The Man From Talalaivka. Olga Chaplin

to the illicit gold trader, and return him to Evdokia in time.

      * * *

      In the semi-dark of late afternoon, he quickly worked the precious milled flour procured from the trader and added a little fresh hay and drops of oil. He watched intently as the tiny kykyrhyske baked in the ancient earthen oven. He counted each one; life-saving rations for his little family. In the darkness of night, he hid the box high in the rafters. He had to ensure the contents would not be stolen; had to avoid Evdokia’s searching eyes as he rationed each kykyrhyska to her and Vanya in order to keep them alive.

      Evdokia was to eventually recover from her ordeal: her ravaged body pushed closer to the abyss of death than she could acknowledge, in the horror ghoulish winter of 1931–1932. No external scars were evident, as she slowly regained her strength to return to the kolkhoz fields in the spring. Uncomplainingly, she accepted the penalty of quarter-kopeks docked by the kolkhoz overseer for gnawing raw beet hidden in her pocket. And she could look admiringly, in wonder, at her resourceful and energetic husband, who had returned to her and had found a way to save her and little Vanya.

      But internally, the wounds remained. The internal scars never left her. Death had stared her too closely in the face, had permeated her body, had extracted almost her last breath. She could not—would not—ever forget this, ever inwardly overcome this. From that winter, she was a changed woman, her spirit scarred beyond repair. She replaced it with the mantle of caution, of practical considerations, and wore this mantle, permanently, to the very end.

      She would never again allow herself to explore and experience the joy of an unfettered creative spirit. For such a decision, the price was high. Too high. It was as if, in some ghoulish way, Stalin’s poisonous chalice had reached her after all. She never again raised herself to the idealism she had earlier shared with her husband, the altruism and love of life that still fuelled him every joyous day. Though neither of them could have known it, they had already embarked on different spiritual paths in life, crisscrossing at times, but never truly sharing, experiencing, the same ultimate, beautiful moments. For that, she had Stalin to thank.