Sliding on the Snow Stone (24 page)

The Poles always seemed to hold the view they were superior to us somehow. That always made us smile. Our cultural heritage was as rich as theirs, and the Ukrainian identity is strong, always has been, otherwise we’d have been swallowed up long ago by those of our neighbours who liked to wage war.

One day, a Pole, his name I can’t recall, came up to me at the factory when none of the supervisors were around. He was a young fellow, ‘Hey, you’re a Ukrainian aren’t you?’

I looked at him without flinching, our eyes locked onto each other, and I could see his brow was twisted and his lip rolled up. ‘I am,’ I replied.

‘
Well, I want you to explain something to me. When our glorious Polish infantry invaded Ukraine in 1918, why did your people conceal harrows on the ground to disable our horses and cripple them? That was barbaric! Everyone knows that horses are beautiful creatures and hard working. In all wars, it’s always been an accepted fact that horses should be protected at all times. What your people did was shameful! Why did they do that?’

He looked at me hard once again, tilting his head to one side to emphasise the question. My eyes dropped downwards as his words seemed to linger in the air, but then the Kozak spirit rose inside me and I looked up again. ‘I don’t know,’ I said to him, ‘I wasn’t there, so I can’t say what happened.’

His lip rolled up again and his eyes narrowed, but before he could say anything else I spoke again, ‘Why do you think they did that?! The Poles were riding onto our native Ukrainian soil! Our land! We’d do anything to defend it, because it belongs to us, no-one else! If you Poles bring horses onto our land, we’ll do whatever we have to. If we cripple them, then that’s tough. Don’t think I’m a barbarian - I love horses. As you say, they are beautiful animals.’

The Pole stood there, with a couple of his friends. I stared right into his eyes, and I waited, to see what his response would be, but he said nothing, and he and his friends turned around and walked away. So that was that.

At the end of the working week, it was our custom to visit the local tavern, the Railway Inn, for a couple of pints of beer. It was usually overflowing with people, especially in the summer and, the three of us would sit at a table and talk to other men from the factory. Fedor would be looking at any pretty girl that happened to pass by.

It was Arthur who took me to the Railway Inn at the end of my first week; I was pleased about that, it made me feel accepted.

‘
So, Steve, are you Polish or Ukrainian?’ he asked.

‘
Ukrainian.’

‘
Whereabouts are you from in Ukraine?’

‘
A town called Vinnitsya.’

Arthur shrugged his shoulders, ‘Never heard of it.’

‘
It’s not far from Kiev. Ukraine is a very beautiful country, Arthur, you should see it.’

‘
I have seen it, Steve. I was there at the end of the War. You’re right, it is a lovely place. I was down in the Crimea. We were with the Russians just after they’d seen the Nazis off. Some terrible things happened, Steve, really terrible.’ His face turned white as he remembered and he stumbled over his next words. ‘Our Commanding Officer was under orders to help them Russians out. We did whatever we were asked to do, that’s how it is when you’re in the Army. There was one time when a group of Ukrainian sailors at one of the ports hoisted up the Ukrainian flag. You know, the blue and yellow one. What they did was take down the Russian flag and replaced it with theirs. Now, of course, that state of affairs didn’t last long. The Russians arrested them. I think there was about twelve of them altogether. They rigged up a court martial right there and then and found them all guilty of treason. Sentenced them to death on the spot, just like that. They asked our Commanding Officer to provide a firing squad, and he agreed. We couldn’t believe it when he gave us the order. I never could understand why he agreed to it. I expect they probably paid him. Orders are orders, so that’s what we had to do.’

He looked at me with very sad eyes as he told this story, and it made me angry. Not because of Arthur, but because, once again, as ever, any show of patriotism from Ukrainians was brutally crushed. Arthur was a good fellow, but it was strange working with someone who’d shot and killed fellow Ukrainians in cold blood, even though it was under military orders. It was enough to test my faith in humanity.

Our lives were quite settled in England and the years passed quickly. It wasn’t so long before we reached 1952 and, by then, I was 25 years old. I grew into the habit of keeping up with what was happening in the world by reading an English newspaper most days, or trying to anyway. I always scoured the news for anything about our homeland, looking for any cracks to appear in the Soviet Union. Nothing much was reported. The Soviets had established a communist state and their curtain of iron repelled anyone who wanted to get in and denied anyone who wished to leave. I searched inside myself, my heart was torn, and my head was a mess of jumbled thoughts as I considered whether I should try to write home. I sat down with a pen and paper many times, but what could I say? I knew the authorities would intercept any letters. Eventually, I summoned up enough Kozak courage to stop my hand from shaking, enough to scribble a few sentences. Just to let my Mother know, if she was still around, that I was alive and thinking of them. I hoped the letter would get through. Many times I wrote, but nothing ever came back.

In March of the following year, 1953, I unfolded the newspaper one evening and something right there on the page jumped out at me. It was a piece of news I’d hoped to hear many times over the years. Stalin was dead. A smile spread itself across my face, and jolted me out of my early evening doziness. I jumped up out of my chair, folded the newspaper under my arm, and ran all the way to Mikola’s house,

‘
Look! Look at this!’ I passed the newspaper to him, still jumping up and down like a madman. 

‘
Stefan, sit down before you injure yourself,’ he gestured towards an armchair, so I sat in it, but I couldn’t stop fidgeting. I was tapping my fingers on the arms of the chair, and my feet wouldn’t stop dancing. Mikola scanned the page of the newspaper, his eyes widened and he let out a low whistle. ‘You know what, Stefan, this calls for a little celebration.’ He got up, walked into his kitchen and returned with a bottle.

‘
A good glass of this
Scotska horilka
* should do it.’

He poured two generous glasses and we clinked them together. We drank. One of our worst enemies was gone, without doubt making the world a better place.

What followed over the next two or three years was a disappointment. Khruschev became the Soviet leader, but apart from one or two minor concessions or blunders, things stayed the same. Any letters I wrote still didn’t get through.

Well, the years just seemed to slip by like water down a drainpipe. 1957 arrived, and by then, the Soviets were sending rockets into space, in competition with the Americans. What a joke. The Soviets exploring space while their citizens live their lives as virtual prisoners. I was so angry, but all I could do was swallow it down, yet again, just like we’d always done.

One day I was round at Mikola’s house, when Fedor called in. He didn’t seem his usual self, he shuffled in, with his head bowed slightly and with the hint of smile on him.

‘
Hello Fedor, are you all right?’ said Mikola.

‘
I . . . I’ve got some news for you,’ replied Fedor.

Both Mikola and I looked expectantly at him, waiting for him to tell us more. There was a pause, like a leaf floating down from a tree in a cool summer breeze.

He finally spat it out, ‘I’m getting married!’ The two of us jumped up, shook his hand and slapped him on his shoulders. Mikola poured large measures of
Scotska horilka
and we toasted the man.

‘
Which one is she?’ I asked him.

Fedor chuckled at that. ‘It’s Araciella.’

‘
The Italian? Well, my brother, she’s a beauty,’ said Mikola, ‘for sure, any babies that God bestows upon the two of you will be truly divine.’

A few weeks later, in the first week of December, we attended Fedor and Araciella’s marriage ceremony. It was a warm evening for the time of year with a strong winter sun bursting through the trees. Mikola and I stood with Fedor at the church as we waited for Araciella to arrive. After a few agonising minutes during which several cigarettes were smoked, and anxious glances were cast up and down the road, a car pulled up. Fedor rushed into the church with Mikola, who was his best man.

Araciella stepped out of the car. She glided up the steps and into the church, like a fairy tale princess. Her olive skin was like gold in a sea of pure white ruffles and curves. She looked a dream. The ceremony seemed to fly by, and I stood there thinking to myself,
maybe I need to start looking for a wife
. The two of them took a slow walk down the aisle, looking so happy. People reached across to shake Fedor’s hand or plant a kiss on Araciella’s cheek. There was a good sized congregation in attendance, and a small reception was planned for the friends of the bride and groom. Fedor and Araciella stood outside the church basking in the glow of their union in the eyes of God. Mikola, I, and several others departed to a nearby friend’s house where the reception was to take place. We’d already decorated a room with candles and flowers, and just needed to set out the plates of food. We’d prepared a wonderful selection of cold meats, boiled eggs, salads and fine breads, and of course a fancy, plaited
korovai
*.

We heard a car pull up and waited, just for a minute or two. Fedor and Araciella burst into the room and drank the traditional glass of
horilka
and threw salt over their shoulders, while the rest of us looked on and clapped. A traditional Ukrainian wedding song crackled in the background. They walked further into the room and I found myself looking at Araciella. She had curves in all the right places, and her wedding dress fitted her snugly showing off her figure. I wondered to myself how soon it would be before she and Fedor had children. As they walked into the room together, Fedor wrapped an arm around her waist until it rested on one side of her stomach, and he softly patted her right there. I smiled at him, and he grinned right back, as if he knew what I’d been thinking. For sure, Fedor was well and truly on the road to starting his own family.

Chapter 13

Ukrainian proverb: Love will find a way. Indifference will find an excuse

‘
Well now, Stefan,’ said Mikola as he rolled himself a cigarette, ‘It was a good wedding, no?’

‘
Yes, it was a fine one. I think we did well for Fedor there,’ I replied, as I too rolled one up.

‘
So, do you think it’s time then?’

There was mischief in those eyes, Mikola was a fine fellow, a big strong man, and with a mind sharp as a
britva
*. He knew what was going on in my head all right.

‘
I have been thinking . . . it doesn’t look like we’ll be getting back home anytime soon to our families, does it?’

It was the spring of 1958 and there was no sign of any thaw in the east. The Soviet Union had pulled its iron curtain around its borders and there was no way through. We’d read it in the newspapers and heard it on the radio.

‘
I can’t argue with you. I’ve written so many letters back home now without any reply, I’ve lost count. If I write any more, I reckon I’ll go mad.’

‘
I know. It’s a curse. Those Soviet sons of bitches are vicious. They don’t care about anyone.’

We lit our hand-rolled cigarettes. The Soviet Union had joined the space race, with their launch of Sputnik. They’d also sent a dog into space. What good was that?  While we, as displaced persons, were too afraid to go back to our homes, they played their stupid games with rockets. We cursed them more than once.

‘
So, what are your thoughts? You talk about family.’ Mikola took a pull on his cigarette, blew a cloud of smoke out, and kept his eyes fixed on me, those baby blue eyes that looked so innocent, that mesmerised me.

‘
I . . . I think it’s time I got myself a wife. Look at me. I’m not getting any younger. I’ll be thirty this year. Back home, a man my age would’ve married and be father to a houseful of children by now.’

‘
You’re right. More and more of us Ukrainians are settling down now. You hear about it all the time. And of course, there’s our good friend Fedor.’

I pondered this. Now, I wished Fedor all the best with Araciella, but I knew what I wanted. I always remembered what Oleksa said to me back in the Displaced Persons Camp in Regensburg:
we must fight to keep our traditions alive.

That thought was never too far away from me, and when Fedor got married to Araciella, I pushed it to the back of my mind; I wanted him to be happy, and to have a long and prosperous life. But I wanted more. To uphold our traditions I knew I’d need someone like me, someone from back home.

‘
I’d like a Ukrainian girl for a wife. Where can I find one, eh?’

Mikola stubbed out his cigarette and began to roll another one. He raised his eyebrows and fixed his steady gaze on me. ‘They’re in short supply. There’s not many around here. Look at Fedor, he couldn’t get one could he? But if that’s what you really want, then we must find a way.’ He lit up his second cigarette. ‘Listen, maybe we need to get around a bit more, to other towns. Look at this!’ He thrust a newspaper at me. It was the latest copy of
Ukrayinska Dumka
*. I flipped through it, and there were stories and information about Ukrainian communities in towns and cities all over Britain,

‘
You see, Stefan, there are places we can go, in search of a bride for you.’

So, that’s what we did. On a Saturday we’d put on our best suits and polish up our shoes. Our hair would be slicked back and arranged in a neat pile on top of our heads, we scraped our faces smooth as china bowls, and slapped on a dab or two of aftershave. The Royal Enfield Bullet was our chariot – Mikola hopped on the back and clung on to me like a leech and we tore up the highways of England. We were on a mission. The bike took us to Kidderminster, Wolverhampton, Birmingham, Gloucester, Coventry, Manchester, Bradford and Nottingham. We met so many people and made so many friends. The community was growing – it was a good time. There were one or two occasions when I saw a lovely young girl, and she’d smile at me, but then I’d find out she was taken. There were one or two spinsters hanging around, but they were too old for me, I was a man in search of a wife to start a family with, but romance didn’t happen for me. Mikola however, was a good ten years older than me, and so he struck up a friendship with one of the spinsters, Olga, and they corresponded with each other for years.

Once or twice over that summer, I was invited round to Fedor’s house, with Mikola. Araciella had her baby and it was bawling its head off while we were there, but strangely I didn’t find it annoying, it just made my heart ache even more.

Then, in the New Year, towards the end of January, on a cold, dark evening, I was sitting next to a fire in the back room of my home, warming myself. The cold had crept right into me; it felt as if my bones had frozen. I was sipping a mug of hot sweet tea and smoking a cigarette. The radio was on, but I wasn’t really listening to it. There was a banging at the back door, and I smiled to myself as I stood up to answer it. It was Mikola, I recognised the knock. He came in and I brewed up a cup of tea for him. He sat and drank his tea back, and lit a cigarette,

‘
I’ve got something for you.’ He pulled the latest copy of
Ukrayinska Dumka
out of his coat pocket and unfolded it, turning to one of the middle pages. He handed it to me. It was the news section that caught my eye. A wedding had taken place in London – the wedding of a Ukrainian man to a girl who had travelled from Poland,

‘
Mikola,’ I said, lifting my head up from the newspaper, ‘I’m looking for a Ukrainian bride, not a Polish one.’

‘
Stefan, Stefan! You know your trouble don’t you – you always jump to conclusions too quickly. Read it again, more carefully this time.’

I lowered my head once again and this time the words jumped right out at me:  Ukrainian man from London marries his bride. Recently arrived in England from Poland, Lubya is a girl who hails from the West of Ukraine and is delighted to have found a Ukrainian husband.

I passed the newspaper back to Mikola,

‘
So,’ I replied, ‘maybe there is a way . . .’

‘
See this fellow in the photograph? I know him. He’s from the same town as me, Brody. I’ve known him all my life.’ He thrust the paper back at me. There were two photographs, one of the happy couple and another of the bride next to the man who had been instrumental in arranging for their meeting and their subsequent marriage.

‘
He’s called Sotnik. He was one of the fellows on the local Council, a learned fellow indeed.’

‘
Yes.’ I lifted my head up from the newspaper. ‘Perhaps I should write to the newspaper, to see if I can get more information.’

‘
No. In situations like this you need to seize your chance! Life is short, letters can pass back and forth and nothing changes. We need to get down there, to see the men who work on the
Dumka
. Maybe they can help us.’

‘
You’re right.’

The following Saturday, we wrapped ourselves up with heavy coats, scarves, hats, gloves, thick socks and big boots, and we climbed onto the Bullet and roared onto the nearest road that headed south. London was our destination, to Holland Park where the Association of Ukrainians in Great Britain was based. It was a dark, cold morning and our clothes weren’t thick enough to keep the chill from penetrating through to our bodies. Still, we kept on without stopping. All the way to the outskirts of London, by which time the sun was rising up, throwing its golden rays over the horizon. Even so, the cold gripped us tight as we blundered our way across the city, stopping to ask directions on frequent occasions.

Eventually, we found Holland Park and were relieved to be able to get off the bike and stamp some heat into ourselves. A nearby café caught our eye and we wandered across for a hot cup of tea and a sausage roll.

It was ten o’clock and we wandered through the streets of Holland Park, looking for the blue and the yellow, and those distinctive letters we knew so well. It took just about 20 minutes of walking through those tall, white-painted houses and there it was. We walked up a set of eight stone steps to a large, shiny black front door with a brass knocker. A brass plate on the wall had the
tryzub
* engraved into it. That made me smile – the national emblem! That trident shape symbolic of Ukrainian freedom – the freedom we all hungered for.

We rapped on that door, and it was opened by a smiling young man who was most welcoming. An older man then greeted us in the hallway, and handshakes were exchanged. ‘I’m Boris, one of the staff here. What can I do for you fellows?’

Mikola pulled the newspaper out of his jacket and explained that we trying to get in touch with someone. Boris looked us up and down – we must have looked like a pair of wild ones, with our wind-beaten faces and our crumpled suits, and then he showed us into a sitting area where we sat down and he nodded to the young man who had followed us. He reappeared shortly afterwards with a tray of tea and biscuits.

‘
You see, I know the fellow in this photograph.’ Mikola thrust the newspaper towards Boris, pointing at the photograph. ‘His name’s Sotnik. I can’t remember his first name – I don’t think anyone ever used it. He’s from the same town as me in Ukraine, Brody. I knew him quite well, everybody knew him. Now, it looks as if he’s ended up in Poland. Now, Boris,’ said Mikola pausing to take a mouthful of hot tea, ‘you know as well as I do that there aren’t many Ukrainian women here in Britain. You see, Stefan here wants to get married, settle down and start a family, but he wants to preserve our way of life: he’s looking for a Ukrainian bride.’

Boris smiled at the two of us as he held a cup of steamy tea to his lips,

‘
My friends, of course we here at the Association will do everything we can to help you. But we’ll need all your details and to see your papers.’

Mikola and I produced our registration documents and our health papers with our addresses on them. Boris looked at them closely.

‘
Okay, young men, I’d like to help you. It is our role here at the Association to promote and preserve the Ukrainian heritage, our way of life and our customs. Let me get you this man’s address. He really is quite a fellow. We get letters from him every week, and he’s already assisted Ukrainian couples to get together many times. You see, after the war ended, UPA stayed active in the West of Ukraine, in and around the Carpathian Mountains. They were fighting for freedom, so any non-Ukrainians that entered their territory were attacked. There were many ambushes and many deaths. In the end the Poles went in with their army. There were people who lived in villages near those mountains who were good people. The men from UPA could walk into those villages whenever it was safe to do so, and the villagers would feed them – or sometimes food was taken out to them. Anyhow, after a year or two of ambushes and attacks, the Poles poured into those villages and told everyone they had two hours to pack up and leave. Some of those people left behind their homes and many acres of farmland. Then they were shipped right across to the West of Poland – to the Recovered Lands. That’s what happened to Sotnik. He ended up near the town of Wolow, in a small village called Uskorz Wielki. He does what he can to promote the Ukrainian language, mainly through songs. He plays the mandolin, you see. The situation in the Recovered Lands is the reverse to that of our people here in Britain. Here, we have a shortage of women. Over there is a shortage of men.’

He marched off out of the room and came back a few minutes later with an envelope.

‘
Here is Sotnik’s address. Letters to and from him all seem to be getting through, unlike to our homes in Ukraine. Damn those Soviet sons of bitches!’

Neither Mikola nor I could disagree. Firm handshakes were exchanged as we departed and he urged us to visit again. ‘Enjoy your visit to London! If you should pass this way again then please call in, we’ll be very happy to see you both!’

Outside, on the pavement, I carefully slipped the envelope into my jacket pocket.

‘
Well, Stefan, it looks like we got what we came for,’ said Mikola, ‘Now, let’s get over to Kilburn as we planned. We’ve got a great night ahead of us and now we can really celebrate!’

Mikola’s nephew lived in Kilburn, a fellow called Stefan Derevyanka. He’d served in the Polish Army and ended up in Italy at the end of the war. Then, the same as the rest of us, he came to Britain as a refugee. Not long afterwards he’d met and married Julie, an Irish nurse. How Mikola came to be in touch with him I don’t know, but, after we’d jumped on the Bullet and shot across the City, we found their flat, and walked up to the third floor, knocked on their front door, and were greeted with a flurry of smiles, handshakes, slaps on the shoulder, a kiss on the cheek from Julie and the next thing we knew we were sitting in their living room with a glass of whisky in our hand. It was still only five minutes to midday.

I’d never met Derevyanka before, but within half an hour I felt as if I’d known him all my life. He worked at the Ford car factory in Dagenham, and at the weekend he made the most of every minute.