The Silence of Trees (18 page)

"Mama. I chose you."

Another stab and burning and pounding in my head behind my eyes. My heart was beating so quickly. I opened my eyes and saw on the ground the shadow of a little boy standing at the foot of my bed.

"Stephan," I whispered.

I closed my eyes. Fluid gushed from between my legs. Then the painful throbbing. Suddenly, the chill was gone, replaced with a fire of pain. Then a black and heavy silence.

"It’s time to burn them," she said.

My dearest Ana often appeared to me in my dreams. The night before the Feast of the Triytsya, I had a particularly vivid dream of Ana, so I knew she was sending me a message. In it, Ana was standing beneath a tree with falling leaves. She beckoned me closer, and when I came, I saw that the leaves were really envelopes falling to the ground.

"It’s time to burn them," Ana repeated.

That morning before having my coffee, I set fire to the envelope over the stove and watched it burn. I had learned nothing from it, and there was nothing left to learn. I felt sadness as I swept the ashes into the sink. Then I went to Mass at St. Volodymyr’s Cemetery to honor my dead. After Mass, everyone went off to lay flowers on the graves of family and friends. The feast day was popularly called Zeleni Sviata, "The Green Holidays," another religious tradition that we continued from the old country. I often wondered if the souls of the dead still entered the flowers and trees in this foreign soil. I suppose they do. But many of my dead are not resting in this American ground.

***

On the first Zeleni Sviata after Baba died, I was so anxious to receive a visit from her, to be able to somehow touch her again. I stood beside Mama during the service, and as soon as we finished singing, I ran around to each of the trees. Knocking gently on the bark of each tree, I’d whisper, "Baba, are you in there? It’s Nadya. I came to find you. Where are you? Are you here?"

Mama told me it was impossible to know which tree held Baba’s soul, but I insisted. For what seemed like hours, I ran from oak to pine to maple to sycamore, until I saw a white hare sitting quietly in the shadow of a fir tree. Forgetting everything, I crept up to the hare. As I approached, it just sat there twitching its whiskers, looking at me.

I stopped within steps of the hare and put out my hand, expecting it to run away. Instead it hopped over and smelled my palm. With my other hand, I gently petted its fur. Then it scurried around the tree and disappeared. For a moment I smelled lilacs on the air. That was when I knew this was Baba’s tree.

I couldn’t reach the branches, so I called Mama over and asked her to break a branch for me.

"This is Baba’s tree." I told her.

She smiled at me and broke off the branch, but I knew she didn’t believe me.

Later we went home with the branches and flowers we had collected and spread them all over the house, so the ancestors were all around us. The house felt full, like it did on holidays when so many visitors would pile into the tiny room that I couldn’t see the other side. And it smelled wonderful, as if a forest had sprouted in our home.

Mama prepared a seven-course supper, and before we ate, Tato greeted all the ancestors:

"Oh, shining Sun, radiant Sun,

Oh, Blessed Mother of all life,

Holiest of ancestors,

Spirits of the forest, waters, fields,

We greet your visit with the coming of summer.

We honor you. We welcome you."

***

It was not quite the same celebration here in Chicago. But at least it survived. As part of the tradition, I first went to the grave of Mykola, my youngest son. Tracing the numbers on the tombstone with my finger—1952-1971—I thought, He was just a baby. Too young. I lifted the tiny American flag that had fallen over. The sun had bleached it, and I forgot to bring a new one. Kneeling down, I kissed the stone and rested my cheek against it. It was so cold. At least the flowers were growing nicely. I knew Katya came here often to tend to them. She and Mykola were so close, even with the large span of years between them.

Katya had tried to convince him not to enlist in the army, but he said it was his duty. I remember sitting in the kitchen that day as they argued in his bedroom:

"Mykola, you’re not violent. In the fifth grade, you wouldn’t hit Tony Malaniuk even after he gave you a black eye and called you a sissy."

"Yeah, it did wonders for my reputation to have my older sister come over and yell at the class bully. I thought you were going to hit him. So did he."

"I was just looking out for you, Kolya. Tell me, what have the Vietnamese ever done to you? It’s not like you’d be fighting the Russians."

"Katya, what else can I do?" He lowered his voice. "I can’t go to college. You know there’s no money. I’ll end up being drafted anyway."

"No, I’ll help you—"

"Katya, I’ve made up my mind."

"Kolya, think of what you’re doing to Mama. She’s crying in the kitchen right now."

"I’ll be okay. I’ll come back a hero. You’ll see."

"If you come back."

"I will come back."

I went to church every single day that he was gone. Three hundred and fifty days in Vietnam, and I lit a candle for him each morning and said a prayer. Every night before I went to sleep, I prayed to the Blessed Mother to keep him safe, to keep all our boys safe.

But the soldier still came, the chaplain standing behind him, trying to offer solace, offering no explanation. Later, a metal box was sent with an army medal and Mykola’s watch.

I looked again at the dates on the tombstone. It’s not right that a mother should bury her child. I wouldn’t speak to God for a long time after that—a very long time.

After visiting Mykola’s grave, I walked over to see Ana and her husband, Nicholas. Sitting down, I stared at their photo on the headstone.

"Hello, old friends," I whispered. "I miss you."

***

We had met them on the boat to America, the General Stuart. Like so many other couples, Pavlo and I slept huddled next to each other in the darkness, while our children were curled up beneath Pavlo’s heavy coat and a tattered bed sheet. I was pregnant with Mark, and he was already keeping me up at night. The pregnancy, combined with Pavlo’s snoring, made my seasickness unbearable.

I remember waking up to the sound of moaning. While my eyes adjusted, I expected the darkness to reveal a seasick passenger. Instead, I saw an attractive dark-haired woman passionately kissing a tiny, fair-skinned man. He had his hand inside her shirt, on her right breast. Her eyes were closed.

I looked around, but it seemed that everyone else was sound asleep. I knew I should look away, but I sat there amazed; staring. I watched as she stroked his head gently, playing with his fine blonde hair. I watched as he switched his hand to her left breast. What kind of people were they to have no sense of shame, no pride? Suddenly she opened her eyes, looked up and met my gaze. Embarrassed, I looked away. But not before she smiled.

The next morning the smiling woman came over, introduced herself as Ana, and offered me sweet bread. At first I refused, but she sat down next to me and would not leave until I had tasted some of her husband’s bread. I had never met a man who could cook, so I tried the bread out of curiosity. I shared the soft honey-flavored loaf with my children while listening to Ana explain her remedy for my obvious seasickness.

"It’s a purple kiss you need," she said with a glance in

Pavlo’s direction. He was sitting with a few of the other Ukrainian men.

I must have blushed, because she touched my cheek and laughed. Her fingers were cool and smelled of peppermint. And that laugh—a deep and round "hahaha" her mouth wide open, large teeth showing.

"Oh, my darling, it’s not what you think. Although there are other remedies I could suggest."

I could feel the heat spreading down my neck and across my chest.

She continued, "But this is quite ordinary. It’s a flower. Wait, I think—" and she hurried over to her things, mumbling to herself along the way, a habit that I would eventually pick up, much to Pavlo’s dismay.

I watched her walk. A tall woman, she didn’t slouch to hide her height but stood proudly erect. She was older than I was, in her late twenties or early thirties. Everything about this woman seemed too much: her shoulders too broad, her breasts too large, her hips too full, her hair too wild, her voice too loud. She commanded attention and always looked into your eyes.

Ana came back with a brown woven bag. As she opened it, I was struck by the many unusual smells that I could not identify. Over time, she would teach me to recognize and utilize the different scents.

Her long fingers reached into the bag and poked around until she exclaimed,

"Ah, hah!" Everyone nearby turned their heads.

She smiled at me. Yes, everything about her seemed to take up too much space, except her mouth. It was perfect: lips like a heart, full and red. Small on her face, they worked together with her deep blue eyes to balance out her nose. I smiled despite myself.

"Oh, we’re going to be good friends," she said, "Whether you like it or not."

And my own self-conscious giggle highlighted her robust laugh.

"Okay. Now, here we go. This is marjoram." She pulled out a tiny sprig of purple flowers.

"See, they have two lips. I call it ‘purple kiss’ because if they have lips, why not use them? Plants are quite erotic, you know."

I glanced down at my children, who had fallen asleep despite the early morning hour.

"Don’t worry so much, darling. Now take this and steep it in a cup of hot water twice a day. You’ll feel much better. It’s good for cramps, too. It will calm your stomach."

She reached over and took my hand. Looking at my palm, she placed the dried flowers in it.

"Trust me." she said. "What’s your name, darling? We’re going to be friends, so I should know your name."

"Nadya," I said, placing the flowers in my handkerchief.

"Perfect." she said shuffling around in her bag.

"Where are you going, Nadya?" she asked, pulling another cluster of flowers out of her bag.

"Chicago." I answered.

"Then, that’s where we’re going."

We shared our first apartment with them and two other couples. Eventually, we bought a house, and Ana and her husband Nicholas, or Niki, as she liked to call him, bought the house next door. For a few years Ana and I worked together as cleaning ladies in some of the big office buildings downtown. After our shift we would sometimes stop for coffee at Chuck’s 24-Hour Diner, down the street from our work.

The coffee was too strong and reminded me of the coffee we were served in the camps, so I would add milk and sugar to try and cover the taste. Ana always drank hers black.

"Nadya darling, I heard you telling the kids stories out on the stoop. You have a bit of the author in you. You should write down your stories."

I blushed, as I always did, hearing her compliments.

"Ana, don’t be silly. Those are just little fairy tales to keep the children quiet." I looked down at the menu, even though we never ordered anything but coffee.

"You’re gifted, dear. Like Lesya Ukrainka or Olena Teliha."

"Olena who?" I asked, ashamed of my ignorance.

My schooling had ended with the war, but as a young woman, Ana had been sent away to school in Kyiv. Her family had been very wealthy, something to do with oil. Once the war began, she returned home to be with her family. When the Germans arrived in Lviv, they executed her parents and other wealthy business people, and their property and investments were transferred into German hands. Ana was a survivor.

"Olena Teliha. In Kyiv she was the head of a writer’s group and edited the journal Litaures. Oh, she was very good, and beautiful, too." Ana sighed and patted her black curls.

"What a waste. I heard rumors that she died at the hands of the Gestapo." Ana gazed out the window, her eyes glazed. After a moment she looked back at me.

"You know, dear, you shouldn’t keep silent."

I shook my head, "What do you mean?"

"You have stories. I know: I’ve heard them. What does Pavlo think about it?"

I laughed. "Pavlo? He doesn’t think anything about them. "

Ana frowned at me, her eyebrows meeting in the middle.

"You’re still not talking?" She began to chew on a hangnail.

When I shook my head, she slammed her palms down on the table.

"You have to talk to him. He should be your best friend, you know."

"Ana, we don’t have the kind of relationship you and Nicholas have."

"I’m not talking about the sex matters again."

"Neither am I." I looked around to see who was watching, but the only other people in the diner at four o’clock that morning were an old homeless man sleeping in the corner and the waitress and cook laughing in the back. I was still embarrassed.

"Nadya, things are not perfect between Niki and me. We disagree, but we talk. Just the other day, he told me not to work as a cleaning lady. He said I was above it, that we didn’t need the money so badly. Well, I told him, I like it. I like having my own money."