Kalyna's Song

by Lisa Grekul

  “Right?” I say, turning to Sister Maria to see if I’ve gotten the story straight.

  “That’s right. More or less. I want to keep the memory of them alive, through their music.”

  I smile at my family, proud that I’ve kept her secret. Pleased that I can tell them about it now.

  “So why don’t you want to be around Ukrainians?” says Wes.

  Sister Maria clears her throat before she starts to speak. Then she begins to explain how her parents met, studying music in Kiev. How she met her own husband at a concert in Paris where her mother was singing. She says that her parents were against the marriage because he was Polish and a Jew, and his parents were against it because she was Ukrainian and a Catholic, but they married anyway, and settled in Warsaw.

  As Sister Maria talks, I feel as though she’s handing me pieces of a puzzle to put together in my head. Little by little, her story starts to make sense.

  She was a concert pianist; her husband was a conductor. Before the war, they had two children, two little girls. Then, in 1942, when the girls were still small, they were rounded up by ss soldiers – they and hundreds of other Polish people – and taken away.

  “Taken where exactly?” says Wes, his eyes wide. Dad touches his arm, and shakes his head. As if to say that Wes shouldn’t ask.

  “To a camp called Auschwitz,” says Sister Maria, quietly.

  “Oh,” says Wes. “Oh.”

  And everyone in her family – Sister Maria’s husband, and her daughters – died there. All of them except Sister Maria.

  I watch Sister Maria’s face as she talks, but she doesn’t cry. Her voice doesn’t even shake.

  “All this time,” she says, “Colleen was asking me, ‘Where do you come from, Maria?’ and ‘Why do you write the music of the dead composers, Maria? Why do you care so much?’ I never answered Colleen’s questions. I told her stories about these composers, but I never told her my own. I wanted to forget this story, yes? Best to forget. Easiest to forget. Like your family and Kalyna.”

  I nod.

  “But if I don’t speak of it,” she says, “how will people know?”

  Sister Maria pauses before she continues.

  “You see, the soldiers who came for us were Ukrainians.”

  Ukrainian soldiers. Now I’m starting to understand.

  “No,” says Wes, shaking his head. “They were Germans. They were Nazis. Everybody knows that.”

  Sophie puts her forefinger to her lips to shush him.

  “Not only Germans,” says Sister Maria.

  “But why would they do that?” Wes asks. “Didn’t they know that you were Ukrainian? You should have told them. Then they would have let you go.”

  “It didn’t matter. I was married to a Jew, you see. I was living in the Ghetto with other Jews. It didn’t matter to them.”

  I see my dad is troubled by this part of the story, too. He frowns while Sister Maria talks about the Ukrainians who joined the ss. I don’t think he likes hearing about bad Ukrainians. He wants to believe that we’re all good people. I don’t blame him. Those soldiers must have been brainwashed.

  “Everyone suffered in the war,” says Sister Maria, rubbing the rosary around her neck. “The Ukrainian people have always suffered. So I try to forgive those soldiers. It’s hard to forgive, but I try. People do what they must to survive, yes? Maybe I would have done the same. Who am I to condemn them?”

  We’re all quiet after Sister Maria finishes talking. She looks so old, and so sad. I want to be put my arm around her, or hold her hand. As Mom gets up to clear the table, my dad thanks Sister Maria for coming to talk with us. He says that her story is remarkable. Someone should write it down.

  I’m still a bit confused, and I think it’s going to take me some time to figure out what Sister Maria has told us. I think Sister Maria is confused too. She’s not ashamed of who she is. When she writes down the music of the Ukrainian composers, she is remembering the good things that Ukrainians have done. But she can’t forget all the terrible things that happened to Ukrainians in the past. And she can’t forget what Ukrainians did to their own people, and to Jews, in the war. What the soldiers did to her and her family. She doesn’t want me to forget either, or my family. I think that’s why she told us her story. We’re supposed to remember, too. The good things, and the bad.

  Before Sister Maria leaves, Kalyna wakes up from her nap. She walks into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. When she spots Sister Maria, she introduces herself. Then she says, “Who are you? What’s your name?”

  Kalyna doesn’t remember a thing about the afternoon. It’s all disappeared.

  Standing by Sister Maria at the door with Mom and Dad and Sophie and Wes, I catch Sophie staring at me with a strange look on her face – as though she’s looking at me for the first time. And Wes stares at Sister Maria like she’s a statue, like he’s not sure if she’s real.

  Sister Maria ruffles his hair with her fingers.

  “Your sister,” she says. “She’s going to be a great pianist some day, yes? A concert pianist. She’s my best pupil. She has a gift.”

  Sophie rolls her eyes, but she smiles at the same time.

  I don’t know about being a concert pianist. Right now, I just want to have my piano teacher back.

  “So I can keep taking piano lessons?” I ask. “With you?”

  Sister Maria laughs.

  “Of course,” she says. “We’ll start again tomorrow. Yes? Tomorrow, we start again.”

  Five

  “New Mexico, Italy, Wales. Victoria, British Columbia.” Mr. Kaushal pauses to adjust his bifocals. He’s reading to our grade eleven social studies class from a United World Colleges brochure. Mr. Kaushal is always reading to us from brochures. Last week it was the World Vision “Thirty-Hour Famine” and a unicef literacy program for Nicaraguan child amputees. The week before he was pitching the Foster Parents’ Plan, and the week before that, the Christian Children’s Fund. Mr. Kaushal isn’t Christian himself. He used to be Hindu, now he’s Buddhist. He’s very open-minded. He believes in the united human consciousness, plus he doesn’t eat meat. He supports animal rights. There are Green Peace posters all around his classroom.

  Mr. Kaushal continues. “Italy, Wales –”

  “You said that already.”

  The remark comes from the back of the classroom, from Ted Ross, the class troublemaker. Ted likes to fluster Mr. Kaushal, likes to catch him making mistakes in front of the class. Every so often, Ted poses hypothetical questions to Mr. Kaushal. “If your wife were being attacked by a rabid dog, would you kill the dog or let it maim her? If you were starving to death and the last piece of food on Earth was a hamburger, would you eat the hamburger or die of hunger?” To Ted’s questions, Mr. Kaushal gives serious answers, as though he doesn’t even know that he’s being laughed at. “I’d try to soothe the dog. I’d eat the bun but not the burger.” He’s too nice to tell Ted to stay quiet, or get out.

  Mr. Kaushal apologizes for repeating himself. “Sorry, sorry,” he says.

  Ted imitates Mr. Kaushal’s accent under his breath – sorry, sorry. Ted’s buddies and a few girls snicker.

  Mr. Kaushal ignores them. “These colleges,” he says, “unite young people from around the world. For one year, they live together – young people of every race, religion, and political background. They learn to live in harmony with each other. Then they return to their home countries to teach others about what they’ve learned.”

  Ted rolls his eyes.

  “There is also a college in Singapore, and one in Swaziland. Swaziland is by South Africa.”

  Ted rolls his eyes again.

  South Africa is a recurrent topic in Mr. Kaushal’s class – partly because Gandhi came from there, partly because Mr. Kaushal wants us to know about the apartheid system and how wrong it is. He devoted a whole month of classes to the history of South Africa, starting with the election of the first white government in 1948, and their subsequent constitutionalization of racism
. He talked about the Sharpeville Massacre in 1960, during which sixty-nine black protestors were killed by the white regime. We learned about the establishment of the African National Congress and the Pan Africanist Congress. About Nelson Mandela’s trial and imprisonment on Robben Island. The rise of Black Consciousness, the story of Stephen Biko. All of the senseless killings of innocent people on June 16, 1976, the day of the Soweto Uprising.

  A peaceful look washes over Mr. Kaushal’s face after he mentions the college in Swaziland. “Gandhi came from South Africa,” he says.

  The bell rings, Mr. Kaushal jumps.

  After social studies with Mr. Kaushal, I have ten minutes to get across the school to the Music Room for the last class of the day, band with Mr. Schultz. If it weren’t for Mr. Kaushal’s after-class routine, I could do it easily. The school isn’t that big. The challenge is to slip past Mr. Kaushal without him noticing me. Otherwise, I’m in for a lengthy chat about his latest brochure. If I’m a second late for band, Mr. Schultz will close the door in my face and I’ll be forced to get a late slip from the office. Mr. Schultz is nothing like Mr. Kaushal. He runs his classes like boot camp. I already have two late slips against me; one more, and I’ll be kicked right out for good.

  “Colleen?”

  Mr. Kaushal calls my name as I head out the door. I pretend that I haven’t heard him.

  “Colleen!”

  He scurries down the hallway to catch up with me, then taps me on the shoulder. As I turn to Mr. Kaushal, I see my friends marching off to band class. None of them has late slips. Why doesn’t he tap one of them on the shoulder?

  “I want you to take this home with you tonight.” Mr. Kaushal passes me the United World Colleges brochure.

  I glance down at my watch. Seven minutes and counting.

  “Talk about it with your parents. See what they think.”

  I stuff the brochure into my knapsack, next to the Foster Parents’ Plan pamphlet I got from him a few weeks ago.

  “Thanks, Mr. Kaushal. I’ll do that. I’ll definitely do that.”

  “I’ll be more than glad to help you along with the application process.” He smiles.

  I know what’s coming. Please don’t start with stories about your daughter.

  “My own daughter was interviewed – how many years ago now? Let me think.”

  While Mr. Kaushal thinks, I look at my watch again. Five minutes. Four and a half. Mr. Kaushal’s daughter speaks four languages and has a Master’s degree in International Development and works for the World Health Organization in Cameroon. She is his favourite subject.

  “Nine years ago.” His voice gets soft. “Nine years, so long ago. You know, my daughter didn’t make the interview. Though she was close. I’m sure that she was close. You could do better, Colleen. I know you could – with your grades, and your music, and your interest in international issues. I’ll help you write your essays for the application. And I’ll write a glowing reference letter for you. Positively glowing.”

  I hardly hear Mr. Kaushal’s last words. I thank him again, then I start to run.

  I don’t like having to rush out of Mr. Kaushal’s class every day to get to band. He’s a bit of an oddball in our school, and I know that the other students make fun of him sometimes, but he’s my favourite teacher. He’s one of my dad’s best friends, too, along with J.Y., the phys. ed. teacher, and Mr. Joly, who teaches drama. I like Mr. Kaushal because he has all kinds of ideas about the world – like how, if a butterfly flaps its wings in South America, the weather changes in North America. Or how, if you work it out, every person on earth is connected to every other person. Six degrees of separation, he calls it. Mr. Kaushal has lived all over the world. He’s lived in India, and Sri Lanka, and he went to university for a while in London before he came to Canada. He says that we’re not really as different as we all think.

  At first, at the beginning of the school year, I wasn’t in Mr. Kaushal’s social studies class. I got put in Mr. Maletski’s class instead. But I had some trouble getting along with Mr. Maletski. Actually, I had a lot of trouble. The principal had to get involved; my parents were called in – none of which is normal for me. I always get along with my teachers. Something about Mr. Maletski, though, rubbed me the wrong way. He’d start every class with a joke – he called it the “Joke of the Day” – and it was usually something insulting toward women, especially blondes. He told a few Ukrainian jokes, too, even though he’s Ukrainian himself. I don’t think anyone in class found them funny. Half of us were girls. More than half of us were Ukrainians.

  But it wasn’t just the jokes. It was everything. The way he stood up on a podium in front of the class, looking down on us like we were ignorant little children. The way he chuckled when someone asked a question, or got a fact wrong, or gave a wrong date. Mr. Maletski is crazy about facts and dates. “Facts and dates,” he said. “They’re the backbone of history.” I got in trouble over facts and dates. I thought he was missing a few important facts and dates in our unit on Canadian history. He made Canadian history start with the arrival of the French and English. I reminded him that for thousands of years before the Europeans came on the scene, Native people lived here. Aren’t they part of our history? Mr. Maletski said that their history isn’t written down, so we can’t study it.

  It was all downhill from there.

  I couldn’t help wondering how Native students would feel if they were to hear Mr. Maletski talk about the settlement of the West like it was the best thing that ever happened. Like the West was just a big empty space, waiting to be filled up with pioneers. He hardly mentioned the Riel Rebellion, and when he did, he made Riel and Dumont out to be bad guys. Imagine if a bunch of Jewish students had to sit in a class, and hear about how great the Nazis were. I never said that in class, but I thought about it a lot.

  In the weeks following our unit on the pioneers, I thought a lot about something else, too. There were – and still are – no Native students in Mr. Maletski’s social studies class. And not just in his class either. When I went to Glen Avon, lots of kids in the school were Native. At Regional, there are just a handful of them left. Doesn’t anybody notice how many Native students have dropped out? Doesn’t anybody care? I tried to bring up the issue once in Mr. Maletski’s class. He told me to stick to the textbook. We had moved on to the chapter on multiculturalism in Canada, and how great it is.

  Mr. Maletski didn’t like my comments. He didn’t like the questions that I asked in class. He said that he’s the one who asks the questions, I give the answers. I thought that he was doing both.

  Maybe I took it a step too far. On our social studies midterm, instead of answering Mr. Maletski’s questions, I wrote an essay on the way that history is just a story – one version of a story, told from one point of view – and how the story always has holes in it. Mr. Maletski failed me. Then he called in the principal to talk to me. I refused to rewrite the test. The principal talked to my parents. In the end, we worked out a compromise. We decided that it would be better for everyone involved if I switched into Mr. Kaushal’s class because Mr. Kaushal, the principal said, is a little less traditional.

  Mr. Kaushal’s class is a dream compared to Mr. Maletski’s. Every day we have a debate about a different current event – the crisis in the Middle East, the Troubles in Northern Ireland. Native land claims. Quebec separatism. We’re supposed to relate what we read in our textbook to what is going on around us. He invites us to make connections between different parts of the world and different groups of people – like the blacks in South Africa, and the Native people in Canada. Sometimes Mr. Kaushal brings in guest speakers who have lived in other countries; sometimes he plays excerpts from the news so that we can analyze the way that stories are reported. Social studies class never seems long enough. It always ends too soon.

  So when Sister Maria isn’t up for a visit from me at lunchtime, or when she’s busy with her work, I eat lunch with Mr. Kaushal in the cafeteria. I like spending time with him because he
doesn’t treat me like a kid. He talks to me like I’m an adult. My friends think I’m weird for hanging out with him but I don’t care. Grade eleven, for them, is just one big party. I know for a fact that Tanya’s grades have dropped because her mother told Mom, and Mom told me. Kirsten isn’t even talking about going to university anymore. She wants to do a hairdressing course so that she can work in her mother’s salon. Carla Senko might not even finish high school. She’s run away from home twice, and she’s always skipping school to go drinking with the grade twelve hockey players.

  Not that Mr. Kaushal could ever replace Sister Maria. But she’s getting older, and she needs to rest a lot more than she used to. Mom says that I can’t always expect her to have time for me. Since Uncle Andy passed away, and Kalyna moved back home with Auntie Mary in Vegreville, I have all sorts of free time. Sophie is at university. She has her own apartment now in Edmonton. Wes is playing hockey four times a week. Mr. Kaushal lends me books to read about religion and politics. He lets me listen to his cassette tapes of music from around the world – classical Indian music, reggae, traditional African songs. I learn from him about female folk singers from the 1960s and 1970s – Joan Baez, Janis Ian, Joni Mitchell. For my birthday, he gives me an old Buffy St. Marie record. After I listen to it, I start writing songs of my own about injustice and oppression. Starving children in Africa. Persecuted monks in Tibet.

  Of course, I have to remind myself from time to time that not all my teachers are like Mr. Kaushal, and I can’t get away from all of them. I’m not too crazy about my English teacher, for example, Mrs. Webster. But the only other English teacher in my high school is Dad. Even though he’d like to teach me, and I’d love to be in his class, the principal won’t allow it. So I’m stuck with Mrs. Webster until I graduate.

  She isn’t very old. In fact, she’s one of the youngest teachers on staff. As far as I know, she’s only been teaching for five or six years. Mrs. Webster just isn’t very young at heart. When Dad teaches Hamlet to his classes, he brings in a ceramic skull and gets Mr. Joly to visit his class so that they can act out the Yorick scene. He keeps a surprise in his pocket – a little wooden dagger that he whittled at the lake one summer – for Hamlet’s “to be or not to be” speech. All the students in his classes get to act out scenes too. Mrs. Webster plays an ancient record of the play being read by a group of English actors from the 1950s. While the record plays, she sits at her desk marking essays. It’s hard to stay awake. But then if you fall asleep, she’d never notice.