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.
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 thin
gs 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.