‘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.
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 cou
rted. 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.