The Silence of Trees (37 page)

"I have never told you my true names: the names of my father and his father before him. The name of my mother, which is my own. To protect my family, I changed my name during the war. I didn’t want anyone to be able to trace me. I felt I needed to hide. Those were different times, and it’s hard to make sense of this logic now, but I did what I thought was right.

"Looking back, I now know that I lost something then. I lost a connection. So I want—I need to share this with you, because it is also your history. To tell you their names, my name, is to reconnect you to that blood, that history.

"The name I gave, the name you know as my maiden name is Nadya Ivanivna Palyvoda. My real name is Nadya Ivanivna Rozumna. My parents were Ivan and Nadya. I had two older sisters, Laryssa and Maria, who died; and one younger sister, Halya, who is still alive."

Only then did I look at my children. Some had tears in their eyes, others were smiling, and I felt a weight lifted off my shoulders. I heard Ana’s voice whisper: You did it, darling.

"So tonight we welcome them, our ancestors, and we give them their due honor at this table. Vitaiemo. Welcome."

Taras raised his glass of vodka and said, "To our ancestors!"

Everyone raised their glasses and replied, "To our ancestors!"

I lifted the plate of bread soaked in honey and offered the first piece to Katya. Then I went around the table, offering a piece to the rest of my family. Everyone took the bread and gave me a hug or kiss. Andriy was last, and when I approached him, it was the first time I had looked at him since I walked in the room.

"Thank you for letting me be a part of this," he said, kissing my cheek.

I returned to my seat and cleared my throat to lead the prayer. "Dear God, we ask that You bless this meal and this celebration. We thank You for our health and good fortune, and we hope that next year we will all be gathered here again. Amen."

Everyone echoed, "Amen."

Andriy began to sing "Boh Predvichny," the traditional Ukrainian carol "God Eternal." His voice was low and rich, and after a moment of enjoying his singing, the rest of my family joined in. We finished singing and sat down to eat our kutia. Afterwards, Katya and Zirka walked around to give everyone a ladle of hot borshch. I heard Luke ask Lesya why there was hay under the table.

"It’s supposed to promote fertility," she answered, "and the wheat is on the table to show that there has been a bountiful harvest."

"It sure has been," he said and kissed her cheek.

I liked the way he looked at her, as if she was the only thing in the world that mattered. I caught his eye and smiled.

I watched my daughters pass around the rest of the dishes. It was nice to sit back and see them do this. The dishes had turned out well, and everyone ate their fill, smiling wider with each bite and laughing more with every sip of wine. My Baba always said that a meal was successfully prepared if the guests had a second helping and ended the meal with a glow on their cheeks. She said it meant that the cook had worked her kitchen magic well. My intention certainly had been for a happy meal. My magic had worked.

I looked at Andriy, who had remained quiet throughout most of the meal, occasionally chatting with Anna, who was seated on his other side. He sat back and patted his belly absentmindedly. I wondered if he felt sad that he had never been a part of a family like this, that he had never had children of his own. I supposed that his plays were like his children, born of his imagination.

"You’ve been so quiet," he said to me.

"Funny, I was thinking the same of you," I said.

"I’m just taking it all in," he replied. Then Anna asked him another question, and he turned her way.

When everyone finished eating, Mark’s daughters crawled under the table to find the nuts and candy and coins hidden in the hay. They left the nuts and money on the table. The candy they hoarded for later. We all crowded into the living room to open the gifts, and then returned to the table for dessert, relaxing as the children played with their new presents.

Luke and Lesya still sat together on the floor, her head on his shoulder. He looked up at me, and I got up to walk toward them. I sat down next to them. Little Pavlyk was giggling nearby.

"So what do you think of our Christmas?" I asked Luke.

"I think it’s marvelous," he answered, and he took my hand. "Your speech tonight at dinner was beautiful and brave. I can see where Lesya gets her strength."

Embarrassed by the gesture, I blushed. "Thank you." I didn’t know what else to say.

For a few minutes we all sat in silence, watching Jerry play with little Pavlyk on the floor.

I heard the echo of guitar music and closed my eyes. I was remembering the young man who had spun me around the dance floor, how he had swept me off my feet with sweet kisses and sweet words. We never did make it to Paris.

Let yourself love the past, but live the present. Ana’s words echoed in my head.

I looked around for Andriy, who was sitting at the dining room table watching me. Maybe it wasn’t too late to have a few more adventures. I thought of Ana and Niki, who lived every moment until the end.

From the kitchen Katya waved to get my attention, so I headed over.

"What is it, Katya? Is everything okay?" I asked.

"I have a present for you, Mama," she said and handed me a box wrapped in a silver ribbon.

Inside the box was a pysanka. I took it out and turned it around in my hands. The egg was decorated with a circle of trees. On one side of the egg were three women: a grandmother, daughter, and granddaughter. On the opposite side was a circle of stones, within it stood two women holding hands.

"Katya, it’s beautiful."

"I made it that night after you and I and Lesya talked. It’s my wish for you. See? The women are all dancing. I want you to be happy, Mama. I love you."

"I love you too, Katya. Thank you." I said. "We’ll keep talking, okay? I want to get to know you better, my daughter."

Katya had tears in her eyes. She nodded and smiled, then went back to the sink to wash dishes. I looked at my gift.

I needed to call my sister. I waited for everyone to bundle up and head home. A few headed off to midnight mass. Most would be back in my neighborhood the next morning for the Christmas Day service at church. They took their gifts, exchanged hugs and thank you’s, and drove away. I waved goodbye to the last of them and turned to face my house, suddenly quiet and empty except for Andriy, who was sitting on the couch in the dark living room, lit only by the Christmas tree lights.

At least the domovyk would be happy. No major disagreements that night, mostly happiness.

"You’re welcome to stay a while longer, but I have a phone call I need to make," I said to him, walking toward the kitchen.

"Certainly. As long as you don’t mind my sitting here."

I walked into the kitchen and pulled my sister’s letter out of the wooden box Pavlo had made for me. I took a deep breath and dialed her phone number.

"Happy Holidays," answered a voice in Ukrainian. "Halya?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Halya, it’s Nadya."

"Oh, my God!" Then there were a few moments of silence. "You received my second letter. Nadya, how are you?"

"I’m well. The first letter must have been lost in the mail, but I did get the second one. I don’t even know where to begin. There’s so much to say."

"Nadya." I heard her weeping. "What a gift you have given me. I thought I was all alone in the world."

"You are not. You have me and my five children, and so many grandchildren. Even one great-grandchild, and another on the way."

"Such a big family," she said. "So time has been good to you. You are happy?"

For a minute, I hesitated. "Yes, I’m happy. I’ve had a good life in America, although my husband also died last year. His name was Pavlo. He was a good man. But you . . . how are you?"

"All right. It’s been hard since Stefko died," Halya paused. I heard her blow her nose. "Do you forgive me, Nadya? Do you forgive him?"

For a moment I waited to feel the familiar pangs in my chest.

"Of course," I said. "I’m happy that you found each other. It is good that two people I loved so much found comfort in one another."

And it was not a lie. Better that they had each other than no one at all.

She was crying. "Thank you, Nadya. It would have made him happy to hear that. He cared so much for you. You were always dear to his heart, like a sister. When he heard you were alive, he wept."

Stephan wept for me. Dear Stephan, I hoped he’d been happy.

"Were you happy, Halya? Happy together?" I asked her.

"Yes, I think we were. Times were hard. They are still hard here, but it helped to have each other. And he adored Mykola, our son," she said. Her voice quavered. "It almost killed Stefko when Mykola died in Afghanistan. Of course, it was devastating for me too, but I had to be the strong one. He was so fragile when he came back from Siberia. Not like the man you knew.

"After Mykola’s death he used to say, ‘Now I have nothing left of my soul.’ He was depressed for a long time. But we had each other. And he was lucky that he always had good work to keep him busy. Of course, you remember how smart he was.

"Before he died, he told me to tell you something. It didn’t make any sense, but he told me to tell you that he never forgot the smell of the raspberries. Does that mean anything to you?"

I closed my eyes and remembered that last night in Slovakia, before the soldiers came to take him away. The strong sweetness of raspberries crushed underfoot and the dark, moist smell of sweat and dirt. Stephan’s fingers on my lips, my neck, the hollow above my collarbone.

But I said, "No, I’m sorry."

"That’s what I figured," Halya said. "He was so lost at that time. I figured it had something to do with his mother’s cooking. Then again, he always liked it when I made him berry tortes." She sighed. "We have so much to talk about, so much to share, but I am tired . . . so tired."

She sounded so old, exhausted. So I said, "Of course. I understand. It’s early morning there. We will talk again soon. Take care of yourself. And thank you for writing."

"You too, my sister. Veselykh Sviat."

"Veselykh Sviat, Halya."

I hung up the phone and turned off the light in the kitchen to sit in darkness.

Raspberries.

"Are you all right?" asked a voice from the darkness. For a minute I expected Pavlo, but it was Andriy’s silhouette in the doorway.

"Did you call your sister?" he asked.

"I did."

"How is she?" he asked, coming closer.

"She sounded so old, Andriy. She sounded so sad." Then I started to cry.

Andriy came over to me and pulled me up by the hand until we were facing each other. He put his arms around me. I couldn’t stop myself from crying. Andriy didn’t say anything. He just held me and let me cry.

"Why isn’t life fair, Andriy? Why do the people we care about have to suffer? Why do we have to lose those we love?"

"I don’t know," he said. "But think of all the people that you still have in your life."

He was right. I felt so selfish then, knowing I had so much. My poor sister was all alone. "Andriy?"

"Yes?" he answered.

"Thank you."

"For what?" he asked, slowly starting to sway side to side.

"For being here."

He pulled me in closer and started to hum under his breath. We kept swaying until we were dancing in slow circles in the middle of the kitchen floor. I closed my eyes and tried to remember what he looked like when we first met in the DP camp, but all I could see was his face now.

Andriy spun me around and started to sing a slow Ukrainian love song, and we continued to dance in the kitchen. Khvostyk watched us from under the table. I pressed closer to Andriy and kissed him, interrupting the song.

After the kiss, I put my head on his shoulder, and we kept dancing.

"Andriy?"

"Mmhm?"

"Maybe you could make French toast in the morning?" I asked him.

"Absolutely," he replied.

My legs were getting tired, and I was sure his feet were hurting, but neither of us made any move to stop. By dancing we could remain in the moment. By dancing we could avoid talking, dwelling on the past, or thinking about the future. We were connected in a way that was neither threatening nor complicated; just circling and swaying, following the oldest rhythms of breath and heartbeat.

Baba always said that dancing united the entire Universe. We moved in circles, all of us together. The sun and moon danced, as did the wind and the leaves, fire, and even falling waters. Each animal had its own dance, and each human couple found its own rhythm. So there in the kitchen, among the smells of fried potatoes, cinnamon, pine, and honey, Andriy and I held onto each other, and we kept dancing.

In 1996, I was taking classes at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago as part of the inaugural class of the MFA in Writing Program. I began writing this novel there, working to flush out the story and characters with the support of my peers and our excellent faculty (Stuart Dybek, Jim McManus, Michael Collins, Carol Becker, Carol Anshaw, George H. Roeder Jr., Peter Brown, Janet Desaulniers, Rosellen Brown, and others).