‘You know as well as I, there is no truth in the world and there never will be.’ I replied.
All over the world there was turmoil. The Soviets were fighting a war in Afghanistan; they’d rolled their tanks across the border back in 1979. It was part of their mission to spread communism. It was crazy! Why try and push ideas onto a people who don’t want them? The Soviets were aggressive and brutal, always looking to gain territory from their neighbours, always looking to poke their noses into other people’s business. That’s what they’d always done.
But, a surprise arrived in 1987 that made me raise my eyebrows. The USA and the Soviets agreed to reduce their stockpiles of nuclear weapons, and the world breathed a little easier. Maybe things were changing.
Meanwhile, I became a granddad three times over! Anna gave birth to another two boys, Mikhaylo and Simon. It was a great time for me, and Maria, to see those young boys grow up, learning the Ukrainian language, and the customs from back home, but at the same time, I was starting to feel my age. I was 60 years old, and my body was creaking. I had so many aches all over my body, but that’s what happens as a person ages. I wondered many times whether I’d ever get back home and walk again on Ukrainian soil. That Iron Curtain was drawn right across those eastern territories, including my beloved Ukraine, and it seemed like it would stay right there forever.
But, one evening, I was watching the late news on a warm evening in June. Ronald Reagan was the president of the USA at that time and he was visiting East Berlin. I watched, wondering what the purpose of his visit might be. I had no doubt it would be to further the prosperity of the USA and to forge stronger links with the Soviets. It made my stomach turn to see Reagan shaking hands with Gorbachev. It was like watching two bullies slap each other on the back and sanction each other’s aggression towards other, smaller nations. Then Reagan made his speech, and I leaned forward to listen closer. I didn’t expect the ex-screen cowboy to say very much,
‘We welcome change and openness; for we believe that freedom and security go together, that the advance of human liberty can only strengthen the cause of world peace. There is one sign the Soviets can make that would be unmistakable, that would advance dramatically the cause of freedom and peace. General Secretary Gorbachev, if you seek peace, if you seek prosperity for the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe, if you seek liberalization, come here to this gate. Mr. Gorbachev, open this gate. Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!’
They were strong, powerful words. The speech echoed around the Ukrainian communities and through the Ukrainian press. It felt like something was in the air . . .
Andriy moved away to Nottingham to study at the University there, and, afterwards, settled down there with Mandy, his girlfriend. Maria and I were on our own, although our children kept in touch and visited often.
As ever, the world just kept moving on. After many years of service to the Metal Box Company, I was made redundant – replaced by mechanisation. Well, it was the modern way. Things weren’t so bad though, our mortgage was paid off and I got a generous redundancy package, so I took early retirement.
We reached 1989, the years sliding past like a rich man making money. The Soviets pulled out of Afghanistan, having failed to win that war, and then, just a few months later, we witnessed scenes on television that were simply astonishing. Hundreds of people, or maybe even thousands, swarmed around the Berlin Wall. Some youngsters danced on the top of the wall; others tore away at the bricks. It got more and more frantic and the joyful noise of freedom smashing down a wall of oppression poured out of the television until a section of that wall fell away, the dancers on the top leaping to safety. It wasn’t long before it all crumbled into bricks.
‘Nobody wants the communists any more do they, Stefan?’ said Maria, as we watched it together.
‘Maybe now is the time for a new dawn,’ I replied. ‘Maybe we’re seeing the start of a cure for the communist disease.’
Brick by brick, that wall in Berlin got dismantled, and people from both sides embraced each other as Germany took its first steps towards reunification.
Communism took a massive body blow that day, and it never recovered. Slowly, the belief that Ukraine could be free began to spread inside us like the glow from a glass of horilka.
A fellow came to prominence in leading Ukraine towards independence. His name was Leonid Kravchuk. In Ukraine, there were numerous strikes and demonstrations by ordinary people who wanted democracy and freedom. I braced myself as I looked at the images on the television screen of people up and down the length and breadth of Ukraine who were massed together, singing in protest, and for democracy and freedom. I sat waiting for the riot police to go charging in, with batons and water cannons. I expected to see images of people being cuffed and beaten to the ground by the uniformed thugs of the administration, but it didn’t happen.
Kravchuk was the architect. He guided Ukraine away from communist rule towards independence, and for that I thank him from the bottom of my shoes and from the deepest reaches of my heart.
On December 1st, 1991, Ukraine held a referendum and a presidential election. The result was in no doubt. A huge majority resulted in a free Ukraine with Kravchuk as its first president. I could hardly believe it. Maria and I hugged each other as the results were announced. Ukraine was free of its Soviet yoke!
All over England, and the rest of the world, the Ukrainian diaspora could celebrate and really feel free. For the first time, we could say we were a truly independent nation. Ukraine was a part of Europe and had its own place in the world. I gave thanks to God.
And so, the question remained whether I should try and make contact with my family again. So many times I’d tried. Over the years I’d written dozens of letters, all of them ripped open by Soviet officials and probably destroyed. Of course, I knew I had to try!
I sat down with a pen and a pad of writing paper. Almost 50 years had gone by since I had last walked on Ukrainian soil and I pondered who I should write to. My heart and my head ached so much as I forced myself to face the fact that Mother was surely no longer alive. She would have been more than 90 years old. With all the hardships she’d gone through, I doubted whether she would still be here. I prayed that, wherever she was, she’d forgive me for leaving her; I’d missed her so much over the years, my beautiful, wonderful Mother! I still remember her arms around me, that warm embrace, that aroma of a mother’s bosom, that aura of life she had around her. She breathed so much of that into us. I smiled whenever I saw her – I still do see her in my dreams and she’s there in my heart. She lives inside me.
And what of my big brother, Volodimir? Where had he ended up? Was he like me, one of the displaced? Or had he made it back home somehow? Slowly, with the pen crawling across the page, I wrote the letter – I decided I’d write to Volodimir, all the while praying he was still alive. Even if his heartbeat wasn’t near to mine, it would still beat in time together with mine for all eternity, that’s how close we were.
It wasn’t a long letter, I just told my story in a few words and asked for someone or somebody to write back. It was January 1992 and we’d just celebrated our Christmas. It just so happened that my old friend Fedor had received a visitor from Ukraine around that time. His guest was the first wave of adventurers from beyond that border. Many young Ukrainians took the opportunity to see a bit of the world once they were free of the shackles of communism. They were pouring out of Ukraine day after day. Fedor’s nephew had come to see him, a young man called Theo, who hailed from the same town as Fedor, Rivne. Fedor invited me round one evening to meet him so I drove over there one Friday night. Fedor, and his wife Araciella, laid on a spread, with a selection of sandwiches, cold meats and pickles and plenty of cakes and pastries. It was a fine spread indeed. One or two of Fedor’s other friends were there and the atmosphere was of a quiet joyousness, of a celebration that Ukraine was no longer a slave nation.
‘So Theo, how is life in Ukraine right now?’ I asked.
‘It’s hard.
But it’s also exciting. Everything’s changing. Some things are getting better, other things are getting worse. We’re finding our way; it’s an adventure every day. Sometimes you wonder where the next piece of bread will come from, but something always turns up. There’s always some deal or something you can do for someone, and then you can earn some cash. That’s what it’s all about, no?’
‘Listen to me,’ I said, ‘it’s hard work here in England, but at least you can try to make things better for yourself. That’s what all of us Ukrainians have done. Now, it’s time for your generation to show the world what you can do, eh?’
Theo looked at me and nodded with a smile across his face. I sensed there was a new beginning for Ukrainians across the world, and that Theo could be part of that. I wished him the best in his future endeavours, but there was one favour I needed to ask him. ‘I have a letter, to my family in Vinnitsya. Would you be able to post it to them when you get back home?’
‘Of course I can, Stefan, as soon as I get to the nearest post box I’ll drop it in.’
The party carried on at Fedor’s, and I stayed for a little while longer, and then said my goodbyes. When I got home, I went upstairs, got undressed and went to bed. Sleep was slow coming; I drifted in and out of slumber, with dreamy thoughts of home invading my head.
The following weeks passed by like slow motion. I checked the mail every day, but nothing came, until one day in the first, crisp dawns of February.
It was a Saturday and Anna, Stefan and their three boys were visiting us. As usual, I’d gone out to the town to buy some milk, a few groceries, and a newspaper. I got back to see Anna sitting at the kitchen table with an airmail envelope on the table in front of her.
‘Hello, Dad,’ she said as I stood looking at the letter, ‘it’s addressed to you. It’s from Ukraine.’ I dumped the shopping bag down on a chair. The letter was there looking at me, daring me to pick it up and open it. My hand trembled as I reached for it and held it up. Sure enough, the postmark was from Ukraine, and the stamp appeared to be Ukrainian. I put it back down on the table, and started to unpack my shopping.
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ asked Anna.
‘I’m just going to unpack this shopping,’ I replied, and busied myself with loading up the fridge and the cupboards with the items I’d bought. Once I’d done that I walked across the kitchen and picked up the kettle, and filled it up with cold water from the tap.
‘Well,’ Anna was watching me as I moved around the kitchen, ‘aren’t you going to open it?’
I didn’t answer her, not because I didn’t want to, or because I was being rude to her. There were no words I could say right then. My mind was a swirling jigsaw of broken thoughts. The kettle boiled. Anna sat quietly as I made myself a cup of coffee. The letter was screaming at me as I sat down at the table, screaming for me to pick it up and rip it open. The steam from my cup of coffee drifted up towards the ceiling and deposited drops of moisture on my forehead, which, together with the strong coffee aroma, got my pulse racing. I rubbed my hands through my hair and then I scooped up the envelope and began to open it, taking care not to damage it. Inside were two small sheets of paper. I unfolded them, and Maria came and sat at the table as I began to read. The tears flowed down my cheeks almost as soon as I read the first few words from my nephew, also called Stefan, like me! He was the son of my brother, Volodimir. I praised the Lord that Volodimir had survived and produced a family.
I then found out that Mother passed away in 1980, she lived until she was 90 and passed away peacefully in her sleep. I put the letter down and clasped my hands together in thanks to the Lord that she’d lived so long. I picked the letter up again to discover that Volodimir passed away the following year, 1981. He’d been watching television with his family one evening and excused himself to go outside and tidy the yard. After he’d been gone a while, they went to see where he was and found he’d collapsed from a heart attack and died. As I took in those words, I steeled myself like a Kozak. I sat there, my shoulders shaking, I couldn’t hold myself back, and the tears streamed down my face. Anna and Maria put their arms around me as I sobbed. It’s hard to describe how I felt. It was as if I’d lived in one world and then been whisked away to another. My memories came flooding back stronger than ever. In my head I was back there with Mother, in the kitchen, with the fire burning in the oven, the heat melting into me, keeping me warm. Right then, I knew for certain I’d never see her again, and, although I’d expected that to be the case, seeing it written down carved a deep wound inside me. As for Volodimir, the knowledge that he died so young, only 55, it ached inside me. Alive or dead, he was still my brother, and I knew he was looking over me – somehow I felt closer than ever to him; maybe because I knew he was up in Heaven with the angels.
I read that letter from start to finish. It took me about half an hour to get through it, even though it was only two sheets of paper. Every word and every sentence tore through me. I smoked cigarettes as I read. Then I read it through again.
Sometimes, freedom wasn’t so easy, not when your family had lived through times like we had. Of all my family, I was the luckiest, and the only one still alive. My journey had been hard and long, but after reading through that letter several times, I knew there was one more journey I would need to make.
Many more letters flew back and forth from England to Ukraine as I wrote to the children of Volodimir: Tanya, Mikola and Stefan. Photographs were also exchanged and there were many old portraits of a big extended family standing next to my beloved Mother and brother. Preparations needed to be made. An application form for a passport was completed and sent off to the authorities, and I arranged a visit to my doctor for a health check and for the vaccinations needed.
Meanwhile, Anna and Stefan booked flights to Ukraine to visit in July of that very year, because they already held passports. Andriy was unable to go because he’d recently become a father himself – another grandson for me, Joe. I was starting to feel old!
Maria and I looked after three of our grandsons while Anna and Stefan made their trip back to Vinnitsya, back to our old family home. They came back wide-eyed and full of stories of their trip, and their meeting with my niece and nephews.
‘Dad, it was wonderful,’ said Anna, ‘they met us at the airport. Tanya was there, with her husband Volodko, and also Stefan and Mikola. They greeted us in the traditional way with bread and salt. I cried. I couldn’t help myself. To be in Ukraine was an incredible feeling and they really welcomed us. From them on, it was like one big party. They took us everywhere during the day, all over Ukraine, and in the evenings there was food and drink, and we had music, we danced. Stefan played some tunes to them on an accordion. We had the time of our lives!’
As I listened to her a glow spread inside me, it filled every inch of me. I felt so warm and so happy I could have exploded with joy.
So, we sat and we planned for the following year. It required so much organising it gave me a headache at times. Andriy’s wife was expecting yet another child so he wouldn’t be able to come, a busy boy that son of mine. The trip would include Maria and I, Anna and Stefan, and their three boys, Marko, Mihasz and Simon. And so, it was all organised, once again, for the month of July 1993. I would be going home!
The letters to and from my nieces and nephews continued, and the occasional phone call. The summer faded away, the leaves fell from the trees and the winds blew cooler. My wait to go home had been a long one, so another year wouldn’t make much difference. Besides, I’d never been on an aeroplane before and, although Anna reassured me that there was nothing to fear, I was beginning to get anxious.
I had other things to worry about too. How would things be back at home and how would I react? Once again I thought about our house back in Vinnitsya as I’d done a million times before. With that set of three wooden steps leading up to the side door, that Father painted every so often to keep them clean and in good condition. I wondered if they would still be there and what colour they migh
t be. He always painted them a strong red colour – like over-ripe tomatoes.
Once I’d gone up those steps I’d be standing at that door, with its four wooden panels and cast iron handle. Father used a heavy stain on that door, it was a golden shade of brown with a sharp aroma wafting from its surface, and it always made my nose twitch. That shade of golden brown always made me feel like I was entering a palace. On entering the house, a blast of warm air from the stove always engulfed me, and usually it was accompanied by the smell of cooking or baking, my favourite was when Mother made biscuits. My mouth watered just thinking about them. If there were biscuits Mother usually gave me one, and I’d sit at the table eating it, while looking up at that icon of Jesus and his Apostles at the Last Supper. The gold painted frame that held the icon was so beautifully and ornately carved, it was a wonder to me. That’s what I wanted: to see that icon and several others of religious scenes around the house, all with similar frames.
Things would be different though, that could only be expected. There would be different furniture and carpets, and I expected the walls to be a different colour. My mind raced through the possibilities, day after day. So much so, that I did my best to keep myself busy.
Some years back, I’d constructed a canopy at the back of our house, a roof over the back yard, which we sat under in the summer. Over the last few years, I‘d wondered whether I could convert this canopy into a conservatory. A collection of wooden panels, battens and some old windows and doors were stacked at the back of my garage for this very purpose. With so much going on in my head and in my heart, there would never be a better time to start this project. Throughout the rest of that year, right up until Christmas, I was a hurricane in that back yard, sawing planks of wood, hammering panels together and drilling and screwing down wooden frames. It was good for me to keep busy in this way. It took my mind off things a little. The weather was kind to me, and by mid-December I’d constructed the shell of what would become a conservatory for Maria and me.