The Silence of Trees Read online

  "Oh no," the girls said in unison, looking around for Khvostyk, who stared at them from under the table.

  "Well, he took the sack down to the river and tossed it in, waiting for it to sink to the bottom. Kasha sat on the riverbank mewing and crying for her lost babies until a willow tree nearby asked her what was the matter. Kasha told the willow what had happened, and because willows are naturally kind trees, the tree plunged her branches into the water and pulled out the sack. Kasha ripped a hole in it to free her babies, but all but one of the kittens had drowned. Ever since, willows everywhere bloom with kitten-like buds in memory of the drowned kittens and their sad mother."

  The girls sat wide-eyed, staring at the pussy willow in my hand. I smiled, remembering that I had first heard that story when I was Tamara’s age.

  The doorbell rang, and Pavlo’s eyes opened wide. He looked toward me, and then toward his empty hand. "Nadya," he growled playfully, "you give that back. I need it to greet my children."

  I rose and walked toward the door. "No, I will greet them. You get some coffee so you don’t spend all afternoon sleeping."

  At the door, my son, Taras, held little Pavlyk, his grandson and my first great-grandchild. "Hi, Mama."

  He was beaming with pride. I still could not believe that my son was a grandfather.

  Taras kissed me on the cheek. "Natalie and Jerry should be along in a second. I’m going to go show this little guy off."

  Taras walked into the kitchen while I waited for his wife, Anna. After hugs and more willow taps, I followed her into the kitchen. Everyone cooed at the baby, passed him around, and exchanged observations. He was only nine months old but already a big boy, round and healthy for his age. He definitely took after Jerry.

  When it was my turn to hold Pavlyk, I took him into my arms, rubbed my face against the top of his head, and inhaled his smell. Baby powder and apple blossoms after the rain. Sweet and soft and delicious. I rubbed my cheek against his soft black hair.

  At this moment, Jerry came into the kitchen carrying the diaper bag and beaming his usual toothy grin. "Hi, Baba," he said giving me a quick kiss. "He’s getting heavy, be careful."

  "All these warnings," I said, "You forget I had six children." But I did sit down because he was getting heavy.

  Little Pavlyk settled into my arms, and as I bounced my knee up and down, I whispered to him the lullaby my Mama used to sing to me and my sisters:

  "Liu li, liu li, liu li, sleep my little Pavlyk,

  Soon the dawn will bring new hopes.

  Now the night promises new dreams.”

  I looked up and saw that my Pavlo was watching me from across the room, his thin lips in a soft grin. I blushed, caught in a private moment.

  My oldest daughter, Katya, burst into the room. Pavlo and I looked away from each other, embarrassed. The air tingled with Katya’s fiery presence. I felt her even before I looked in her direction.

  “Well, hello! I guess you’re all tired from whacking each other with willows. I think this is the first time I didn’t hear arguing when I walked down the gangway.” She rushed over to Pavlo and gave him a big hug and then to me, sweeping little Pavlyk out of my arms.

  “My turn, Mama.” She kissed him on the top of his head, then spun around, the baby giggling in her arms.

  Suddenly everyone began talking all at once. I looked at Christina and tried to focus on her face, but her words began to run into each other. My daughter-in-law loved to talk. I remembered the first time I met Christina. I thought she was so quiet. I could not imagine how she would ever communicate with my son. Mark has the temper of a bear and a loud growl to match. But apparently she talked loud enough to get a few words in, because they’ve been married for twenty-eight years. But oh, how she liked to talk.

  “And Darka’s daughter is engaged to a concert violinist from Toronto. His mother used to sing opera in Europe. They have a lot of money, I hear. He stands to inherit . . .”

  Still, she was a good mother. She gave me two beautiful granddaughters. Mark, certainly enjoyed talking as well, especially about things he was passionate about, like computers.

  “You know, Taras, you wouldn’t have so much trouble if you got yourself a real computer,” Mark said, smiling smugly as he reached for another slice of babka.

  I gave up trying to make sense of it all. My mind wandered. The month before, when I was at Mark’s house, he tried to show me his computer and explain all that it could do. He tried for such a long time to explain it to me. All I know is that it’s some kind of electronic magic, like a television that listens to your requests. But Mark told me he has conversations on the computer. I watched as he typed in questions and someone named Shorty31 answered back. I knew Mark didn’t do it because I watched his fingers carefully.

  Maybe it’s not so different from the way my Baba used to gaze into the stream and talk with the rusalky, or the way Mama used to talk with the domovyk, the house spirit, to ask them to keep us safe when Tato would go to the city to trade. Back home they were called spirits; here, they are called “modems.”

  My sons’ voices were getting louder, but they blurred together. Both Mark and Taras had the same sort of growl, which they had inherited from their father.

  “See, if you have a slow network connection . . . it’s harder to surf the Web.”

  This Web, Mark tried to explain it to me. But I told him that I already understood. Finally computers are teaching people what my ancestors have known for hundreds of years. My own Baba taught me many years ago about the invisible threads that connect everyone. They are made from the holy waters that became the Universe. These threads connect us with the people who came before us and those who will follow us; they also connect us with all living things. Bright like moonlight, this essence flows from inside us to everything else, because we are all made of the same waters: the waters of our souls.

  I looked at Pavlo, but he sat quietly, ripping apart pieces of kolach—Ukrainian braided bread—and dipping them in a puddle of honey on his plate. He was watching his family, a grin on his face. I don’t think he understood it all either, but he liked to have them around.

  But for me, at that moment, it was too much. Too many voices. Too loud.

  I stood up and walked onto the porch, grateful for the break. I sat on the sofa and gazed through the doorway into the kitchen. My family.

  I watched as my young granddaughters rushed into the kitchen hitting each other with willows, each saying over and over “It’s not I but the willow—“

  Their mother grabbed the branches. “Girls, you stop that right now. Shame on you. Those pussy willows are blessed. You should not be fighting—“

  They ran back into the living room, laughing. I smiled to myself; this house needed more children’s laughter. It kept the domovyk happy.

  Taras walked over to the bathroom armed with his willow, waiting for Katya to walk out. Mark and Peter talked about houses. Anna and Christina washed dishes, and Zirka stood beside them showing off her new anniversary ring. Pavlo sat back in his chair, closed his eyes and smiled. In a moment, he would be snoring, unnoticed by his children who sat engrossed in conversation, gossip, and disagreement.

  This house had been the backdrop for most of our life together. Sitting there, watching my family framed by the doorway, I watched time shift with each breath, bringing me back through the many memories these walls have witnessed:

  I was twenty-six when Pavlo carried me over the threshold of our first house in Chicago. I placed bread outside the door and a candle in the window to welcome our ancestors. Pavlo chuckled at my superstitions but didn’t resist. That night, as the children slept on the queen-sized mattress we had been given by friends, Pavlo and I scrubbed the floors stained with dirt and cat urine. In the weeks that followed, we stripped the blue-gray paint off the doors and windows and laid new lemon yellow tile in the kitchen. A little work each day made it our home.

  I taught all my children how to make bread. Elbows deep in dough, they stoo
d on chairs and kneaded. “Don’t sneeze into the bread,” I warned, “and never wipe your noses.” That night we ate their loaves. The children beamed with pride, flour still on their faces.

  Once, while waiting for Pavlo far past the time when work was done, I embroidered a blouse for Katya’s school play, sitting beside a candle to save electricity. He staggered in, cigarettes and alcohol trailing behind. Before I could yell, he collapsed in front of me, head in my lap. He wept silently. A whisper: “Laid off.”

  A scream froze in my throat. Hands stained red from shredding beets, I stood staring at the door after the chaplain left. Mykola, my youngest son, was dead. Vietnam. No more hopeful morning candlelight vigils. I made the necessary calls. My heart sank beneath the house, buried with his uniform. Somehow the other two boys came back alive.

  Girls drifted in and out of the kitchen, trying to win my boys, impress their Mama. Sofia, tall and blonde, laughed loudly at Pavlo’s jokes. I caught her smoking outside of church. Tatiana, tiny and petite, smelled like baby powder. She chewed her fingernails and washed dishes with gloves. Alexandra, round and pretty, never stopped talking. She kept touching Mark’s knee. Christina, bubbly and strong. She brought me a cake and served me the first piece. Anna, pretty and quiet, with the eyes of a doe. She washed the dishes and put them away. She listened to me.

  Katya and I sat in the kitchen after she moved her books and clothes into her tiny apartment. We drank tea together; she twirled her curls around her fingers. We had so much silence between us. I gave her a wooden cross for her bedroom. I didn’t know how to keep her safe.

  The wheel of life turned on and on, and just as I thought I began to understand, everything changed again. My Baba always used to say "the past is present," but I never understood until recently. She would explain that stories are the connection; they are our way of touching those invisible threads that connect everyone. Stories are our hope for the future.

  But what then of the missing letter? What of that empty envelope that sat so heavy on my thoughts? I tried all day to keep busy, to chase away the ghosts. Still it sat inside that box, taunting me with possibilities, haunting me with questions. I thought about my family, safe in my kitchen. Unaware that something was creeping toward me, threatening to shake my world apart. But then again, maybe it was nothing. Maybe I should not allow myself to bring the dead to life because then I would have to bury them again.

  "Mama? Are you okay?" Katya put a hand on my shoulder. "You have tears in your eyes. What’s the matter?"

  "Nothing," I snapped. "Can’t an old woman just weep sometimes? I’ve lived a whole lifetime, you know. I have a lot to cry about."

  Katya stepped back and walked back into the kitchen without a word. I had pushed her away. But how could she understand? How could anyone understand? Ana would have understood, but Ana was dead. Amazing that in a house so full, I felt so alone.

  I looked again toward the kitchen. My mama always called it "the heart of the home." As children, we sat around the hearth fire, huddled together under Baba’s blanket, her scents captured in the fabric: thick and sweet, lilacs and mint, coffee and onions. Mama would tell us stories to chase the cold into the farthest corners of the cottage.

  Because of the harvest, Tato had gone into town to try to sell our wheat and potatoes. He had left before dawn. I remember standing at the window with my sisters, waving goodbye. The sky had been heavy, the air still. Mama whispered, "A storm is coming. Quick, girls, back to bed."

  As we ran to our bed, she said a prayer and made the Sign of the Cross in the direction of town, "Guardian Angel, help keep him safe on his journey."

  Mama then crawled into bed with us, and we lay curled together in sleep for a few more hours until it was time to wake up and do our morning chores. The rains came at midday, so we stayed in the house, cleaning to pass the time. Laryssa and I scrubbed the stove. Maria and Mama washed the walls and floors. Halya collected any feathers that were falling out of the blanket and pillows so Mama could sew them back inside.

  "Just think how happy your Tato will be when he comes home to find such a clean house," Mama said, resting her chin on the broom.

  "Girls, it’s important to have a clean house. That way you keep your husband satisfied, and you keep the evil spirits from entering. They don’t like a house whose table has no crumbs. But they love a house filled with lazy children." She lifted the broom over her head and made a face, chasing us around the house, while we hid giggling.

  By the time we had finished eating supper, the night was heavy with thunder. Little Halya was afraid to go to sleep, so Mama gathered us near the hearth and heated milk and honey for us to drink.

  Mama sat down in Baba’s old rocking chair, picked up Halya and placed her on her lap. Maria, Laryssa, and I sat together, Baba’s blanket covering the three of us. Mama gave Halya a squeeze and looked at Maria.

  "Maria, you’re already a little lady. Would you pour the sweet milk into mugs for your sisters?"

  At thirteen, Maria already looked just like our Mama. She was tall and thin like a young birch, with light olive skin and hazel eyes like Mama’s. Maria always wanted to mother us, making sure we did our chores if Mama was away. Giving us lessons if we had nothing to do. Whenever we played, Maria would have to be the mother and we were her children. We always misbehaved, and she would punish us by making us stand on our knees and say the Hail Mary. More than anything, Maria wanted to get married and have a lot of babies.

  After she carefully poured our sweet milk, Maria settled into the spot between me and Laryssa. Mama began to rock back and forth.

  "Halya, my sweet little rabbit, I’m going to tell you and your sisters a story that my Mama, your Baba, told me when I was a little girl. Once upon a time before people lived on Earth, there was a glorious garden filled with beautiful flowers and plants. There were fields of poppies and lilacs—"

  "Baba’s favorites," I whispered, and Laryssa shushed me.

  "—raspberry bushes and dewberry," Mama continued. "So many flowers of all different shades and scents. But the most beautiful of all was the single white Rose that grew in the center of the garden, a queen among the others. She would rise each morning while the other flowers slept, and tilt her head up toward the Sun so she could feel his warm rays upon her petals.

  "Well, the Sun had watched the Rose grow from a tiny blossom, and each morning when she stretched out her petals, she grew even lovelier. The Sun slept each night dreaming of her and arose each morning to shine even more brightly. You see, the handsome Sun had fallen in love with the pretty young flower, but he could not gather the courage to even whisper a hello. Instead he sat in the sky, shining brightly above her. Each time she tilted her head toward the sky, he would send all of his rays to dance upon her milky white petals.

  "One day, when the Rose awoke, threw back her head and tussled her leaves, the Sun was so overcome by her beauty that he could no longer keep silent.

  "‘Hello down there, lovely creature,’ he shouted in his deep, warm voice.

  "The Rose, however, was taught not to speak with strangers, so she coyly looked down from the Sun’s bright gaze.

  "‘Lovely Rose,’ he continued, ‘Do not look away. For if I could no longer look upon you, my heart would break and the world would forever be covered in darkness.’

  "The Rose quickly looked up in alarm. She could not imagine a world without the Sun, for she too had long been admiring his handsome face, rosy cheeks, and long yellow curls that stretched toward the earth.

  "‘Lovely Rose,’ the Sun said, ‘I have watched you for many long mornings, and now I have something to tell you. I have seen beauty throughout the world, but never have I seen a more radiant creature than the one white Rose in the heart of this garden. I could gaze upon you for all eternity. You are the most beautiful of all the Earth’s creatures. I have fallen in love with you.’

  "At this, the Rose began to blush, and as the color spread through her petals, it stained them bright red. This is how
she remained forever, blushing with love for the handsome Sun. And when her daughters were born, they all carried the mark of their parents’ love: bright red from the true love their mother and father shared for all eternity. This, my daughters, is why roses are red."

  I slept that night, my face buried in Mama’s shoulder, dreaming of a magical Sun and true love, certain that both existed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  "Why are you smiling, Baba? What are you thinking about?" Lesya came inside and stood behind me. I worried that she wouldn’t come after our big fight, but there she was. She slipped her arms around my waist. "You’re so lost in thought these days."

  I turned around and looked at her in her green suit, her hair in long brown curls. She smelled like sandalwood.

  "My, you look pretty today. Your mama said you had a meeting?" I smoothed away the hair that always fell into her eyes.

  "Some students got together to study for a big exam that we have tomorrow morning. On the politics of the Middle East." She pulled off her black leather heels and took a step toward the kitchen.

  "Thank you for not slamming the door," I said. "I hate that sound."

  "Sure," she said, and shrugged her shoulders.

  I watched as she went to Pavlo and kissed the top of his balding head, but he stiffened.

  "Hi, Dido," she said, giving him a hug, but he ignored her and reached across the table for the butter.

  "Hey kiddo, where’s my hug?" Katya asked, and Lesya walked over and gave her aunt a hug and a kiss. Katya had always been perceptive, sensing things that others did not. Like my Baba. When Katya was born in Germany, somewhere in the distance outside the barracks, I heard the chiming of tiny bells. Still wet with birth, Katya watched me closely even though newborns weren’t supposed to be able to see much. I saw the birthmark on her right thigh, and I knew that hers was going to be a different kind of life. I named her for my Aunt Katia, Mama’s sister, the one who drowned. I hoped this Katya would have a happier life.