The Silence of Trees Read online

  Miriam died in my arms the night we arrived at the camp. What had the vorozhka foretold? Tragedy. Loss. Separation. It all came true.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When I rode away on that train, I vowed never to return to Ukraine. I arrived in Germany with the understanding that I would find a new life somewhere else. I had no idea what that new life would look like, but I knew it could not include my past.

  I never imagined that fifty years later, someone from home would try to find me. I never anticipated that anyone could be alive who would remember.

  "What’s that burning, old woman?" Pavlo asked, shuffling up behind me, "One would think that after seventy years on this Earth, you would know how to cook eggs without burning them."

  The ham and eggs on the stove were ash shadows of breakfast. Again my daydreaming had distracted me. I reached for the spatula to scrape the charred bits into the trash as my cat, Khvostyk (named for the cat I had had as a child) stood by and waited for me to drop bits of ham on the floor. After thirteen years, he knew that I hadn’t the best aim.

  "Old man," I said without turning around, "one would think that after more than fifty years, you would give me at least one morning of peace and quiet. These eggs are not for you; they’re for me. I like my breakfast crispy, or have you forgotten?"

  He chuckled and smacked me on the behind before sitting at the kitchen table. Knowing he would reach for the basket of pompushky I had baked the night before, I turned around and said sternly, "Those are not for you, Pavlo. Taras and the kids will be coming by after church tomorrow, and I want to have some treats and coffee ready for them."

  He put back the pompushok and reached for his lighter. "Well, how much longer then?"

  "Long enough for you to slowly kill yourself with your morning cigarette. I’ve always wanted to be a widow. So glamorous, like Elizabeth Taylor." I knocked on the wooden cutting board beside the sink; better not to tempt fate. But Pavlo didn’t react, and I watched him slowly rise from his seat and walk to the washroom. "Besides," I continued, "it’s been one year since Marko Somovych’s wife died, and he’ll be looking for another bride soon. He says I make the best varenyky."

  "He wouldn’t have you, Nadya." Pavlo reached for the blue and yellow bathrobe hanging on the inside of the door—a gift from the grandchildren last Father’s Day. "Marko’s looking for a younger woman, not an old bag like you. Besides, all of your junk wouldn’t fit in his tiny house." He winked at me and went out onto the porch.

  "Pat down your hair; you’ll scare the neighborhood kids." I shouted out the window, but he didn’t hear me. I saw his new hearing aid sitting on the window sill.

  Of course his "morning cigarette" was really three or four, so I had plenty of time to cook up his breakfast before he began to get anxious again.

  I cracked two more eggs into the skillet, put on some ham, and placed rolls to warm in the stove. After a restless night, I had overslept and felt unsettled. I usually woke long before my husband and savored the time to myself. Instead I felt rushed trying to prepare his breakfast when I hadn’t even had my first cup of coffee.

  I didn’t like it when my morning routine was interrupted. It made me feel anxious. Each morning, I would brew a pot of coffee, then walk to my icon corner, where Pavlo and I had hung the icons we bought with our first paychecks. In the Ukrainian tradition, a couple’s parents usually gave them a set of icons for their wedding and new life together, but all of our parents were dead when we married, and we never had a blessing ceremony. I had embroidered ritual towels to drape over the icons, each covered in black and red stitches that formed the Tree of Life. This little corner was the heart of our home, a spiritual connection to Ukraine and the life we had left far behind.

  I walked to the icon corner, lit a candle in front of Mary, and thanked her for my health and the health of my family. I asked her to watch over my children, and then reflected on an upsetting dream that lingered in my memory. When I was a child, my mother taught me that dreams carried messages. As I stood before the icons, I recalled my dream about three spiders weaving a web in the corner of my bedroom. I had watched the spiders work together to create a beautiful web that eventually stretched from one side of the room to the other. When they were done, the smallest spider ate the larger two, landed on my chest, and stared into my eyes. She was crawling toward my throat when I woke up.

  What was my message? Clearly I was being warned of something.

  I stood for a moment in silence, offered thanks, and then chose my hand-decorated "Baba" mug from the cupboard—a gift from one of my grandchildren. I didn’t always pick the same mug; it depended on my mood. I had a few to choose from. If I needed strength, I chose the Kitchen Goddess mug that my best friend, Ana, had given me. When I was feeling sad, I drank from the grey, chipped mug I had "accidentally" taken home from my first job at the factory.

  Checking back on the eggs, I thought about Pavlo, who was smoking his precious cigarettes in his beloved garden. I thought about his kiss and crooked smile, the raised mole on his shoulder and the way he lifted his eyebrows when he was being coy. Sadness made my breath catch in my throat because I remembered what it was like to be in love. I remembered another man, another lifetime, another passion. I remembered how that ache hollowed me out inside. How different from the quiet, comfortable affection I felt for my husband.

  I brewed some coffee and turned the flame off the eggs and ham. I didn’t want to risk another burned breakfast. I had so much cleaning and cooking to do before Palm Sunday. I looked back at the pile of papers on the table. No matter how much I cleaned and sorted, the pile kept growing.

  There were bills, a letter from the church, and some advertisements. Underneath them all was an envelope addressed to me. The return address—scribbled in faded blue ink—was a village in western Ukraine; it did not include a name. The tiny farming village was not on many maps, but I recognized it because it was where I was born. My hands shook as I turned the envelope over. It was opened; the letter missing.

  Stephan?

  He was dead. I tried to push the name, the face, and the emotions out of my head, as I had done for half a century.

  But who? I couldn’t imagine who had sent it or why. No one there knew me anymore. No one had seen or heard from me since I was sixteen years old. There was no one left alive to remember.

  I ran my fingers along the edge of the envelope, tracing the letters: my name, my address, VIA AIR MAIL printed on the front. I put it between my hands and closed my eyes. I slid the paper in between my palms, trying to feel something of the hands that held it, that wrote my name. Who could be left alive to remember me?

  I assumed that the Ukrainian Post must have opened the letter, suspecting that its contents somehow threatened the Russian Mafia? Or perhaps money or secrets being transferred? Neighbors who had recently traveled to Ukraine had talked about the Black Market and about Communists afraid of Western interference. Anything evoking suspicion could trigger their wrath. Some things don’t change much, even after fifty years.

  I worried that whoever sent it was in danger, although that was probably why they hadn’t written their name on the envelope. The question remained: Who could have sent the letter?

  The coffee maker dripped and sizzled, releasing wisps of earthy scent, like honey and burning wood. My hands shook a little as I carried the envelope to the cabinet above the coffeemaker, and hid it inside the cedar box I kept next to the tea boxes. The box was a handmade gift from Pavlo on the one-year anniversary of our arrival in America. Inside it, I kept a few precious objects: some seeds, my black river rock, and my son Mykola’s dog tags.

  Pavlo would be finished with his cigarettes at any moment, and I didn’t want to share the envelope with him. What would I say? What could I say? I had never discussed my past with him. He knew only of my time in the camp, the time right before I met him. It was enough.

  I put Pavlo’s food on a plate and said a tiny prayer over his breakfast. The prayer made me feel bette
r, especially after the letter. I found comfort in rituals—small acts repeated with intention to remember, to reflect, and to renew. Some were traditions that I had learned from my Mama and Baba; others I adopted on my own over time. I realized long ago that rituals made me feel connected when I otherwise felt alone. They connected me to my family, to my homeland, to God, the Blessed Mother, the saints, and all the spirits and angels. I tried to share my rituals with my children and grandchildren, but I’m afraid that most will be forgotten. So much will be lost.

  I set the plate on the table and sat down with my coffee. I was fighting my urge to rush back to the cupboard and pull out the envelope again. I wanted to see if I missed something, a clue or an echo. Who could have sent it? Why now after all this time? So much had been lost. I stopped myself. What difference did it make? It was just an empty envelope. Nothing more. It didn’t mean anything.

  On Palm Sunday, I expected all our kids and grandkids to pour through the house after church. Except for my youngest daughter, Ivanka, and her husband, Roman, who were on their honeymoon in Germany. A honeymoon in Germany seemed to me as ridiculous as a vacation in Siberia, but it was their life, not mine. I had never had a honeymoon, never took a vacation. The only trips I had made were running away from the past, away from home, and away from myself. But maybe the past had finally caught up with me.

  Pavlo tapped me on the shoulder. The familiar musty smell of Marlboros should have alerted me to his return to the kitchen. Hopefully his breakfast wasn’t too cold.

  "Nadya, what’s the matter?" He patted the top of my head before sitting down at the table.

  "Nothing; I’m fine. Just thinking."

  Pavlo took a bite of his ham. He nodded with approval.

  "Perfect," he said.

  The smell of cigarettes was heavy on his breath. Although I would never tell him, I was thankful for the familiar scent—earthy like bark and grass and mud, thick and rich. It was a smell that grounded me.

  My mother once told me that you know you are in love when you can watch a man eat heartily and not get disgusted. I watched Pavlo eat over the years, shoveling forkfuls of potatoes and beef, bowls of borshch and rye bread, handfuls of chocolate and ice cream into his eager mouth. Between bites of food, he shared with me the loss of factory jobs, the death of our son, news from home. Sometimes I was annoyed by the bits of food that revealed themselves amidst his words, aggravated by the blend of colors that settled in the corners of his mouth. But he never disgusted me.

  I would add to my mother’s wisdom that the key to love is in the breath. You know you love a man when you can stand his breath in the morning after a night of drinking and cigarettes. When you can kiss him after he finishes a garlic and butter sandwich and still enjoy the feel of his lips. When he looks into your eyes, tells you he loves you—and the pickled herring and onions are stronger than his voice—yet you still smile. You still want to be close to him. Yes, then you have found love. My Baba used to say that the breath is a taste of the spirit. When two spirits recognize each other in memory and future, then love grows.

  I leaned over and kissed Pavlo gently. The coarse hairs on his chin scratched my face and his lips were dry, like crumpled paper. I drew back and took a sip of my coffee. Pavlo took another bite of ham.

  Yes, I had come to love Pavlo, but love and passion were not the same. I looked toward the icon of Mary, and shrugged. What more could I ask for at this age?

  Later that morning, I received another surprise. My daughter-in-law Anna and my granddaughter Lesya stopped by to drop off empty coffee cans in which I would bake the sweet babky for Easter week. My other daughter-in-law, Christina, arrived a few minutes later, carrying even more tins. Christina always asked me to bake extra Easter bread for her office; she liked to share her "ethnic pride."

  I had them sit at the dining room table while I went to boil some water for tea. I heard the door slam a moment after I walked out of the room. I figured that Lesya had had another argument with her mother. She was at that age when mother and daughter seem to clash at every turn. I continued to prepare a tray of cups and cakes in the kitchen while my daughters-in-law gossiped. I kept thinking of the envelope and tried to think happier thoughts.

  My Mama always said that when you cook or bake you should think of happy times or the food will be spoiled. I had a busy afternoon ahead. The water for the potatoes came to a boil, so I turned down the flame on the stove. Outside, the sky looked like shades of ashes and coal. I leaned toward the open window and smelled rain coming. In the backyard, I saw Lesya’s shoulders slump as she sat down on the bench and wiped her eyes.

  Anna, walked through the kitchen and then outside, but as soon as she sat down next to her daughter, Lesya rushed back inside the house. Her mother followed behind, her hands waving in frustration.

  "Do you have to announce it to the world? Why does my life have to be everyone else’s business?" Lesya shouted at her mother.

  I was amazed that children spoke that way to their parents. In my day, I never—

  "Lesya, I was only telling your aunt. Not the world. Besides, this is family. What’s the big secret? People will have to find out eventually. Especially if you want to bring him to Palm Sunday Mass tomorrow." Anna looked at me apologetically.

  "Find out what?" I asked, pouring the boiled potatoes into a strainer. I needed to make a big batch for the next day’s varenyky. "What is all this running around slamming doors? And why are you talking like that to your mama? She is your mama, Lesya. You give her respect."

  "It’s nothing, Baba. I don’t want to talk about it right now." She folded her arms and leaned against the refrigerator. "Besides, you wouldn’t understand."

  "Anna, leave us alone, okay?" I turned to her and winked.

  Anna shrugged and returned to the living room to talk with Christina. I heard her say, "I don’t know what to do about her."

  I smiled at Lesya. "Okay, it’s either them or me. You choose."

  She almost smiled and leaned over to pet Khvostyk, who collapsed at her feet. Lesya was Khvostyk’s favorite grandchild; she had been since he was a kitten. He tolerated my other grandchildren, but he was always fond of Lesya. Whenever her parents went out of town, she and her two sisters, Natalie and Tanya, spent the night at my house, and the cat would not leave Lesya’s side. He used to sleep on her knees. If she rolled over, he would sleep on the pillow beside her.

  "Now, Lesya, come here and make yourself useful. Chop these onions for me." She came closer and stood beside me at the counter, rolling up her sleeves.

  "I really don’t want to talk about this right now, Baba." She chopped the onion in half with a precise whack. "You’ll only get angry with me, and I don’t want to spoil the day. Can’t we talk about something else?"

  "All right, all right. Your Tato told me that you have some project at school, some paper you need my help for? What is all this about?" I put the potatoes in a big bowl and started mashing. I tried to catch her eyes, but Lesya kept staring at the cutting board.

  "Oh, it’s a paper that I need to write before I can finish my Master’s."

  "In literature?" I asked, knowing very well that it’s in history. We’ve had this joke since she was a little girl, when I would ask her about her favorite subject in school.

  ***

  Little Lesya had looked precious in her First Holy Communion dress, white with a little blue embroidery around the edges. She looked so much like Halya, except that Lesya had my thick brown hair.

  “Baaaba. Nooooo. I like hiiiis-stooor-reee.” Little Lesya answered in that sing-song voice, stretching out her words.

  “Not English?” I asked again, patting down her brown bangs, frizzy from the heat.

  “Noooo.” She giggled. “Baaaba. You’re not listening.”

  “Why history, Lesya?”

  “I like stories that are true.” She giggled. “And my memory is good. History is just remembering, Tato says.”

  ***

  Lesya stopped chopping
for a minute and looked up at me with a full grin. "History, Baba. Very funny. You know it’s history."

  "Ah, I’m an old lady. My memory is not so good."

  She laughed and leaned an elbow against the counter. "You can pull that with Tato and everybody else, but I know that you remember everything. Where do you think I got my amazing memory from?"

  "Hmm, I don’t know," I said, unable to resist. "I forgot."

  She groaned and went back to her chopping.

  "I’m writing about the immigration of our family from Ukraine to Chicago. The factors that brought you here; the problems you encountered: World War II, the DP camps. Why you left Ukraine, how you got to Germany, what it was like for you.

  "Well, that’s only part of the paper: the personal narrative section. It’s more than just personal history; it’s also a study of the immigration patterns of Eastern Europeans over the course of the war. But I’m using my family history as a springboard—"

  Lesya kept talking, but I stopped listening and began to panic.

  I couldn’t possibly talk about it.

  I couldn’t tell her how I got to Germany. What if word got back home? But everyone was dead. But the letter? Maybe someone? No; no one was left alive. But still, I couldn’t tell her. Why was the past trying to resurface? What would be next? What other messages? What other messengers?

  I glanced at Lesya, who stared at me over the onions.

  "Hello? Baba? Where did you go?" she asked, folding her arms. Lesya pressed her thin lips together—just like her father, that same stubborn look. He used to do that when I told him he couldn’t stay up to watch late-night monster movies on the television.

  I smiled at Lesya. "Sorry, dear. Mention the past, and you send an old woman into daydreams. The past is heavy for an old lady like me."

  "Ah, you’re not old. But what were you thinking about?" she asked.

  I looked at her plate. She had finished chopping the onions, and there I stood with half-mashed potatoes.