Roslyn looked up at Ed and saw the brother that had been kind to her, and patient, if not sometimes distant and pragmatic. She saw a lifetime that now had so many new memories to uncover and layer, like the pages of a book settling, gusting air as it closed.
‘Mama, I think.’
Ed nodded. The blue had overtaken the sky now, and the beach started to fill.
The room felt too small, suddenly. Maybe it was the curtains. Ed pressed his shirt down with his palm nervously and walked over to the window of the hotel room. He shifted the heavy curtains to the side, and stood with his hands in his pockets, scanning the parking lot’s cars moving like silvery ants. Roslyn knocked at the door, and he walked over to let her in.
‘You look nice,’ she commented as she walked into the room, setting her handbag down on the desk next to the phone that was plastered with various numbers for room service, front desk, dialing-out, gym. She looked at her reflection and ran a hand through her hair and closed her lips to even out her lipstick. ‘I look like shit.’
Ed was back at the window and looked back at his sister. ’You look fine, hon. You’re just nervous.’
Roslyn gathered her thick hair in a fist and placed it on one shoulder. ‘Maybe like this. Or a braid?’ She pulled out a chair and sat down heavily, leaning back and clasping her hands together, her blouse billowing around her waist and her wrists. ‘This is weird.’ She looked over at Ed. ‘Ed?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You okay?’
He pointed through the glass at a spot in the distance. ‘Did you know that Glen Cove is considered the Gold Coast of the North Shore? Funny.’
‘Oh, you mean that—’
‘Yeah. Connections. Here we are, on the other side of the world from where we grew up, in a place that sounds so familiar.’
‘Where, if I can ask, did you come up with that one?’
Ed turned around. ‘Hotel pamphlets are great for that kind of stuff.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Ready?’
Roslyn shifted in her seat, the leatherette suddenly sticking to her bare legs. ‘Sure.’ It was a smile that was timid, and Ed felt for the hopeful for his sister. She seemed so little now.
Slava stepped out of the car and walked around to the other side to help Julia slide out, lacing her arm through hers and closing the door. Julia straightened her back a handbag draped on her bent arm. Her trousers were a pale blue, the pink of her silk collar peeked out from underneath her thin jacket. She touched her hair lightly, a wave of white now streaked with gray, still as thick as it was when she was young. She placed her hand on Slava’s, her wedding band catching the light. ‘Slava…’
‘Yes, Mama?’ Slava pushed her sunglasses off her face, nesting them in her blonde hair.
‘I am not sure I can do this.’ Julia looked across at the familiar landscape of the town, and yet it felt strangely unfamiliar.
‘Yes, you can.’
‘How do you know?’
Slava squeezed her arm delicately, the fragile bone and soft skin underneath her fingers. ‘Because you taught me. You taught me what it is to be strong, no matter what you see in front of you.’ She scanned her mother’s face. ‘And the proof of that strength is waiting for you right now.’
Julia looked at her daughter, a relief spread across her face. She realized this wasn’t her daughter anymore. She was a woman. A mother. A warrior for her family.
‘Slava?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘Did I tell you enough that I am proud of you?’
Slava frowned. ‘What?’ Her mother was nervous, she knew that. But there was an openness in her words that felt different. Softer. ‘What do you mean? Of course, I know you’re proud of me.’
‘No, that is not what I mean.’ Julia leaned her face closer. ‘Did I ever tell you how proud I am? And that I love you? Was I enough? Or did I miss too many moments?’
Slava’s eyes filled, and she quickly dabbed the corners. ‘Mama, I know. I know all of it. It’s never too late to say it out loud.’
They began the walk slowly, across the lot, to the entrance, and then to the bank of elevators. Slava pressed the ‘Up’ button. When the gold doors spread open with a metal hiss, it revealed a wide mirror at the back. Both women stood as the door closed behind them, arms linked still, staring at their reflection. Julia, once dark, now light. Slava, still bright, her blue eyes against a strong face, her features sharpened by her age. Both women possessed strong shoulders and stood proudly, and Julia wondered how it was that her entire life had gone by without often acknowledging how beautiful Slava was, and how proud she was of her. She had kept her distance for so many years, and now they gathered in moments and memories in both of their faces.
‘Mama,’ Slava cocked her head to doors as they opened. ‘This is us.’
The hallway was long, the carpet soft and firm under their shoes, the pattern heavy with black and orange diamond shapes, echoing the orange-tinted sconces dotted on the walls. Lilies sat in a glass vase on a telephone table halfway down the hall.
At the door, Slava looked at Julia. Her eyes were open, like a child’s, simmering with energy and nervousness. She squeezed her arm. Julia nodded in response.
Slava rapped at the door and waited.
The door opened, and the first thing that Julia saw was light— the curtains were drawn, and a beautiful light flooded the room, hitting every corner. She squinted and walked through with Slava, the door closing behind them.
It was then that she saw them, standing side by side, by the window. At first, it was their silhouettes, the sun at their backs. Julia felt Slava’s arm disconnect from her own, and she absentmindedly handed her handbag to hold.
Julia stepped closer, and they appeared. She saw Roslyn first, her wavy hair, with hints of red and gold, like strawberries, when she was a child. Her face creased in a smile as she saw the freckles that she used to count when she would put her to bed. She saw the proud nose and the wide shoulders. She was tall.
Julia looked across to Ed and inhaled sharply. The dark hair now with so much grey, the wide forehead, the flat lips and soft nose. The eyes that had shadows underneath them, that hinted of sadness. It was Henry. She saw Henry’s face, and she knew. She knew that he had lost his own son, so long ago.
Ed withdrew two pieces of paper from his pocket. They were thin and yellowed, and Julia recognized them immediately, as he unfolded it. Her lip trembled as she heard him speak. ‘These are ours. Yours.’ Roslyn covered her mouth, her eyes creasing as the tears fell.
Her body shook as she walked to them, her head hung. ‘Maksim. Lesia. My babies, oh my babies,’ she whispered over and over again, the words that she had said when they had left her side so long ago. She felt their arms around her, and suddenly the world felt incredibly small and simple and right; Julia felt as if her heart had landed, and settled, into a place that she never imagined she could rest. It was all she had hoped for, and her entire body unfolded into their arms.
She stepped back to look at her children again, hungrily taking in every detail of their faces, and patted the tears from her face. She turned, extending her arm to Slava, who was standing to the side, observing the reunion, her hands clasped in front of her, eyes staring and filling with tears.
Sertseh, davai. Julia gestured for her to come over and looked back at Ed and Roslyn. ‘I never thought I would ever say this...’
Julia placed her hand over her heart, her fingers splayed, wedding band glinting in the light, as if Henry was here in the room with her. Her eyes searched each of their faces as she realized all of her children were in one room. Together.
She turned to Slava and back to the twins.
‘I want you to meet your sister.’
2018
'Ready? Take my arm.' I watch as her cotton shirt shifts and rearranges itself when she rises slowly, sitting delicately on her skin; both thin to the touch. The room is cold, but she is radiating heat. Her bones, still solid, feel warm under my hands as she leans on
my arm. Her fingers squeeze my flesh and she looks up at me, searching. She was little, only as tall as my shoulders now.
'When did you become so tall?' she smiles, her blue eyes wet., like a morning sea. 'You used to be so little, Mishka.' She reaches over to my hair and pinches the ends as they lay carelessly on my jacket. ‘Your hair is dark, like chocolate. Mine used to be that dark.’ She winces. ‘It’s so white now.’ Her knotted fingers pat her hair gently, as if remembering what was once there; as if trying to conjure something.
‘Life happens in a blink, Babchya,' I reply and lean my head towards her. 'It happens when you’re busy with your exciting life.'
She wags a finger at me, scolding my words. 'Ha. My life didn't seem very exciting to me. Bez intrigi.' Without excitement. Her humility makes me smile.
She takes a step forward right alongside mine, and we walk in slow rhythm out of her room, down the airy grey corridor, past the nurses' desks with potted yellow flowers on them. One nurse smiles as she sees us pass; the plump, friendly one that sees me every afternoon, and comments that these visits are a gift. She's had a hard life, she tells me. I know, I always reply.
'This way,' I direct her.
'In the garden?' She squints, as if she'd never done this before. Memories always fade and return anew; they seem strange to her; she grasps at them with futile energy.
'Yes. The garden.'
The green that surrounds our bench is robust and wide, not unlike her garden at Glen Cove, but the things that are missing are the marigolds, black-eyed susans, peonies. Colour and fire. The tart smell of the gooseberries freshly plucked and ready for canning, the redcurrants in their ruby glory standing tall and spreading out across the perimeter. blackberries, pears, breezes that bring the chernozem, the black earth, across the fields through the farmhouse windows where she'd once slept peacefully. She remembered that most, the colors of her early life coming back to her in waves of memory before disappearing again. That farm didn't exist anymore and hadn't for years. We would always have the same conversations, dipping in and out of the quiet, her fingers circling the now dull gold of her wedding ring, that she'd never taken off. Oh, Mishka, she would whisper almost inaudibly. I miss Hirko. I know you do, I'd reply. He would be so proud of you, his little granddaughter. And then she would drift to another memory. I miss my brother. Tell me about him, I’d say. And though I knew it all, I would always ask her to tell it to me. And she would. And her eyes would darken, and a mist would fall, as she remembered the fields, the cranes, and how she was taught to count the stars.
'Mishka.' she reaches over to set her hand on top of mine. Her skin seems as if its submerged in milk; its white and translucent.
'Yes, Babchya.'
'I want to tell you a story.'
I smile and hear a sigh of contentment surround her voice. 'Okay.'
‘It was night when Marioshka and I left home; night was the best time for us to escape. It was the last time I saw my parents, Mishka.’
Her blue eyes mist as she looks across at the horizon, the breeze sitting softly on us, around us, reminding us how to find the words; life waits for quiet moments for the words to come.
And then her voice, as if whispering under the weight of the world, softly says, ‘Mama’, and I place my hand on hers.
And so, we begin again.
About this book
This story was inspired by my grandmother Yulia (I call her Babchya), and though I’ve had to take creative liberties with some of the scenes that play out in this novel (as well as change names), the book is largely true. Her escape from her home at 18, her survival in Germany, her meeting and loving my grandfather, their complicated life in Australia, and the assault that resulted in the forced adoption of her twins, and their life in New York… those events were all true, as well as the subsequent reunion where she finally saw the twins again. Sadly, my grandfather Hironimus never saw them after he and my grandmother left for New York, and he died when I was five years old. Though I imagine that he would have been overjoyed to see them flourish into wonderful adults, and I hope I managed to convey his presence in this book as I knew him to be from memory: a complicated man with a heart that was always trying to do the right thing.
The way this book came about was that a few years ago, my mother, Slava, received a phone call from Australia in the middle of the night from a man claiming to be her brother. This set into place a series of events, and a bit of research into adoption records and court filings, and emails from the twins to my mother that led to Babchya finally admitting what had happened to her. ‘God will never forgive me’ were the first words she uttered to my mother upon admission of the forced adoption, which led me straight into the process of finding out more of her life, and about Ukraine (I travelled there in 2018). I felt that the act of asking for unnecessary forgiveness— regardless of the depths of love a mother has for her children— was an extraordinary act of humility.
Babchya spent most of her life with the heavy regret and incredible guilt of leaving her children behind, and it shaped her life in a lot of ways. But in my research of immigrant displacement and family stories of that time, she was one of thousands of women whose fate was forced, and as a result, they’d kept secrets from their families because of the fear of feeling shame. I felt like it was my duty as a woman and as a mother to share how destructive that could be, but also that there is always resilience in the human spirit.
As I write this, Babchya is 95 years old and living in a care home, and though her memories have mostly gone and her eyes are failing her, I’m fortunate that she told me the stories of her life before they faded away. She inspires me every day to be a stronger woman, and to encourage others to tell their story. Her life, although unique to her, is still a universal story about love, loss, and motherhood, and about how important it is to learn about the path that someone takes to navigate their life; from the outside, it can look complicated and bleak, but despite it all, there is always hope.
Acknowledgements
I’m so thankful to all the agents, fellow authors, and community of wonderful people (both strangers and friends) who gave me such support and feedback during the journey of this book. It would have been so much harder to persevere if it hadn’t been for each of you, at different times, urging me to write this story and to not give up. You connected so hugely to the themes in this book and made me realize that I had no choice but to write it all down, because it’s so easy to forget such rich history.
I want to thank Nell, Elli, Sandra, Helen, Beci, Tess, Yvonne, Cecilia and Angie: the strong, loyal, and loving women in my life who always lend me their voices when I have trouble finding my own. Your generosity and love means more to me than I can ever express.
To my children: I wrote this for you. To know that I’ve added to your own family stories means everything to me. Babchya would be humbled to know that she will forever inhabit these pages for you.
Mamo and Tato, thank you for being my harshest critics and my loudest cheerleaders, and for encouraging me to never let anything get in my way.
And, never least, to Tom. You loving me so fiercely is the brightest light in my world. You always challenge me to be patient, to be true to myself, and to fight for what I love. I’m so grateful I found you.
About The Author
Tetyana Denford
Tetyana Denford is a Ukrainian-American author,
translator, and freelance writer.
Her debut novel, Motherland, has been described by
people as 'haunting', 'powerful', and 'a fragile and hopeful
story of an immigrant family'.
She has worked for Frontline News, has written and edited articles for magazines in NY and the UK, and speaks several languages.
Tetyana grew up in a small town in New York, has lived in Italy and the UK, and currently lives in New York with her husband and three children.
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Motherland Page 34