Sliding on the Snow Stone (26 page)

Of course, as was always the case, the night ended with songs and plenty of them. The men all sang like Kozaks, the women like nightingales. We were a joyous choir, a scene snatched right from the history of Ukraine. That’s how it always was in the old days. The spirit of those times was with us.

Midnight came and went, and, finally, the last of our guests tumbled out of the front door and said their goodbyes, with handshakes for me and kisses for my lovely bride, Maria. Now, she was all mine. We’d arranged to rent a room at the house of Mr and Mrs Lipoviy, with our rental period beginning straight after the reception. They had five spare rooms which they rented out. It was a grand old house, much like a palace, and it would certainly be a suitable place for us to begin our married life.

We climbed the stairs together slowly; we had the rest of our lives to spend together so there was no need to rush. Besides that, it had been a long day. At the top of the stairs we turned and walked along the landing to our room. The door creaked open as I pushed it, and we walked into a delicate perfume, a wonderful sight was there for us to behold. The room had been filled with bunches of flowers.

‘
Oh, Stefan, this is beautiful!’ said Maria, collapsing onto the bed. It was like a fairytale. I kicked off my shoes, and then walked over to the window and drew the curtains. I turned and smiled at Maria,

‘
I’ll just go to the bathroom, while you get undressed if you like,’ I said.

‘
Thank you, Stefan, but wait.’ She jumped up. ‘Just take off your jacket and make yourself a little more comfortable first.’

She came over to me and helped me with my jacket. I was about to throw it over a nearby chair, but then remembered how fussy Schultz was, so I took the wallet out of the breast pocket and placed it on the chest of drawers. Then I fished out the wooden bracelet and smiled to myself. I held it up and looked at it briefly, before placing it next to the wallet. Next to me, Maria gasped. She reached across and picked it up, all the time her eyes growing wider and wider. I saw her eyes as I’d never seen them before. Or maybe they looked more familiar than ever. I felt myself spinning back to another time and place, those eyes had looked into my own some years before, I was sure of that.

They were truly Ukrainian eyes.

Chapter 14

Ukrainian proverb: The malicious cow disturbs the whole herd

Four years went by. The summer of 1963 had come and gone and the cool breezes of autumn blew through our house. It was our first house together – our own little palace, modest though it was. I’d saved and scraped together pennies and pounds; done as much overtime as I could, and I’d sold the Bullet. It tore a piece of me away when I watched it zoom away down the road, but it had to be done, for the family.

Maria and I hadn’t wasted any time; we were proud parents of two bouncing, noisy children. Our first baby was Anna Helena, born in the early autumn of 1960, named after two of Maria’s younger sisters. Anna had a lovely mop of dark hair and a pair of piercing green eyes, much like Maria’s.

Andriy Volodimir arrived in the late autumn of 1962. I wanted to call him Volodimir, after my long-lost brother. Maria persuaded me against it; she thought our baby boy should have a name that would fit in better in England – Andriy, or Andrew in its English form. In the end I agreed, but Volodimir was not forgotten.

Our house in Vincent Road, Worcester, was a two-bedroom terrace, with a kitchen, an outside toilet and two living rooms. Almost as soon as we knew Maria was expecting our first baby, I was jolted out of my evening with the newspaper by my wife telling me she wouldn’t be prepared to live at Mr and Mrs Lipoviy’s house once we had a child. She insisted, and kept insisting, that we should get our own home, away from the interferences and the pettiness of living with a landlady. Mrs Lipoviy was very nice, but she was also very nosey. Maria and I needed our own space. I began looking for somewhere, and Vincent Road was where we ended up. I used up all my savings to buy that house, every penny. It was a good house, a real family home. With the aid of a grant from the Council, we built a bathroom on the ground floor, and a third bedroom above it. Bit by bit, we decorated and furnished. We got hold of second-hand beds and wardrobes for the bedrooms from a shop down the road, and a table and chairs for the kitchen. We purchased a couple of old sofas that were past their best, but they were comfortable enough. One or two cabinets got a home in our house, we did the best we could without much money. I even managed, at one point, to get hold of a television. A fellow on our street was moving and wanted to get rid of it. It was an early model and it crackled and flickered a little bit, so I didn’t have to pay him much for it.

We sat and watched the news in moving pictures, which was better for us, because sometimes we couldn’t always understand what they were saying on the radio. There was so much going on in the world, and there was one man who stood out above all the others, John F Kennedy, the President of the USA. When the Soviets tried to position missiles in Cuba he stopped them. Under his leadership, the USA sent aid out to many parts of the world; he appeared on the television so many times and spoke of working for world peace. Meanwhile the Soviet communists hid behind their curtain of iron. That curtain was wrapped around them, turning them into a giant all-conquering machine, waiting to take over more and more of the world, just as they’d done with our beloved Ukraine. None of us knew what was happening inside that machine, but, from past experience, we had some idea.

Kennedy though, he was a peacemaker, a man who could really change things. That’s how we saw him. Maybe there was a chance, somehow, that he could do something to get us our Ukraine back. At that time it seemed unlikely, but inside we held onto a small breath of hope.

I was just grateful to be living in a democratic country where you didn’t have to look over your shoulder all the time. A place where you could practise whatever religion you chose, without any trouble from anyone. Okay, now and again, you’d get someone whispering about
bloody foreigners
, but it wasn’t so often. I was accepted at my workplace, and on the street where I lived. My wife and my family were also accepted. I felt much safer than living under Soviet rule. The British love to complain about everything, but don’t we all? Under the Soviets we weren’t allowed to do that, they crushed our souls, tried to suck us into their machine. Of course, we stood firm always, with our Kozak blood keeping us strong, pushing the fear down. Whatever they’d done to us over the years, they couldn’t break us. They wanted us to snap like a dead twig held up in a strong wind, but we’d always managed to bend towards the eye of the hurricane. We fought a battle we knew we could never win, but we never gave up.

It wasn’t long before an event occurred that was to shred our hopes once again. It was a week before Andriy’s first birthday, November 1963, and the world seemed to go frantic. The programmes on the television were interrupted by bulletins presented by newsreaders with frowning faces. The President had been shot! We could hardly take our eyes off the television all night, waiting for more news. In between waiting for further announcements, I switched on the radio in the kitchen and tuned into a BBC station. I listened carefully as the hysterical outpourings of eyewitnesses were broadcast, and heard that Kennedy had been taken to hospital. We waited and we hoped, but deep inside I had a bad feeling. I smoked too many cigarettes and paced up and down the kitchen until finally, ‘Stefan! Quick, come here!’ called Maria.

The face on the television screen was solemn. The presenter spewed out his words as if he didn’t want to believe them, ‘
It has been confirmed from Parkland Hospital in Dallas, Texas that President Kennedy is dead 
. . .’

I couldn’t listen any more. I just walked back into the kitchen and lit another cigarette. Maria came through to me. ‘Stefan,’ she put her arms around me, ‘Come on, it’s late. I can see you’re upset, but you’ve got work tomorrow. Come on now. We have to carry on. Everything will work out for the best.’

With her arms around me, I felt some of the tension drain away from me. On our way up to bed we looked in on Anna, and on Andriy. They were both soundly asleep, thankfully oblivious to the political turmoil that was engulfing the planet.

The next evening, after work, I called round to see Mikola. He brewed up some tea, and we sat at the table smoking cigarettes. ‘So, what do you think about Kennedy’s assassination then, eh?’ said Mikola.

‘
You know as well I who did it. The Soviets! Damn those bastards all to Hell! Will they never stop, with their communist shit! They just keep taking whatever they can, whenever they can. They don’t care about anyone, not even their own people!’

‘
I can’t argue with you. The Soviets are vicious dogs, if they think someone is a threat to them, they just wipe him out.’

Mikola stood up, reached into a cupboard and slammed a bottle of
Scotska horilka
and two glasses down onto the table. Generous measures were poured and we drank to John F Kennedy, and we cursed the Soviets. I wished they would all climb into their Sputniks, shoot off into space and never come back.

The children were growing up; Maria and I worked hard to keep our home going, and to make a life for our family. The Metal Box Company was good enough to offer Maria a job, and she took it. We earned enough money to pay the bills, and furnish our home. The children had enough to eat and were clothed well. For the first time in my life I felt free from fear. Okay, one or two of the English looked down on us; they thought we shouldn’t be there, but what choice did we have? Of course, I would rather have returned to my home, to the places and the people I knew, but the fear held me back. To return was to walk into a cauldron of suspicion. The Soviets were madmen, their communist doctrines were woven into their hearts. Anyone who should disagree was eradicated.

1966 arrived. Andriy was three and Anna was five, and things were a little easier for us. We were managing well, and the future looked bright. England was beginning to prosper once again, and the World Cup was being held there. It was an opportunity for England to show the world what it could do, both in playing the game of football, and in organising the tournament. On our crackly old television, we watched many of the games. Mikola was a frequent visitor at that time. He loved football. The two of us watched, enthralled, as England, with Bobby Charlton, made progress through to the semi-finals, where they were drawn to play Portugal.

In the other semi-final, which was played the day before the Final itself, it was West Germany against the Soviet Union. The game was of interest to us, because of course we wanted the Soviets to lose, preferably to be humiliated, but then again, as we watched them play and looked at the players, we realised that many of the team were Ukrainian. The names were from our home country, we could see that.

‘
Damn those Soviet thieves!’ said Mikola. ‘Not only do they steal our land and everything on it, they steal our footballers!’

There was Porkuyan and Sabo in the first eleven and on the substitute’s bench was Serebryanikov. All three of them were Ukrainian sportsmen who were being denied the chance to wear the blue and the yellow of Ukraine. Not only did they take our young men, but also one or two from Georgia and Azerbaijan. It filled me with disgust to see that Soviet hammer and sickle emblem worn by Ukrainians on the sports field, but I guess those boys just wanted to play their football – and knowing the Soviets, they were probably never given a realistic choice. The frozen wastes of Siberia were always an option for any that refused to play.

Anyhow, we watched, with a strange mix of emotions inside. Part of us wanted our boys to do well, but for the Soviets to be thrashed. The West Germans were a solid team and for a while it was a close game, but once they’d taken a two goal lead it was virtually over. It was nice to see our boy, Porkuyan, score a late consolation but if only he’d been wearing the blue and the yellow, then I would have jumped through the ceiling.

A few days later, Wembley Stadium in London was full of cheering supporters. The whole of England stopped. Every ounce of every man, woman and child was willing England to beat the West Germans and be crowned world champions. Mikola and I were cheering them on too. After all, we had a lot to be grateful for. The English had given us a home and the freedom to be who we were. Okay, we were restricted in the kind of work we could do, but we had homes and we had enough to eat. The houses in which we lived had heating and running water. We couldn’t complain.

The Germans took an early lead, but England came back strongly and were ahead by two goals to one, with just a couple of minutes to go. A nation stood still, not daring to even breathe. Then, from nowhere, a calamity! An equaliser from the Germans sent the game into extra-time. That created a hush in all of us. I could feel it all around, and I knew it was hanging right over everyone, up and down the whole country.

In extra-time, England scored to make it three to two, but there was a controversy. The shot, by England striker Geoff Hurst, had smashed onto the underside of the crossbar and bounced down. The Germans disputed whether it had crossed the line. In the end it was a Russian linesman who confirmed that the goal should stand. Mikola and I smiled at each other as we watched the linesman talking to the referee. ‘That bloody Soviet fool,’ said Mikola, ‘he looks half asleep. Does he know what the hell he’s doing?’

It didn’t matter in the end, because Hurst scored again, and England won the game! Euphoria swept over England, and we all got caught up in its wave! The celebrations went on for days with people coming out onto the street cheering and singing. It was open house along our road for at least a week. I could walk into a neighbour’s front door at anytime, and a glass of beer would be in my hand in the space of a few seconds. It was pure joy.

The years following this saw the Ukrainian community in Britain develop and grow. Someone, at some time, I guess it must have been the Association of Ukrainians in Great Britain, bought a huge ex-army site in Weston-on-Trent, Derbyshire, which began to be used for regular rallies by Ukrainians from all over the country. It was a great place and was given the name
Tarasivka
. There was a hall, large enough to stage concerts. There were groups of barracks and two large fields, suitable for camping. There was a football pitch, volleyball pitch and even a small swimming pool. And, if you walked down the road, past the nearby woods, there were further facilities – a hostelry with a bar and numerous dwellings that served as retirement homes.

Several times a year, but more so in the summer, hundreds of Ukrainians would travel there, some by car, but also many by coach from the bigger Ukrainian communities such as Manchester, Bradford, Wolverhampton, Leeds or Coventry.

Tarasivka
was an oasis. It was as if God had planted a small piece of Ukraine right in the middle of England. We could socialise and eat picnics together, and meet up with old friends. In the afternoons, the young boys and girls would stage a concert, with traditional music, singing and dance. It was a wonderful sight to see the youngsters keeping up those traditions. A chapel was built for church services. At the back of the hall, on a small part of the field, a bazaar would be set up, and we could go and buy embroidered tablecloths, books, greetings cards or recordings of Ukrainian music, all sorts of things. In the evenings they would hold a
zabava
*. A band would play, usually consisting of mandolins, accordions, a drummer and maybe a guitarist. Maria and I would have a dance in the early stages of the evening, and then let the youngsters cut loose. We’d sit back and watch the boys and girls getting to know each other.