The Silence of Trees (35 page)

Would she forgive me?

Could I forgive her?

One time we girls—Halya and I—were left alone in the house, just Halya and I. I was lonely and sad because the other girls in the village had made fun of my clumsiness when I had fallen off a fence earlier that day, and I wanted Halya to hug me, to show me that she loved me. But Halya was always frugal with her emotions, sharing them only when it suited her: when she was afraid or needed something. I told her a story, vivid in detail, about a ghost who lived in our house, and then I hid inside the cupboard, under some rags.

She ran around the house, giggling at first because she thought it was a game. One minute turned into ten, then twenty, and she began to cry because she was afraid the ghost had taken me away. I sat inside the cupboard listening to her running around the room until her wailing became so loud I was afraid she would actually summon some lonely spirit. I slipped out and called to her, proud of my performance and reveling in the affection I knew would come. And it did, she hugged me tighter than ever before and slept that night, curled into my back, her arm around my shoulders. In fact, my plan worked so well that she spent the next few days by my side, afraid to let me out of her sight.

But I could not sleep that night, or the next, or the one after that, because hidden in the cupboard I had actually evoked a ghostly visitor, a spirit who plagued my dreams and teased me with bumps in the night. The stronger that Halya hugged me or told me she loved me, the worse the nightmares. The more she begged for me to sit beside her or offered her own dessert and sweet milk, the stronger the voices in the dark and rustlings under the bed.

Finally, it got so bad that I told my mother what I had done. She was kneading dough, always kneading, and she shook her head at me.

"Nadya," she said, "you can’t trick someone into loving you. Remember Old Man Lesych, who went to talk to the witch in the mountains? He had her cast a love spell on the Widow Vasylchenko?" Mama pounded the dough harder for emphasis. "It worked too well, and they were married, but she drove him crazy because she wouldn’t leave him alone. Not even when he went to the bathhouse! One night when he went outside to do his business, she quietly followed him. When he walked out, she stepped in front of him, and he thought she was the devil and died right there."

"That’s not true, Mama."

"It is true. Don’t you dare call your Mama a liar!"

And my mama, who ordinarily remained calm in the face of stress and exhaustion, looked fierce, like a warrior or a bear. I stepped back from her and she continued, "If your Baba were here, you could ask her, but she’s gone. Goodness knows you believed everything she told you. Well, she also taught me a thing or two. The only way you can be rid of this spirit is to tell your sister what you did and ask her forgiveness. Then you must leave your favorite dessert, my special makivnyk, behind the barn, as an offering for the spirit."

"You made makivnyk?"

"Yes, I made it fresh this morning, but none for you. You need to sacrifice something to gain something, Nadya."

So I told Halya what I had done, and she was upset with me . . . for a few hours. She never held grudges for long, and soon she was asking me to play with her again. That night, after I left my piece of makivnyk outside for the demon, Halya snuck me a small piece.

"Because I know it’s your favorite," she whispered, carrying it in her small hands. "And because I love you."

Waves crashed and whirled around me, struggling against the ice that formed in the more shallow parts of Lake Michigan. The roaring pushed aside my thoughts, and all was still inside my head, the kind of silence that only occurs when a sudden surge of noise drowns out everything else—even regret.

I slipped into it, the rolling hush of waves and wind. It echoed in the pulse throbbing inside my veins, the rush of wind through the trees, the steady hum beneath my boots, the waters slapping against stone. Those sounds joined and blended to become the same rhythm, a steady heartbeat that reached inside and outside, across the ocean and over time. The pulse of life, Baba would say, the rhythm of the universe, the heartbeat of the Mother.

I reached again into my pocket and pulled out the cigarettes I had found beside Stephan’s letter. Pavlo’s. I never smoked a single cigarette, but I watched Pavlo light and relish many in his lifetime. My hands attempted to mimic his as I lit the match and held it to the end, waiting for it to catch as I puffed. The smoke was warm and slightly bitter in my throat. I held it up, protecting it from the wind.

"This is for you, Pavlo. I’m sorry for never giving myself to you wholly. I’m sorry for keeping things from you, and I forgive you for the same thing. No matter what, we had each other, and we made a beautiful family. Rest in peace, my love, and I pray that you let me go to live the rest of my life."

I sat and smoked my first and last cigarette, enjoying the slight buzz in my head even as I coughed occasionally.

"I think I can see why you liked this filthy habit, Pavlo." I said aloud. "This one is for you."

As the cigarette burned down to the end, I stood up and flicked it onto the winds and watched as it fell into the waters. I missed the slight warmth, and once again I became aware of the cold.

I closed my eyes and saw Pavlo’s face, heard his voice, tasted his breath on my lips.

"I’m not sure what’s going to happen next, but I miss you, Pavlo, more than I ever thought I would."

Because of the cold, my senses seemed more acute than normal. Everything felt so alive that it almost hurt, a fine line between pain and pleasure. Goosebumps on my skin and hairs on my arms, so sensitive to the feel of all my layers of clothes. The silky pantyhose against my thighs. The warm, coarse knit of my sweater on the back of my shoulders, the tops of my arms. Lace against my breasts. Heavy wool scratching my neck, my hands. An illusion of warmth against this cool arousal of winter. I could only stay a short time, before my aches began to shout out reminders of my age.

If only the wind could reach inside me, wipe clean my heartache, my guilt, my confusion. If only the waves could wash away this heartache, this jealousy and rage, this guilt and sadness. If only the rocks could lend me their stability, their strength, so I might choose wisely. If only the sun could burn away my past, so I would not have to live with any regrets.

I stood still and listened for the answer on the waves.

Just let it go. Let it go. Go.

It was a voice inside me, and all around me. No, not one, but many voices: Baba’s, Mama’s, the vorozhka’s, Mama Paraska’s, Ana’s. Maybe even my own?

"Goodbye," I whispered.

But that was not the end. I had one more goodbye to make; one more offering to leave. From my pocket I removed the little black stone that I had carried for over seventy years. It was the only thing I had left of my parents, my family, my home. I was afraid to let it go, to let it rest on the bottom of the lake, a little piece of my old home there in my new home. Without it, I feared I would have nothing to hold onto. Without it, I would be forced to tell my stories because they would be all I had left.

I held the stone in the cup of my hands and blew my breath onto it. Baba taught me that the breath is powerful. It carries with it a tiny spark of your soul. To blow on something is to imbue it with your essence and emphasize your intention.

"My intention is to let it go . . . to love the past . . . to live in the present . . . and to look forward to the future," I said aloud. To the stone. To the lake. To myself.

I visualized all those whom I held onto, and I fought the tears that threatened to spill out. "I will share your stories, and you will live on in their memories."

I blew once more and summoned all my strength to toss the black stone into the water. I heard the tinkling of bells. I closed my eyes and made a prayer, giving thanks for all I had and asking for strength. Then I tossed the stone into the waters and released the past.

On the way home, I stopped at a local flower shop to pick up some wheat and hay. Back home, people believed that our Ukrainian ancestors lived among the fields and crops, the trees and flowers, helping to ensure that each harvest was prosperous, that the lives of their descendants were happy. During the Feast of Obzhynky, the harvest, the best stalks of wheat were gathered into a sheaf called the didukh. On Christmas Eve, the didukh was placed in a special corner for the winter holidays. The ancestors would make their entrance into the family’s home with the arrival of the didukh.

In America, I had had to settle for store-bought wheat, and I hoped that my intention when I was fashioning the didukh would please the ancestors. This year I would be inviting many more than before into my home, and I wanted their arrival to be happy.

Once I was home, I put on a pot of coffee and lit a candle in the icon corner. I checked on the kutia, added a bit more honey, and then got to work preparing the dinner. The dishes were meatless to honor the animals that had given so much during the year. Each dish had its own special meaning. They were the same dishes my Mama used to make, and my Baba before her. Twelve ancient dishes—one for each apostle and each full moon in the year, my Baba used to say.

"These dishes have magical properties, little mouse. They were once served on the longest night of the year," Baba said, while peeling potatoes for the varenyky. "Each one has a story, and when you make them, you should remember the story like a prayer for your family."

"A prayer, Baba? Like the ‘Our Father’?" I asked, while playing with the hay we were going to spread under the table for dinner.

"A little bit. But these prayers are older than that. They are like the prayers of a pine tree when a bird makes a nest in her branches, or the prayers of a river when she is full of fish. These are prayers of the spirit, blessings that the mistress of the house prepares for her entire family. You must make each dish with intention. It is a special job, to be taken seriously—" Baba stooped down to tickle me. "—but also with much joy. That’s why it’s good to cook in a house filled with laughter. Some of that joy will get passed into the food and will help the meal be happy."

So as I prepared the foods, I made my silent blessings—ancient prayers that joined me to a chain of women stretching backward and forward in time. With each sacred ingredient, I blessed my children and their children and their children, on into the future:

Kolachi: Three loaves of bread, each braided into a circle. Everything is interconnected. May they honor life in all its forms.

Kutia: Wheat sweetened by Baba’s wisdom. May they remember their roots,

Borshch: May these tart beets brighten their cheeks and bring them passion.

Baked fish: May they swim in a sea filled with love.

Pickled herring: May they find compassion in times of sorrow.

Pidpenky mushrooms: Let them remember to find beauty in all creation.

Holubtsi: As these cabbage rolls are bursting with rice, may their minds be filled with inspiration.

Varenyky: May they always be grounded, their bellies filled with good food and good sense.

Beans: May they also soar, with active imaginations and open minds.

Cabbage: When times are sour, may they turn to one another for comfort.

Beets with mushrooms: May they find a balance of desire and stability.

Fruit compote: May they not wait until the end of their lives to find the sweetness of joy.

Makivnyk: Cake swirled with poppies and sweetened with honey, like life’s spiral of joy and sadness. At the end of their days, may they have the courage to face their ghosts and dreams, their successes and disappointments.

I thought to myself, when I am gone, who will continue the traditions? Katya? She has no children of her own. Zirka has decided that Ukrainian foods are too high in calories, so she prepares bland versions of some dishes and completely avoids others. Maybe Ivanka. And Lesya, what will Lesya do with her German husband? Will they incorporate his traditions with hers?

Eager to rest my feet, I sat down at the table to fashion the didukh, which I tied with a pretty blue and yellow embroidered ribbon. It had always been Pavlo’s job to make the didukh, and the year before we did not have one.

I went outside to walk clockwise around the house three times before coming back in and placing the didukh in the eastern corner of the dining room, beside the icons, on top of an embroidered cloth. Then I arranged the leftover wheat stalks in a vase and carefully placed hay under the dining room table, hiding nuts, candy, and coins inside the hay for the children to find after the meal.

While I was arranging the treats under the table, Katya arrived at the back door. I heard her unloading things on the kitchen table.

"Are you here, Ma?" she asked.

"Under the table. Did you buy the kolach?"

"Of course."

"Would you spread out the tablecloths and put the kolach on the table? Place a white candle in the center,"

"You forget I’ve been doing this my whole life," she said, bending down to show me the loaf of braided bread with a candle already in its center. "And you should have waited for me to do the hay. You don’t need to be bending down under tables."

"I’m not so old, Katya."