against the wall, but held on to the box of vinyl records. He stood alone, enjoying the conviviality, but somehow not being a part of it. His face gleaming, blonde hair brushed back and with his new shirt still creased at its folds, the only sign of his day’s work at the Gosford quarry was the residual dirt beneath his fingernails which he could not remove at the kitchen sink of their garage home. He winked at Nadia and Ola: he had promised them this music, if he returned early enough from the quarry.

  He placed the record box on a small side table in the corner and took out a newspaper. Despite his lack of formal education, the elementary English he had self-taught enabled him to make out enough words of significance.

  “Look, Batko,” he used the formal address as he handed the Sunday newspaper to Peter. “They’ve announced it in the newspapers, and on the wireless as well! They say it’s espionage, right here, in Sydney! They say Stalin’s men are still on the lookout, even though he’s been dead a year!” Their friends quietened, and urged him to go on.

  “This Russian official in Sydney—Vladimir Petrov—he secretly defected, asked for political asylum to stay in Australia, some weeks ago. And now his wife, Evdokia Petrova—she’s also an official here, in Sydney—she was being forcibly taken back to Russia! Look …” he held up the newspaper’s photograph, “the Australian officials had to struggle with the KGB men to stop her being bundled out of Darwin, back to Moscow!”

  Peter again felt that pitted sensation, which even the potency of fiery liquid could not dispel. Stalin’s regime was still attempting to spread out its tentacles, even to the opposite side of the globe. Malenkov and Khrushchev now had new suits and new slogans in their dealings with the Western democracies. But the lessons of gain they learnt during Stalin’s long reign were too useful, too profitable, for them to make any real changes to their new-found authority.

  The men now talked politics. The women turned to each other to chat about family concerns, encouraging their restless children to continue their play outdoors.

  Nadia and Ola hung back. They had waited many weeks for Mykola to play his records and had eyed the box he had placed up high on the kitchen dresser for safety. He opened the gramophone, wound its handle and tightened the glistening needle, then carefully took out the vinyl record from its brown paper cover and, as if conjuring some magic for a moment or two, placed the needle exactly on the right groove of the vinyl. The guests hushed as the lilting notes of ‘La Paloma’ reached out across the room. The men hummed, the women swayed to the strains of the lingering romantic piece that they had heard many times across the squares of Naples. Evdokia’s eyes filled with tears. Peter, too, felt his eyes moisten, as bittersweet memories of their Ukraine and of Naples flooded back unexpectedly. He knew how much they loved their music, and their dance. He also remembered his Vanya, his ‘double’ in the back streets of the Neapolitan city, the pursuit that ended in so much heartache.

  “Tato,” Mykola took Peter aside, “I have to tell you something … Mama must not know yet …” Peter sensed this was a moment his son could not put off. They moved to the adjacent kitchen. “Tato …” Mykola blushed, uncertain how his news would be received. “You know how difficult it is to get full-time work, even now …” He looked at his c
ut hands, his chipped nails that were unprotected in the torn gloves given him for the casual work in the quarry. “I know you and Mama are doing all you can … The house … we will never be able to save quickly enough for that, as things are.” He took a deep breath, stood taller, his eyes levelling with Peter’s.

  “A few friends of mine … from the quarry, and friends from the farm I worked at … we are all going together, to Cooma. They have work there – they call it ‘Snowy Mountains Scheme’.” He paused, watched Peter’s brows furrow. “It’s a huge government project … there is work for everyone … and as many shifts as we will want.” He stopped and put his hand out, touching his father’s chest, anticipating the question. “It’s for young men, Tato … they all live in large dormitories, in camps scattered in the bush—and they don’t see their families. They’re constructing this Adaminaby Dam … They want as many of us young men as possible. And …” he swallowed and lowered his voice, blushing again, “it will be the best way for us to save our money. I’ll be sending money home for you and Mama, to put into your savings book.” He cheered up, his burden relieved. “Then we can build our home here, much sooner—and we will even have a bedroom each!”

  Peter’s eyes glistened, his feelings of losing Mykola to work away from home again mixed with feelings of pride for his son, who was still not yet of legal age but was a man in all respects.

  Someone had changed the vinyl record again. The strains of Mykola’s favourite record, of Mario Lanza’s song from ‘The Student Prince’ soared above all other songs. Peter felt the gnawing pang as he took in the beauty of the music and the voice, and poignancy of the moment. ‘The Student Prince’ may have been a co-incidental title for Mykola’s favourite record. But Peter knew that, both in his outward actions and in his inner goodness, even before he left for the Snowy Mountains, his son was already a prince in heart and in life.