The Silence of Trees (27 page)

Find things you love to do, people you want to share your time with.

"But Ana, you chose to leave . . . together with Niki. You didn’t go through it alone."

I was dying. I didn’t want to spend it fading away. I wanted to live until the last moment, and we did.

Then she looked as she had the last time I saw her, with her purple scarf tied around her thinning hair. There’s more joy for you here, I promise, Ana said, pointing at the embroidery. Start with one stitch and go from there. See what happens. Just start.

Then she was gone. For a minute, I toyed with the idea of closing my eyes and going back to sleep. Instead I stood up, took the cloth and thread with me into the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee. I lit the candle in front of the Blessed Virgin Mary for the first time since Pavlo died.

I had a pile of bills and envelopes to go through on the table. Instead, I threaded a needle and started embroidering. The material was soft, like silk. My fingers knew their work so well that I could do this in the dark. I had done it in the dark. I finished the scarf later that night and gave it to Katya.

Over the next few months, I tried to get involved with other people. I volunteered at the church and the cultural center but never really connected with any of the women there. I was looking for a kindred spirit, but none of them really fit. The old women had their own cliques of friends, and I always felt like an outsider. I was also afraid to let down my guard. I wasn’t ready to talk about Pavlo, and everyone kept asking me how I was doing, how I was feeling.

In reality, I was trying not to feel anything because I felt too many things too intensely: loneliness, sadness, anger, and guilt. The day Pavlo died I was thinking about escaping, having adventures. I had never answered his question. He had asked if it—our life together—was enough. I couldn’t say yes to put his mind at ease. What if our talk is what gave him a heart attack? Maybe I upset him. Maybe I let him down. Maybe it was my fault.

Maybe I broke his heart.

Most of all, I missed him. I kept looking for Pavlo in his chair. I thought I saw him sitting in the kitchen. I expected to smell his cigarette smoke wafting in the kitchen window. I kept looking for cookie crumbs on the counter and ice cream drips on the floor. I reached for him at night to warm my feet and put his arm around me. But he was gone.

The seasons changed, and I continued going through the motions. Somehow we managed through that first Christmas. My girls helped me prepare the traditional feast, but our mood was somber. We were all actors in a bad play, performing our roles without enthusiasm. Winter turned into spring, and spring into summer. Lesya continued to see her German boy, although she wouldn’t talk about him with me. I heard snippets from her mother. Everything else carried on as it does. The children grew older, the grandchildren grew taller, and life went on around me.

On the first anniversary of Pavlo’s death, I went to the cemetery in the morning to lay flowers on his grave and then to church for his memorial service. Our entire family was there, and they sought to take me out for dinner afterwards. I didn’t want to talk and socialize, so instead I went home and prepared Pavlo’s favorite dishes for myself. I set the table for two, toasted Pavlo’s memory with a glass of wine—which turned into a bottle—and I ate his favorites: breaded pork chops, mashed potatoes, cucumbers and sour cream, and an apple strudel for dessert. For a while I just sat in the kitchen, staring at the photos on the wall. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. How does one honor her husband’s memory? Suddenly the house felt too small, too stuffy, too confining. I needed to get outside for fresh air.

I walked into the garden and sat down in Pavlo’s favorite spot, where he often smoked his "morning cigarette." I heard the faintest hint of music—violins and guitar in a sad duet—coming from the alley. The melody sounded strangely familiar. As a car sped through the alley and past my backyard, I recognized the song as the same music from the vorozhka’s camp, the same melody that once drew me away from my parent’s farm. The same song!

The music got louder and then fade again as the car sped down the alley. When I looked toward the gate, the vorozhka, Liliana, walked toward me, dressed in the beautiful skirts and scarves that she was wearing the first time I saw her—not the tattered, bloody clothes from the night of my reading. She smelled of berries and mint, and she stopped in front of me and extended her hand.

It’s a night for dreams and dreamers, she said. Are you brave enough?

I took her hand and walked with her through the dimly lit alley to the small park near my house. There was no moon; the park was dark and empty.

"Why am I here?" I asked her.

Three questions. Three visits.

Three questions? I searched my memory for stories of visitations from the dead. I knew that the dead could play tricks or speak in riddles. And then there were the unquiet dead, whose intention was to bring misfortune. Why tonight? Why three questions?

Your first question? Liliana asked me.

I answered quickly, without thinking, "Is Pavlo at peace?"

The question determines the visitor, the vorozhka said. The visitor determines the answer.

Liliana smiled and pointed to my left where Ana was dancing toward me, young and lovely like the day I met her on the boat. My heart hurt. I missed her.

As Ana came closer, I saw a sprig of marjoram behind her ear.

He is, Darling, Ana answered. Pavlo is content. Ana looked as if she wanted to say more. She looked at Liliana, then back to me.

Later, she said, then winked before dancing back into the trees.

My Ana. I knew she’d return.

My thoughts turned to the envelope.

"Did I make a mistake?" I asked Liliana for my second question. "Should I have stayed?"

Out from behind Liliana stepped a middle-aged woman. Pani Orysia: Stephan’s mother. I almost didn’t recognize her but for her eyes.

Pani Orysia had once invited me to dinner. I was in awe back then, sitting with Stephan’s family at the table. They were such a beautiful family, so intelligent. After dinner they all sang together, each brother playing guitar, Stephan’s mother on the bandura. Stephan had his mother’s eyes, her smile. She was beautiful, cultured, and strong. She was everything I hoped to someday become. I loved them and the way they welcomed me. Life was always a feast in their home, a celebration. At least, until the Germans took away Stephan and his brother Bohdan. After that, I was no longer invited. Pani Orysia would not leave her bed. She wouldn’t eat. They found her one morning, drowned in the river.

There in the park, Stephan’s mother looked ragged. Her skin hung on her once round body, and her lips were blue, as if she were frozen.

Stephan died with your name on his lips. Where were you? You should be with us.

She smiled, revealing only two teeth where once there had been a brilliant smile. She looked hungry, licked her lips, and motioned for me to follow. I felt drawn to pursue her. Liliana stretched her hand out to block my path. Then Pani Orysia was gone. I felt a chill up and down my spine, and I crossed myself. Her visit left me feeling exposed and vulnerable. I wanted to run home to the safety of my house. And what of her answer? It was not an answer but an accusation. My name on Stephan’s lips?

"What do I do now?" I asked, because I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to do that night, next week, or next year. My children were grown. My grandchildren were nearly grown. What was there left for me to do?

I smelled lilacs, and Baba Hanusia stepped out from behind me with open arms. I wanted to lay my head on her chest, like a child, and lose myself in her voice, in her strong heartbeat.

Stories are the connection, little mouse, Baba answered. Find someone to share them with.

When I stepped forward to embrace her, Baba vanished. I looked at Liliana.

"What about Pavlo?" I asked her. "Why not him?"

The question determined the visitor, she repeated.

"It is all true?" I asked her.

The visitor determined the answer, she replied.

"Why you?" I asked her.

We are connected, Liliana answered.

Once again I heard the Gypsy music approaching. A silver station wagon pulled up in front of the park, windows down and music playing loudly on the speakers. I couldn’t see through the darkened windows, but somehow I knew that the vorozhka’s brothers were inside. Liliana walked over to the car and got in the backseat. The car drove away, the melody getting softer and softer.

I walked back home alone.

The next morning, I woke up and placed a small framed photo of Pavlo on the table in my icon corner. The house felt particularly cold and damp, and there was a musty smell in the air. I would need to do a thorough cleaning soon, open all the windows and doors to welcome light and life back into the house.

I realized that I had not covered the stove with an embroidered cloth after Pavlo died, to prevent the domovyk from leaving. I had not only neglected myself, Khvostyk, and the house, but I had forgotten to make an offering to the house spirit. There would be nothing but bad luck and sadness in the house if the domovyk left. I could not bear more misfortune.

I took a loaf of bread from the icebox and put it on a plate. I poured salt into a small dish and, for good measure, I opened a bottle of honey wine and poured it into a small bowl. I set the bowls on the plate, which I then placed in the stove. I draped a beautiful embroidered cloth across the handle of the stove, to cover the glass window.

"Domovyk, little grandfather, I have been lost in grief," I said. "Accept this offering and please do not leave my home. I promise to invite happiness in, so that you will once again enjoy laughter and warmth in this household."

Khvostyk rubbed against my legs and then curled up in front of the stove, which I took to be a good sign. I brewed coffee, made toast with butter and blackberry jam, and sat down with the mound of mail I had been avoiding for the last few weeks. Mark had gone through the mail during his visits, picking out obvious bills that needed my attention. I had paid those, but I still had cards, letters, and other mail to sort through.

After going through condolence cards, newspapers and advertisements, I came upon two envelopes: one from Andriy Polotsky and the other, a familiar envelope from Ukraine. My chest felt tight, and I sat frozen for a long time, trying to decide which to read first. I picked up the envelope from Ukraine. It was the same handwriting, the same village, but this one was still sealed. With trembling hands, I opened it and carefully pulled out the white lined pages.

"My Dearest Nadya,

This is my second letter to you. I assume the first one didn’t reach you last year. They still check the mail here, opening the envelopes to read the contents as if we had anything of value. So I must assume that the letter was lost. I cannot imagine that you would not respond to me, Halya, your own sister.

I’m sure it will come as a shock to hear from me after all these years, but I only recently found out that you were still alive. It is quite a story about how I found you in Chicago, in America!

An American who called himself Sonny came to our village, looking for you. He was a soldier during the war and had met you in the DP camps. Imagine our surprise to hear that you were alive! That you had somehow survived. You must have changed your identity, using Stephan’s last name instead of Tato’s, because Sonny came to the village asking for Nadya Palyvoda. The villagers knew of no one by that name, but brought him to me, since I am Halya Palyvoda.

You must be wondering how I came to have the name of your old sweetheart. It’s a difficult story to reveal, and I’m sorry that I have to write it here, but you must know the truth.

That last night when you left, I remember I was sleeping soundly. I never heard you leave. I woke to the sound of pounding on the door. Tato got up and let them in. It was the German soldiers, and they began shouting at us to get up and get out. We scrambled out of our beds, and that’s when Mama noticed you were gone. She panicked and began screaming, asking for you. The soldiers kept telling her to shut up, but she was so upset. I thought it was another bad dream and kept hoping that you’d wake me up and hold me and sing me a song, but I couldn’t wake up. And you were gone.

I was crying and covering my eyes and ears. They took Tato and me outside. Some of the soldiers stayed in the house with Mama and Laryssa. I heard screaming and much noise. Tato tried to get inside, but there were too many soldiers and they beat him unconscious. After some time, the soldiers came out, but Mama and Laryssa never did. They set the house on fire and dragged Tato and me away.

I never found out where they took Tato, but I never saw him again. I was taken to the town center with some other women and children. As we prepared to ship off to some kind of camp, the Russians arrived, and the world turned upside down again. The Germans were shooting everyone in sight. The Russians were shooting everyone in sight. So many people died all around me, in front of me.

Your friend Sonya and her mother survived and took me in, and we lived together like family. When the war ended, we started to rebuild. One day, ten years later, a thin, scraggly stranger arrived in town and began asking about our family. Sonya’s mama found me and brought me to the church where this man waited. He looked so old and sick that I didn’t recognize him at first. When I gazed at him closer, I saw that it was Stephan! Somehow, he had escaped the soldiers in Slovakia and fled, but he didn’t get very far. Soon after, he was captured and sent to prison in Siberia. When he was finally released, he could only think of returning home, to find you.