Sliding on the Snow Stone (25 page)

Julie cooked us all a lovely dinner of potatoes and stew, and then we had a walk into Kilburn. The four of us went to a pub, one of Derevyanka’s regular haunts. He came back from the bar with three pints of a beer that was completely black with what looked like several spoonfuls of cream on top,

‘
Hey fellows, have you tried this? It’s called Guinness, all the Irish around here drink it, and it goes down nicely after a lovely lunch.’

I took a cautious sip of the dark brew. It was so bitter, but also like velvet, it slid down inside you like magic. Mikola dished out cigarettes and we chatted away. Derevyanka was a big talker. So was Julie. Derevyanka told us all about life in London, working at the car plant. Julie worked as a nurse in one of the hospitals. As usual, Mikola had a few stories to tell, it was a great atmosphere, but that envelope in my pocket was on my mind. Several times I surreptitiously patted my jacket just to feel the crunch of it – just to make sure it was still there. I don’t mind admitting it, I was lonely. Even though I was right in the middle of a busy pub at lunch time, my loneliness ate into me. Strange how, even in company, a man can feel adrift somehow. As I sat there listening to the stories pouring forth, I thought of Mother and Father. They’d married and raised us boys in that house back in Vinnitsya. I knew that was what I wanted. To try and put those pieces back in place. To make it all right, if that was possible. Whilst around me, the drinks flowed and merriment and laughter rang around my ears, I was contemplating on life and the future.

It was a raucous evening at the flat in Kilburn. Derevyanka loved to play cards, and, in the evening, several fellows came round for a game. The drinks flowed, Julie was a great hostess – she brought out trays of sandwiches and snacks. The
Scotska
and the
horilka
flowed like water, and there was always a glass of beer to hand. It was a wild night.

The next morning I woke up with a throbbing in my head, but with a resolution in my heart that I would use the information given to me by the folks in London to build a future.

The next day, back in Worcester, I sat down and wrote a letter. The words flowed out of me. It was the story of my life, all about where I was from. The schools I went to, my friends and my family, the Ukrainian poetry I loved. All in all, I wrote six pages, to this fellow Sotnik, and I slipped in a photograph of myself. I had to wait until the following Monday before posting it.

A month or so later, I came home from work to find an airmail envelope on the doormat. I ripped it open in the space of a second, and I scanned my eyes across it. Then, I sat down, took my coat and my boots off, and read through it more slowly. It was encouraging. Sotnik asked me to provide a reference from someone who could verify who I was, and then he said he hoped he could help me. Of course, I asked Mikola, who was only too happy to oblige and I entered into a correspondence with Sotnik.

Within a few weeks of letters flying across the sea and over the land, Sotnik wrote a letter to me that was to change my life:

Dear Stefan,

I have some good news. There is a family here that have five daughters – the Poruczniks. One of them has said she’d like to get to know a Ukrainian man, maybe with a view to marriage. Her name is Maria. She’s aged 20, and is a lovely girl. I’ve spoken with her parents, and they are of the opinion that she is ready for a courtship. But first of all, her parents have asked for you to write to her and get to know her.

Yours,

Sotnik

He provided the address, and that was all I needed. With a pad of paper in front of me and a pen in my hand, I sat down the very next evening to write to Maria. It was more difficult than I expected. Several attempts were required. I’d never written to a girl before – I wanted to make a good impression. Eventually, I managed to put together a couple of pages about myself, and enclosed a photograph.

Over the next few months, we exchanged many letters, and one or two photographs. In the evenings, I’d read through her letters and look at her photograph. She was a beautiful young woman, with dark hair and sparkling eyes. After we’d exchanged numerous letters, too many to count, I nervously, with my hand shaking, wrote a letter to her father asking whether he’d consider allowing Maria to meet me, with a view to a possible marriage. A week went by, and then another. I smoked too much, and couldn’t stop drumming my fingers – keeping busy helped, so I took whatever overtime was available at the factory.

The next time I came home and saw an airmail envelope on the doormat, I felt a surge run through me – an electric spark; a flame rising. I grabbed the envelope and tore it open. I paced up and down as I read:

Dear Stefan,

Thank you for your letter. I am very pleased that you and Maria have continued to write to each other over this last year. She has grown very fond of you. I am a man of few words, so I‘d like to give you permission to meet with Maria, and if all goes well, you have my consent to get married. May God bless you.

Yours,

Mikhaylo Porucznik

And so, she came. Arrangements were made, a flight was booked – a local Ukrainian couple, Mr and Mrs Lipoviy, kindly agreed for Maria to stay with them while we courted. I booked a week’s holiday from work.

She arrived on a Saturday morning, on the 1st of October, 1959. As I waited on the platform for the train to arrive, I shoved a finger into my freshly starched shirt collar to ease it, and kept straightening my tie. I was dressed in my best suit and my hair was swept back into a mop on top of my head, I resisted the urge to run my fingers through it. I paced up and down, those brightly polished shoes clicking on the platform over and over again, like a drum beating. The train came in on time, and my heart thudded like never before, I struggled to hold myself in. The train stopped with a hiss and smoke billowed into the station. A large suitcase appeared from one of the carriage doors, its owner struggling to manoeuvre it, so I rushed across to that door and helped with the suitcase, it was so big it would hardly fit through. Eventually, I managed to prise it free and heaved it onto the platform, and then I looked up.

‘
Maria?’ I offered my hand and, after she’d stepped down from the train, she took hold of it. It was so warm and soft I didn’t want to let go of it. Momentarily, I was lost for something to say as I gazed at her. She was so fine. More beautiful than any photograph could ever do justice to. With dark hair, down to her shoulders, incredible green eyes, and a face like porcelain. She hypnotised me.

‘
Hello, Stefan.’ Her voice sang into my ears and pulled me out of my dumbstruck state.

‘
Hello, Maria,’ I replied, trying to speak with some authority, whilst all the time, inside I was melting. ‘Welcome to Worcester. Let me take your things.’

I picked up the suitcase, not the easiest of tasks because of its size and weight, and ushered Maria out to a taxi. The taxi took us back to Mr and Mrs Lipoviy’s house, and I found myself jabbering away a little foolishly along the way, while Maria sat and listened, smiling serenely. Mrs Lipoviy served up a beautiful lunch, and, during the course of the meal, I managed to regain my composure.

Over the course of the following week, the two of us walked, arm in arm, through the town. Autumn clouds hovered above, threatening to throw rain down on us, but it stayed dry. We stopped in cafés, we walked in the park, with leaves swirling round our feet. Somehow, it all felt so right as we talked about everything. In the café, with a cup of strong tea in front of each of us, we contemplated our lives.

‘
We are scattered, Maria,’ I said. ‘Like seed blown out of an open hand by a hurricane, we Ukrainians fall to the ground wherever the wind blows us. And so, we have no choice but to root ourselves into the land where we fall. A piece of Ukraine on foreign soil, with the Kozak blood and fire, that’s what we bring. We’ve got strength. Not just physical strength, but the force to get things done. If there’s a problem we fix it. Ask anyone at the factory – they’ll tell you.’

Maria listened and nodded, and then replied. ‘The world can’t begin to recognise the terrors that have come down on us. My family, as you know, was evicted by gunpoint from our home in Lemkovyna. The Poles wanted us out, to break UPA. We fed the insurgents whenever we could. And why not? They were good Ukrainian boys who just wanted to free their own land. There is no better reason to fight.’

‘
Our battle is a long one. All we can do is stay true to who we are, and that’s what we’ll do. I need a wife to join me. To live beside me, and to stand firm in the faces of those who would seek to deny us our heritage.’ I dropped down onto one knee and I took Maria’s hand.

‘
Will you marry me?’

Maria looked down on me with her wide, open face and her sparkling green eyes. ‘Yes. Yes! Of course I will, Stefan. We’ll make a life together. Ukraine is in our hearts – we can never let it go.’

And so it was. We married. It took a few weeks to make all the arrangements, but on a crisp, sunny autumn Saturday, the 15th November 1959, we took our vows at the local Catholic Church in Worcester. A Ukrainian priest from Wolverhampton, Myzichka, agreed to preside over the ceremony in front of a congregation of 20.

On the morning of the wedding, I’d got my
dryshba
*, a fellow called Schultz, a German who shared the same lodgings as me in the St John’s district of Worcester, to help me get ready. In true Ukrainian tradition, Mikola was a second
dryshba
, and Fedor a third. I chose Schultz because he was reliable, I didn’t want anything to go wrong on the day, Mikola was a good friend, but a terrible time-keeper. The other reason I chose Schultz was, because he worked in a tailors, he had a selection of very fine suits. We were about the same size, so I borrowed one from him for the wedding. It was more important to make sure Maria had a wedding dress she was happy with, so that’s what I spent my money on. Anyhow, the suit was very smart.

On the morning of the wedding I got up and began my preparations, with Schultz in attendance to make sure nothing was wrong with the way I looked. He used a special clothes brush to make sure there were no specks or strands of cotton on me, and then he neatly folded a handkerchief and placed it carefully in my top pocket, using the back of his hand to flatten it into place. He scolded me for placing my wallet in the jacket side pocket, and insisted I place it in the breast pocket inside the jacket. He reckoned it would ruin the look. I looked at myself in a mirror – I felt like a prince! Finally, after several inspections and minor adjustments, Schultz stopped fussing. I had a small pile of belongings on the side board in my room, where I was getting ready. There was a pack of cigarettes, my keys and a pocket knife. I knew Schultz would never let me take any of these in case they ruined the look of my suit, but I wondered whether I should take a pack of cigarettes with me. I decided against it, after all it was my wedding day; my friends would be there to give me one if I needed it. Then, my eyes fell upon the wooden bracelet. It was still with me, after all this time. That piece of Ukraine, those small beads of oak were still the closest I’d been to my own country for a long time. While Schultz was distracted, I slipped them into my jacket side pocket. I hoped they’d bring me luck, and at least, if we could not be in Ukraine, then part of it would be with us.

Schultz got me to the church in plenty of time, the service was due to commence at two o’clock. We smoked a few cigarettes outside while we waited for the rest of the congregation to arrive.

The autumn sunshine was with us. The guests began to arrive and with the appointed hour approaching, Schultz ushered me into the church where I took my seat at the front. A few minutes later Mikola and Fedor arrived and joined us on the front row, stopping in front of me to shake my hand and give me blessings from God. There was a cool serenity in the air that was reflected in my mood. I was in no doubt about Maria; she was the girl for me, the one I wanted to hold in my arms forever. My thoughts were invaded by the organ as it exploded into majestic harmony, and filled every corner and crack of the church with a sound like heaven. She was on her way to me!

The ceremony passed by in something of a blur. I just remember my lovely Maria next to me in her billowing wedding dress, looking like an angel. The priest took us through the vows and we both said ‘I will’. I kissed her lovely lips and finally she was mine, and I was hers.

The wedding party strolled out of that church into that bright autumnal sunshine, we all blinked and then held ourselves up straight and true, with big smiles, for a few photographs. Then, it was on to a small reception at the house of Mr and Mrs Lipoviy. They had a large dining room and it was there that Maria and I went to celebrate our union in the eyes of God, with all our friends. A meal consisting of soup, roast chicken with potatoes and vegetables, and finally a sponge pudding, was served to us by the wives of some of my friends. It was a grand feast. I was proud, and never happier.

Then we pulled back the chairs and pushed the table to one side. Bottles of
horilka
appeared and glasses were pushed into the hands of the men for toasting. Maria and I cut our wedding cake and our union was sealed. We kissed and then I took her in my arms for a slow waltz as a man called Ivan stepped forward with an accordion. He played many of the old Ukrainian tunes, beginning first with some of those slow waltzes and then came the
hopak
* and the
kolomyjka
*. The
horilka
flowed, the boys loosened their ties and things got wild, with much stamping and yelping. We linked arms and span around in a circle until the world was a haze around us. In those moments, it felt as if the world was ours.