‘Everybody out!’ A sergeant hollered at us, as the tail of the truck was lowered. Our journey had reached its first stop. We clambered out with our meagre belongings, which we grasped in small bundles or in fraying bags. We’d arrived at a train station.
We looked up in wonder at the twisted turrets and the gilded glass, and climbed aboard a train to continue our journey. It was like a fairy tale, the whole thousand miles was like a dream. We jumped onto another train further down the line, until we arrived at the French coast. A night boat took us across the Channel to the shores of England. We walked off that boat at around six in the morning. A warm summer breeze curled itself around us as we tramped down the gangway. A blazing sun threw streaks of gold at us, and above us flocks of huge white birds screeched away,
‘Hey!’ Marko tried to reach up towards one of them and seize back the hunk of bread that had been expertly plucked from his fingers. I found out, not long afterwards, that these birds were seagulls, and masters of scavenging from unsuspecting visitors. Their piercing squawks were our welcome to the United Kingdom.
We were registered in a wooden cabin. There were two tables with clerks to check us through. We queued up, our papers were scrutinised, and they waved us through. I looked down at the document as it was placed back in my hand, I saw the date. It was the 1st August 1948. I was just a few weeks away from my 21st birthday.
Each of us was given a shilling as our papers were handed back to us. Marko held up his coin and looked at it, turning it to see both sides. Yarema laughed, ‘Marko, so this is your first step to that fortune you were talking about, eh?’
‘It doesn’t look like it’s worth much, how long do you think it’ll last us?’ replied Marko.
‘I really don’t know,’ smiled Yarema, ‘but don’t spend it too quickly, will you?’
We all held up the coins to get a closer look. There was the King’s head on one side, and a lion above a crown on the other, images of a royal kingdom. It felt like we’d arrived in a whole different world to the one we’d come from. The way we’d been treated by the Allies made me think that life in the west would be considerably more civilised than under the communists.
Another group of escort trucks was waiting on the other side of the wooden cabin, and we were marched across to them. It was to be yet another two or three hours on the road, and I, like most of the others, was wearying of life in the back of a truck. I wanted to be somewhere, get settled, and start living some kind of life. Just sitting around thinking wasn’t good for me.
Eventually, we arrived at a small town called Market Drayton. There was a camp there, which looked just like any other army base. As we climbed out of the truck, there was a warm and sticky breeze, as if the air was tinged with the stale sweat of a punch drunk boxer knocked out in the last round of a prize-fight. Our escort took us across to a group of barracks, and we saw a group of them hanging around. Nazi prisoners. They must have been the last few left, waiting to go back. They walked past us, dragging their feet and looking down at their boots. I turned towards them as they passed, and felt myself tensing up. I drew a fist back.
‘Stefan,’ a heavy arm wrapped itself around me and pulled me away, ‘you don’t need to do this. It’s over. Let the war tribunals deal with these men. You’ll only end up getting yourself in trouble.’
Yarema was right. I was so angry though. The fires of my rage were burning inside. The war had, first of all, taken me away from everything and then snatched away whatever was left. Inside me, my Kozak blood was boiling. I swear I could have killed those Germans there and then, crushed them underneath my boot, just like their nation had crushed our nation. The German soldiers passed us by, and I pushed Yarema away and scowled at him. He was right, I knew he was, but would never have admitted it to him. He continued, ‘We have to find another way, war isn’t the answer. Surely we know that now?’
There was nothing I could say to that, I just turned and walked off. Those words stuck inside my head though. His observation had a truth about it. If there was one thing I’d learned through the last few years, it was the ugliness of war.
The base at Market Drayton was our home for a brief period until we were assigned our final destination. As with many of the countries in Europe, Britain had a shortage of manpower, a shortage of food and lots of rebuilding to do. Clearly, as refugees we would play our part in that. The youngsters, such as Marko, were keen to get going. ‘I wonder where we’ll end up,’ he speculated as he paced up and down in our wooden barrack, which was our accommodation during our stay there. The rest of us sat around smoking and drinking watery tea from tin mugs. He sent us dizzy with his pacing, ‘London, that’s where I’d like to go. That’s where the big money’ll be. It’s the capital, after all.’ He was so full of hope, his eyes were wide open all the time, like a bright-eyed puppy’s.
‘Relax, kid.’ Yarema was frowning, and that was unusual, he rarely got flustered. ‘You’re giving me a headache. I’ve already told you, we’ll all have to work hard to make any real money here. From what I’ve heard, Britain took a beating from the Nazis. Some of their towns and cities are wrecked. There will not be a lot of money around for you to get your hands on.’
Marko carried on pacing, almost as if he hadn’t heard Yarema. All of us breathed easier as he stepped outside for some air.
Finally, a couple of days later, we got the news we’d been waiting for. A line of us formed once again in front of a table in the mess hall. An official informed me that I was to go to work on farms in a nearby county called Worcestershire. My shoulders dropped. Marko’s enthusiasm had infected me. I guess I’d have liked to be in the excitement of a city, with all its busy noise and big buildings. Of course, I accepted my fate, as a good Ukrainian always does, and braced myself to make the best of it. After all, I had plenty of experience in farm work.
The next day I took my place in the back of yet another truck, it was to be my final journey in the back of those army trucks. My destination was to be a place called Clifton on Teme. There were a dozen of us all headed there, and it was in the back of that truck I made friends with a couple of fellows who would become part of my life for many years. I didn’t know it at the time, but Mikola, Fedor and I would become good friends.
Six of us were dropped at a hostel in Clifton on Teme, Mikola, Fedor, myself and three Poles, Pawel, Otto and Karel. It was basic accommodation, the six of us shared a room. There was a small kitchen and bathroom and breakfast was provided for us at seven o’clock, before we went to work.
There were a number of farms in the area, and transport came daily to take us to them. The first one we went to was the Robinson farm. Mr Robinson lived there with his wife. They were both around the same age as my own mother and father. There was a sadness about them, and many times I wondered what their story was, but we were only ever allowed into the kitchen for our lunchtime meal, never into the other rooms in the farmhouse, so I never ever saw very much, certainly nothing that would give any clues to their life, past or present.
Mr Robinson was friendly to us, but firm from the start. He had cows, sheep and pigs, as well as several acres of crops. The six of us worked from dawn to dusk every day. To keep us going, Mrs Robinson kept us well fed, her generous lunches were the best I’d had for some time. Sometimes we’d be sent off to other farms for a week or two, but most of the time we were at the Robinsons.
Our wages weren’t much, as Yarema predicted. Each week we were paid a small amount, I can’t recall how much it was, but I guess it reflected the fact that we got free board at the hostel, and some free meals at the farms. It was right at the peak of a beautiful English summer when we first arrived, with golden fields all around us, dotted with lush, green pastureland. One of our first jobs was to bring in the harvest. It was back-breaking work. There was an occasion, on the second day of our stay there, in the blistering heat of the afternoon, when our spirits rose as we saw Mrs Robinson approaching with a tray of drinks. Each of us picked up a glass full of a
pale, yellow liquid. We all took several big gulps, and then stood gasping, with our eyes beginning to water. It was so sour! Very different to the sweet fruit compote we had back home. We forced it down though, so as not to offend Mrs Robinson. Over time, we found out this was lemonade, English style, and I grew to like it.
Now and again, the three of us, Mikola, Fedor and I, would walk on down to the village. Sometimes our three Polish friends would join us, but that made us more conspicuous, walking around in a big gang. The village people would stare at us. Some would cross the road if they saw us approaching, so we quickly realised it was better to get around in smaller groups. There wasn’t a great deal in the village: a Post Office, a Village Store and a Garage. We bought cigarettes at the Store. Of course, at first, we didn’t have much of a clue about the money so just held out a handful of coins. The Storekeeper squinted at us suspiciously and then picked out a few. Lord knows whether he took the right amount or just helped himself to however much he wanted. Towards the far end of the village were a church and a small schoolhouse. There the village ended. After we’d been there a few times the villagers soon worked out who we were and some even greeted us as we passed them by.
There was an inn in the village called the Lion. We got into the habit of going there at the end of the week, usually on a Saturday night. The first time we went there, we walked through the door and were met with a silence and all eyes upon us. We walked up to the bar. It was busy. The three of us waited until our turn came and then the barman looked at Mikola, ‘Yes?’
‘Beer?’ replied Mikola
The barman then listed all the different beers available there, far too many for us to make any sense of. Mikola was a clever one though, he tapped his hand on one of the pumps, just as he’d seen one of the locals do, and we ended up with three pints of a dark ale with a foamy head.
Ignoring the whispers and sly glances from around us, we found a quiet corner and sat down. We were beginning to understand more and more of the language, but at times it paid to pretend you didn’t understand, particularly when you heard whispered phrases such as bloody foreigners slipping through the smoky haze.
The beer was very bitter and heavy. It settled in my stomach and swirled around in there like sour treacle. We got used to it though, just like the lemonade. The Lion was the place where I celebrated my 21st birthday, in the company of Mikola and Fedor. We drank a few glasses of the beer, and as ever the talk came around to going home. ‘You know that old Ukrainian proverb don’t you, eh, Stefan?’ Mikola fixed his eyes on me, ‘A dream is sweeter than honey. Never stop believing, Stefan. Nazdorovya!*’
Three glasses crashed together and we drank to health and long life. There wasn’t much more we could say about our longing to go back. All we could do was live day by day, and cling on to those dreams.
Our first year working on the farms passed by like butter melting in a hot pan, but there were times when I wished I wasn’t there. Our first winter in England was such a cold one. I remember, on one occasion, Mikola and I were on the Robinsons’ farm and he’d asked us to go and gather in some manglewurzels for cattle feed. It was so cold that day as we trudged up that field. On reaching the top Mikola turned to me,
‘Stefan, how about we build ourselves a fire to keep warm?’
I nodded, and we gathered together a heap of firewood and twigs. Several attempts later and after a lot of thick smoke had poured into the sky, we managed to tease a few flames out. They grew into a good blaze, and we stood there getting warm. The manglewurzels could wait.
Without warning, he was there next to us. It was Mr Robinson. Luckily, we’d just extinguished our cigarettes and were warming our hands in front of that fire.
‘What are you doing?’ He fixed us with a firm stare.
‘Mr Robinson,’ replied Mikola, ‘we’re just drying our aprons and our gloves.’
‘But you are going to pick the manglewurzels aren’t you?’
‘Of course, of course. Yes, as soon as we dry off we’ll pick them.’
Mr Robinson nodded, seemingly happy at this reply, and he walked off towards the farmhouse, but we didn’t rush to start work, it was such a cold day. Eventually, we picked a few, but I guess it was something that went against our whole way of thinking. We’d always had our smallholdings back home, so working for someone else and getting paid a few pennies was too similar to the way we’d been treated by the Soviets.
The summer arrived again, and we were faced with another mountain of work. The six of us were doing enough for twelve. During those gruelling summer months we’d work until it was getting dark, get fed and then the transport would pick us up and take us back to our hostel, where we got ourselves cleaned up and collapsed into our beds.
I got to know Mikola and Fedor well over the course of that year. Mikola was a tall fellow, and well built, like a bull. A fold of tight curls sat on his head, swept back and held in place by a handful of hair wax. Mikola didn’t like to rush around, he took things steady, but he was so strong. He’d walk along with bale after bale of hay on his shoulder without breaking sweat. Fedor couldn’t have been more different, he was small, wiry and restless. Always ready with a smile, he had an open face, with dark good looks and blue eyes that made the girls melt. In fact, I think he never really ever thought about much else other than girls. ‘What about those German girls, eh, Stefan? Weren’t they hot? They were so pretty, I wished I could’ve stayed there you know? I really do.’
The endless slog of the farm work threw us together, I felt as if I’d known Mikola and Fedor all my life, it was like having two brothers.
It was a relief when the weekends came, we only worked on a Saturday morning and the rest of the time was our own. Sometimes, one of us would be sent down to the village to run errands for Mr Robinson. On one of those Saturday mornings, I’d taken a slow walk down from the farm, and I found myself standing outside the garage. A mechanic was crouched down next to a motorbike, applying a shine to the tailpipe and the mudguards. It was a beautiful machine. He straightened up and saw me looking. ‘You like my motorbike? I’ve had it two years now. It’s a Royal Enfield Bullet. A great bike, but I’m selling it ’cause they’ve just made a new, more powerful model. You want to buy it?’
Oh, I wanted it all right. He told me how much he was asking, and I can’t recall the price I paid, but I know it amounted to nearly all the money I’d saved up over the last year. I agreed the price with him and to collect it the following Saturday. He directed me to the Post Office so I could get myself a licence. I had just enough money on me to pay for it, under the watchful eye of the Post Office counter clerk, so I completed the form, with his firm hand of assistance, paid my money and put it in my wallet, all ready for the following week.
That was a long seven days. The first chance I got on the following Saturday I slipped away from the farm and hurried down to the garage. I was greeted with a smile as I held out a bundle of notes. He filled up the tank with petrol, and then he showed me how to use the controls. After a few wobbles around the village square, I roared away leaving a cloud of smoke behind me. I rode back to the farm. The first half a mile I took it steady, but then I did what all young men do when they get on a motorbike; I revved the engine hard and felt the wind on my face and in my hair. I flew like an arrow through those country lanes. As I turned into the entrance of the main farmyard, everyone looked across. Mikola and Fedor stood up from their usual spot on the steps up to the hayloft where they liked to sit and smoke. They gazed in astonishment as I rode up to them and then stopped. ‘Stefan, that is one hell of a machine you’ve got there. It’s a beast.’ Mikola grinned at me and took a pull on his cigarette. Pawel, Otto and Karel came rushing out from behind one of the barns and took it in turns to jump on the back and have a ride around the farm. Everyone whooped and cheered, and I revved the motorbike hard. Somehow, the Kozak fire inside us blazed, and we didn’t care. It was a show of strength in a way, however small, just to show the world we existed. It was the mo
st fun we’d all had for a while, there were six smiles spread wide across six faces. Until Mr Robinson came hurtling out of the main farmhouse, his face all red. It looked like he was about to explode.
‘Hey! What do you think you’re playing at? You can’t ride around here like that! You’ll scare the animals! I won’t have this. This motorbike is not to be used here on the farm, is that understood?’ Without waiting for any of us to answer him, he stormed back into the farmhouse. I turned the engine off, and there was a moment when nothing was said. I wheeled the motorbike into the barn and then went to the farmhouse. ‘Mr Robinson, I’m sorry about the bike, I don’t want any trouble.’
Mr Robinson stared at me for a second or two. He had a look about him that I wasn’t sure of. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘you’ve come here, we’ve given you work and you’ve got somewhere to live and enough to eat, and we pay you a wage! You should respect that. But this business with the motorbike, it’s not acceptable.’
‘I bought it with my own money.’ I replied.
Mr Robinson tapped his fingers on the kitchen table. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to restrict your use of it to weekends only. Under no circumstances can you use it on farm land.’
It felt just like being back in the Soviet Union. All we’d done was fool around with a motorbike. I thought about what he said, and I knew that, if it were his own sons, he would have allowed it, but because of who we were, he’d taken a hard line.
Mikola, Fedor and I resolved to get away from the farm work as soon as we could. So, the following Saturday I took Fedor with me and we rode off to the nearest city, Worcester.
It was a grand place. There was a sense of majesty as we rode around. Some of the buildings were quite magnificent. We passed by some old school buildings that looked a hundred years old, with carvings of hideous faces in their brickwork – I wondered what those carvings could be. At times, we passed by the River Severn, and saw swans floating along, with streams of gold flickering on the top of the water. A fresh breeze swept over us.