The Man From Talalaivka

by Olga Chaplin

  His eyes strayed to a farther table, settled on another younger friend he had not seen for some time. He sauntered over and joined him. “Alexai, my good fellow … why are you keeping to yourself here, with all this music and celebration? Come, join me and Dyna and the others … you know Raisa’s family at our table!”

  “I can’t Petro … I have my reasons …” He glanced at the wedding party, at the newly married couple laughing and sharing a private conversation, and turned away, to face Peter squarely. Painfully shy, his fingers played with the full vodka shot for a few moments, then he downed it in one gulp, coughing at his embarrassing act of bravado.

  “What is it, Alexai, dear man … this is a special occasion … it’s merriment for all of us! And you know Raisa’s family well, I know that much! Come and celebrate with us!”

  “I’m too late, Petro … I’m ten years too late!” He frowned, ran his fingers through his hair to distract himself and straightened his neat tie.

  “Too late, Alexai? … What are you too late for? There is no clock here, man … and in this fine country, we have all our time ahead of us, every one of us!” he cajoled the gloomy man.

  Alexai stole another glance at the newly married couple. Peter followed his gaze, then suddenly realised. Raisa’s family had befriended this sombre gentle man. It had become his family since their arrival and transport to the Bathurst and Parkes hostels, and even on to Sydney. Then, inexplicably, he had moved away to new quarters. Peter eyed him, then looked to Voloda, and surmised that the dashing groom had unexpectedly returned earlier from Adaminaby to be near Raisa.

  “Alexai … you are a good man, and handsome … you will find a wife soon, too, I am certain of that!” He patted Alexai and changed the conversation to cheer him. “And you may be sitting near us, too, for our naturalisation ceremony. Look!” he searched the inner pocket of his suit and brought out his prized document authorising the date and seating arrangement. “It’s very soon, within the month!” He leaned forward, closer to Alexai, as a group of inebriated amateur musicians, friends of the bridal party, rammed up the volume of their instruments and belted out a folk song.

  “It’s too late, Petro … and there are no girls here … They don’t want a man in his late-thirties, with no prospects … one who can only speak broken English.” He too leaned forward. Usually so reticent, he blurted out: “Petro, I’ve cancelled my form to be naturalised. I’m going back, Petro … back to the Ukraine!” He glanced around quickly, then, eyes widening as if he had just won a prize, continued, “I’ve found a sponsor, to help me go back, very soon … this man, called Yuri … no, you wouldn’t know of him, Petro, he operates from the Russian Social Club, in the city … they have dances, and concerts … in a basement, a kind of nightclub, in George Street!” He cleared his throat, full of vodka courage now. “This Yuri … he says they will give my papers clearance, almost immediately!” He grinned, pleased with himself. “And Petro … my mother and sisters are waiting for me … At least I’m wanted there.” He wiped at his eyes. “And things are different now in Russia and the Ukraine, Petro: that’s what Yuri tells me … and … he knows!” Alexai tapped his nose with his finger, as if he were giving a secret sign.

  Peter looked at this emotionally-beaten man who, too, had been forcibly taken to the German labour camps, who had no family here other than Raisa’s and who, still so painfully shy and reticent, could see no future for himself in this new foreign land. Peter shook his head and bit his lip, but resisted remonstrating with him. Stalin was not long dead. Now Malenkov was removed as Khrushchev’s equal, the new leader’s denunciation of the totalitarian tyrant seen among optimists as the sign of a new beginning for the Soviet Union, and for the Ukraine. But the Cold War was still spreading its glacial tentacles everywhere around the globe: even tighter, in East Germany, Hungary and other eastern European countries; in Asia, the African sub-continent, even here, in far away Australia. This country may have done its penance for the Petrovs’ defection, with the Soviet embassy’s re-establishment just months ago, but he sensed this meant there would be even more opportunities for Soviet agents to operate within the normal confines of government.

  He sighed. He knew what this meant. The Soviet system, now under Khrushchev, espousing all the rights of democracy in its ‘up-dated’ constitution, gave with one hand, but took with both, like a Machiavellian magician intent on twisting the lives and fates of people within its grasp. He bit his lip again, and felt blood run. Alexai could not, would not hear this counter-argument. He would find, tragically, and too soon—and with perhaps even more heartache than he was feeling now—how cruel, and how punishing, his choice to return to Khrushchev’s ‘new democracy’ would be.

  Chapter 50

  Peter smiled at Evdokia as they stood proudly, holding a Bible, and followed the two-thousand throng uttering the Oath of Allegiance at the nation’s largest naturalisation ceremony. His throat tightened with emotion, his eyes moistened as he mouthed the words of a language he had not properly learnt. But he sensed the sombre significance of this pledge and the dignity and importance of the occasion.

  The Council and the dignitaries, political and civic, had placed great import on investing into citizenship so large a number of migrants from over twenty countries and had provided a tenor and soprano in a recital of songs from diverse parts of the world, honouring these welcome newcomers. The stage of the Civic Theatre, with its plush red velvet curtain hiding the large screen that vicariously transported its film-goers to other worldly places on week days, was now decked out in red, white and blue ribbons. Above these silky bands a huge portrait of the Queen gazed regally, kindly, at them.

  Peter suddenly jerked, as the memory of another portrait flashed at him, from all those years ago: a poster of Stalin willing the workers on to their collectivisation goals. He broke out in perspiration, then collected himself. How different this portrait was, how different its purpose. It took pride of place in a setting representing a system of dual responsibilities: responsibilities of the government and of the people to respect individual and collective freedoms, and of concern not only for oneself and one’s own family, but for the young, free nation that honoured and pursued a respected political and judicial system.

  Leaving Nadia and Ola temporarily, he held back tears as he and Evdokia joined the line, as new citizens, to receive their Certificates of Naturalisation from the proud robe-bedecked Mayor. The date, 21st June, 1959, typed neatly on each parchment, imprinted on his mind. It was a date he would always remember, and quote proudly to his friends: the date from which he at last had a country that welcomed him and to which he belonged.

  * * *

  Evdokia waited impatiently, trying to contain her excitement, but feeling a certain anxiety, as Peter approached the front gate. They greeted and kissed, but she held on to his arm.

  “What is it, Dyna? Is everything all right? You seem agitated.” She could no longer contain herself and pulled out an envelope from her apron pocket. In the receding light he noticed the yellowed colour, not unlike the parchment of the Naturalisation Certificates they received the previous Sunday. He dismissed the envelope: he would wait until he had rested from his work and the overtime hours before dealing with another administrative formality. But she held on. He looked at the envelope again. With the light fading, he squinted to read the words.

  “Why, this is addressed to you, Dyna … but the sender seems to be … Vanya?” he whispered, as if to himself. He stepped inside and put down his battered globite work-case, sat at their dining room table adorned with its nylon lace tablecloth and large vase of Evdokia’s favourite imitation flowers. Inwardly shaking, his mouth dry from the shock, he carefully unfolded the yellowing paper with its obligatory bureaucrats’ indelible markings; then smiled, tears rimming his eyes, as he absorbed Vanya’s careful words and simple style. Always shy and self-conscious, Vanya’s words reached out to him as though he were speaking them.

  He put the letter down slowly, thou
ghtfully, and studied the origin’s address again. Vanya had remained in their Sumskaya Oblast, and had been moved further north again and again, and now lived even closer to the Russian border. But he was safe. Simply but obliquely conveyed in his letter, he had married his young sweetheart some years after the war, once the authorities approved their move to the same kolkhoz. Their two young daughters were well.

  Peter sat motionless, trying to regain his composure, mixed feelings racing through him: elation alternating with despair, the memories of that last night in the hillside hide-out flooding his mind like a film’s image repeating itself over and over again.

  Evdokia, keen to read the letter, struggled at deciphering the Russified words. At last, she placed the letter carefully on the mantelpiece, subconsciously symbolising that this was now one more record of a loved one to hold closely in one’s heart and mind, each new day.

  Chapter 51

  A gay atmosphere greeted Peter and Evdokia as they stepped onto the visitor’s deck of the Aurelia. Peter retrieved the visitor’s pass from his pocket and, studying the cabin numbers, looked about for Alexai.

  “He should be here, Dyna … we are on the right deck … and we’ve not come late …” Then he noticed Alexai, dressed formally in an ill-fitting suit but with clean white shirt and nondescript tie, in close company with three other men. Peter watched them closely. His stomach tightened, his suspicions confirmed. The other men were like clones, almost indistinguishable from each other: pokerfaced, eyes watchful. All wore uniform-like black suits, which could merge easily in a crowd. “They could be mistaken for undertakers,” he thought, to relieve his concern, but he knew better. Alexai looked up, and blushed as he recognised Peter. He excused himself from the men and strode across.

  “Good people! This is unexpected! I sent you those passes, but never expected you could come at such short notice to farewell me! My other friends, from the wedding … they did not come, they said their farewells earlier …” His face saddened. Then he noticed Peter still observing the other men. “Oh! That’s Yuri, my sponsor, and his companions … they all met at the Russian Social Club … you know, in Sydney, the one I told you about!” Peter’s gut reaction returned. This Yuri and his cohorts had not befriended Alexai out of a genuine desire for friendship. They were too determined, too calculating for that. He sensed they would now have a hold on this gentle innocent and somewhat naive man for a long time to come, through their contacts in Russia and the Ukraine.

  Alexai, unable to sense this at such a momentous time for him, took them to his cabin, which he shared with other male passengers. They clicked half-shots of vodka with him for his future and dipped the fresh rye bread in the smetana that they had brought for the occasion.

  The first short, sharp horn sounded. Peter’s heart sank. He feared for his friend, who had not found ways and some comfort in forging a new life for himself in a new country. He wished him well, but sensed that their excited and somewhat agitated friend would, ultimately, suffer reprisals. Alexai had placed all his hopes on his re-union with his ailing mother and his sisters. But there were no guarantees that he would be placed in the vicinity of his remaining family, and he had convinced himself that life was different in their Ukraine now that Stalin was dead. His loneliness, his love for his ill mother, was greater than his understanding of the Soviet system, even under their new leader.

  Ultimately, Alexai would have to play the Soviet’s game: either he would ‘co-operate’ if he wished to see his relatives again upon returning to the Ukraine or he, too, would face a modern-day gulag sentence, as had so many other hapless returnees. The new Soviet poster may now have a new face and a new ‘benevolent’ leader, but the system remained the same. It was too effective to change.

  * * *

  As the tug-boats pulled determinedly and unsettled the Aurelia from its dock, Peter leaned his arms on the high rail of the wharf, watching each movement as the ship gently swayed and pulled further and further from the shore. Nearby, Italian picnickers had already spread out their blankets on the grassy patch and began laying out their simple food and carafes of wine in bottles reminiscent of the Mediterranean tradition. Someone had set up their wind-up gramophone player, balanced carefully on a low stool.

  Peter turned and watched, then caught his breath as the lilting, even plaintiff, words of the young Maria Callas soared across the park in the calm of early evening:

  “O mio babbino caro

  Mi piace bello bello …”

  He stood motionless, enraptured. He had not heard such purity of voice since that fateful day in the back streets of Naples, when he happened upon the children’s choir. Tears swelled without warning. Although he didn’t understand the words, he understood their emotional reach: the yearning.

  The light was fading. His heart felt laden with emotion. Surreptitiously, this tourist ship returning to its Naples base was fading before his eyes, merging with the glistening inky-black that was creeping in from the open waters. Almost without warning, as night cloaked Sydney’s harbour, the stars began to appear, sprinkled across this great southern hemisphere evening sky.

  It was time to go. But he paused as he immersed himself in the celestial beauty, the spiritual calm of the night. He instinctively felt in his jacket pocket: took out the seating ticket of their naturalisation day, and Vanya’s letter. He felt the thick rough envelope, knew its contents by heart. He had freedom, and safety, now, and a country he could always call his own. Vanya had his country, stood on its soil, but had no freedom to call his own.

  His mouth quivered as he tried to form a prayer. He looked up at this church of the nightly stars. His life’s—soul’s—mentor, Taras Shevchenko, must also have gazed at these myriad of stars, during all those years of his exile and incarceration in the gulags, so many decades ago. The philosopher poet had prayed, had appealed to humanity and to the human spirit to awaken, rise up above all else, to improve the human condition, everywhere, and especially in his Ukraine.

  From somewhere in the depth of Peter’s past memory, Taras Shevchenko’s Testament reached out to him:

  “… Then, in the mighty family

  Of all men that are free,

  Maybe sometimes, very softly

  You will speak of me?”

  He gazed at the deep mysterious night sky; could barely pray. That dove of freedom had long left its Naples port; it was not destined to fly this far. His heart ached so. For Vanya. For Ukraine.

  He would keep looking to the night sky: search the stars for Taras Shevchenko’s constellation: draw on this great philosopher’s strength, seek the way to his spiritual home. It would be a journey shrouded in the mysteries that the universe could not easily reveal.

  He knew it would be a long night.

  EPILOGUE

  Ukraine’s history was indelibly intertwined with that of Russia; more so with the ascendancy and zenith of the Romanov dynasty, and its end at the hands of the Bolsheviks. Seemingly invincible, the old Russian empire, stretching west to east from Poland to Vladivostok, and north to south from the Arctic Circle to Odessa in the Black Sea, fell as the last Romanov Tsar was executed at Ekaterinburg in July 1918.

  The eruptions prior to, and following, that fateful act, were unprecedented in modern history. A society of over one hundred different nationalities, held together theistically by the Russian Orthodox Church, with Nicholas II as their Little Father, under the ancient concept of benevolent despotism of the ‘divine right of kings’, was torn apart. The cost of Russia’s involvement in the Great War of 1914 to 1918 had become unbearable. Two and a half years of slaughter and military incompetence left the empire in near-bankruptcy, the peasant soldiers leaving the carnage of the battlefields in their thousands to return to the safety of their lands.

  Lenin and the Bolsheviks took advantage of the chaos and disintegration of Russian society with their ideals for a ‘classless’ society, based not on nobility privilege, but on equality of all men and women. But the schisms in the Russian e
mpire were too great, as Monarchists pitched themselves and their private armies against Revolutionists. Within weeks of the Bolsheviks’ grasp of power in October 1917 a civil war erupted, to last three horrific years. With, at one point, only an enclave around Moscow as their stronghold, the Bolsheviks implemented measures, temporary in Lenin’s thinking, for dictatorial controls over all of the empire’s peoples.

  The ‘one-party’ system, emanating from the Kremlin during the civil war, brought in a range of reforms and modifications that were to forever change the society of Russia and the empire, including the Ukraine. By the civil war’s end, in March 1921, and with Lenin’s introduction of his New Economic Policy (NEP Scheme) the privileged monarchical society based on the nobility was gone, along with its Russian Orthodox Church. In its place was an efficient yet flexible bureaucracy, extended voting for workers, education opportunities, land reforms—and now a new national military regime, forged in the Red Army, based on modern education and military technology.

  Lenin now turned his attention to better implementing his reforms, and to encourage small land-holding farmers to improve their yields, in order to allow Russia to grow in agricultural and capital wealth which was so necessary for the Russian empire to become fully industrialised. The Bolsheviks’ natural leader, he saw no reason for naming his successor: his untimely death in January 1924 provided opportunity for Stalin to seize power, not by coup, but by stealth. By the end of 1928, Stalin had either sidelined, expelled from the Politburo and the Bolshevik Party, or exiled almost all of Lenin’s original supporters—keeping only the young Bukharin, who was so like Lenin in appearance and ideology, but was now under his control, as the popular ‘people’s Bolshevik’ – all the while strengthening his complete grasp over the Politburo and, ultimately, the whole of the Russian empire.