Kalyna's Song

by Lisa Grekul

I feel the blood drain from my face, and then rush up again to my cheeks. I look down at my hands, wishing I could crawl under the table.

  “Not always,” I say.

  “But sometimes?”

  I clear my throat. “Sometimes.”

  “So there is an element of sport to it, you might say.”

  “You might say.”

  “It’s not simply a matter of putting food on the table.”

  I nod, miserably. Now I’ve really done it. I should have lied. I’ve done it now.

  Tim says that we’re going to run out of time if we don’t get to Heinrich’s question. Thank God. He asks Fiona if she has anything to add. She keeps her head down as she furiously makes notes on the paper in front of her.

  “Nothing to add,” says Fiona, glancing up at me, smiling.

  “For the final portion of the interview,” says Heinrich, handing me a piece of paper, “we want you to look at these three questions. Take a minute. Read through the questions carefully. Choose the question that you feel best prepared to answer.”

  I start to read the questions.

  1. Should Canada extradite criminals to countries for which the death penalty is law?

  There it is. The word. Extradite. From the context of the sentence, I can figure out what it means: export, deport – force to leave, basically. I don’t think that the committee actually cares much about the extradition issue. They want to know my feelings about capital punishment. Which is a touchy subject. And I’ve had enough of touchy subjects. I think that I’d better stay away from question one.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” says Heinrich.

  2. Give a brief explanation of the Meech Lake Accord and the controversy surrounding Meech Lake in contemporary Canadian political affairs.

  Meech Lake. It’s been in the papers. Mr. Kaushal and I haven’t gotten around to talking about it, though. Meech Lake, I think, has something to do with Quebec – or is it Native people? Maybe both, I can’t be sure. It’s probably best to stay away from Meech Lake altogether.

  “All set?” says Heinrich, drumming his fingers on the table.

  I shake my head. I think he’s enjoying this, watching me squirm.

  3. Define genocide. Provide an example. What punishment, in your opinion, is appropriate for perpetrators of genocidal crimes?

  This could be the one. Genocide is mass murder. Example: World War II, Hitler. The Jews. Simple. But what about the punishment? If I bring up “an eye for an eye,” then I’m opening the discussion to capital punishment again – and I don’t want to go there.

  I try to think of a better example of genocide, one that won’t lead to the death penalty issue. The Beothuck in Newfoundland. Perfect. Their genocide happened so long ago that there’s no one left to punish anymore. Punishment is a non-issue. It’s just a terrible tragedy, a horrific chapter in Canadian history. The End.

  And if someone on the committee asks me for details about the Beothuck people? I know that they lived in Newfoundland. Or New Brunswick. Nova Scotia maybe? They were killed in the 1800s, I know that. Or maybe in the 1700s. Who killed them? I wonder. The French or the English?

  “Anytime now!” says Heinrich.

  “All right,” I say. “I’ll take the genocide question, number three.”

  Still unsure of how to proceed, I swivel back and forth – left to right – in my chair. My foot bumps up against the guitar case beside me. My guitar. I’d forgotten about it. I brought it along with me, I really should do something with it.

  “Genocide is the wholesale annihilation of a group of people for religious or political reasons. The Jews in World War II, for instance – well, Hitler’s campaign against them, I should say – that’s genocide. Or the Beothuck people of – of eastern Canada, who were wiped out completely by the – um – European invaders. That’s genocide.”

  I reach down to my guitar case, lift out my guitar.

  “Actually,” I continue, “all Native peoples in Canada and the United States were victims of genocide. They still are victims – when you think about it – of an ongoing genocide, really.”

  Then I start plucking broken minor chords. One long A-minor arpeggio, one long D-minor arpeggio – brief E7 and back to A-minor. The chord progression is melancholy, plaintive. Mournful.

  “It’s not that we’re murdering First Nations people outright. No, of course not. We’re more subtle than that. We’re perpetrators of a sort of cultural genocide.”

  “Yes,” says Tim. “It’s like apartheid. You made that point earlier.”

  I’m repeating myself. Oh dear.

  As I pluck the guitar strings, trying desperately to think of something else to say without looking panicked, it strikes me that the A-minor, D-minor, E7 progression is the chord structure of a hundred Ukrainian songs. I’m an expert on Ukrainian people.

  “Then again,” I say, “cultural genocide in Canada takes different forms; it comes in different degrees. My own family – my people, the Ukrainians – we’ve experienced our own persecution over the last century. Culturally, I mean.”

  I change from plucking to strumming – softly, still – the same chord progression.

  “When my parents and my aunts and my uncles were young, in the thirties and forties, they weren’t permitted to speak Ukrainian at school. The teacher expected them to speak English but most of them didn’t know how. They spoke Ukrainian at home. The teacher strapped them at school when they spoke Ukrainian; the other kids called them names. My parents and their generation, they grew up ashamed of who they were, and of who their parents were. Ashamed of their food, their religion – everything. Their whole way of life. So they raised us to be English, thinking we wouldn’t have to be ashamed, then. They gave us English names. They hardly ever spoke to us in Ukrainian.”

  For a moment, I stop playing my guitar. I haven’t thought through what I’m saying but I have to keep on.

  “We’ve all taken Ukrainian dancing lessons. My sister, my brother, me. At Easter time, we make pysanky. Ukrainian was even offered as a second language at school, for a while. Sometimes, though, I think – so what? I can’t talk to my grandparents. They only speak Ukrainian. I can’t read Ukrainian books, or Ukrainian poetry, or Ukrainian newspapers, or Ukrainian magazines.”

  “If I had more time,” I continue, “then maybe I would tell you about my friend. Her name is – her name was Sister Maria, and she was my piano teacher. I can’t tell you about all of the things she taught me, even when we were just talking, or listening to music together, or having a cup of tea. But I can tell you about one thing. Sister Maria had a project that was always on her mind. She was trying to collect music that was written by a group of Ukrainian composers. Composers who were killed because of what they believed in – like Dmytro Bortniansky, and Lev Revutsky. Mykola Lysenko, Kyrylo Stetsenko, Vasyl Barvinsky.”

  “So that’s one kind of genocide right there. Sister Maria told me how horrible it was. They were murdered, or they died in concentration camps, or they killed themselves. A lot of their music was destroyed. Only – you see, I think there’s more to it than that. Because, like I said, I’m Ukrainian. But until Sister Maria told me about these composers, I didn’t know that they existed. I’d never heard of them. They’re part of my history, and my parents’ history, and my grandparents’ history. Why didn’t any of us know their stories? It’s as though the worst genocide of all isn’t killing people, it’s taking away their history.”

  I start strumming again and this time I sing along. I sing Vichnaia Pam’iat just like I sang it for Sister Maria. The same words, over and over again. The same melody, slow and sombre and dark. It’s a repeat performance after all, though I’m singing alone this time. The committee members are silent while I sing. Craig nods in time with the music, Gena wipes her eyes.

  When I’ve finished the song, when my guitar strings have stopped ringing, I look around the room at all the committee members.

  “Do you know what the words mean?” I ask.
r />   Tim shakes his head. J.J. drops her eyes. Heinrich says, “No.”

  “Vichnaia pam’iat means everlasting memory. Memory everlasting. It’s a song for the dead, for a funeral. At least, that’s what my mother tells me. I can sing dozens of Ukrainian songs because I memorize them phonetically. The funny thing is, though, if you were to ask me what the words mean, I couldn’t tell you.”

  I put my guitar back into its case.

  “And I don’t know how we’d punish people for that kind of genocide. I don’t know where we’d begin.”

  The interview ends with another round of hand-shaking – “thank you’s” and “goodbye’s” and “good luck’s.” As Tim escorts me to the door of the interview room, he says that the committee will make their decision within the next fourteen days. Successful candidates will be contacted by phone; others will receive letters in the mail.

  I think I’ll be getting a letter.

  Waiting for the elevator to take me to the main floor of the office building, I hear Caroline warming up on her violin. She plays scales first, then arpeggios, then part of a piece – a concerto, probably – filled with sixteenth notes runs and trills.

  The elevator doors open. A father and his son – another candidate – emerge, both in suits and ties and shiny shoes. I wish the son luck as I get into the elevator.

  “Break a leg!” I say, before the doors close.

  As the elevator takes me to the ground floor, I look up, wondering if Sister Maria can see me now. I think she can.

  Maybe it doesn’t matter so much that I screwed up the interview. At least I taught the people in the room something that they didn’t know before.

  And I learned something, too. Since Sister Maria died, I haven’t talked about her to anyone. I haven’t been able to say her name without breaking down. Until today, that is. It felt so good to tell the committee about her – even if I didn’t have time to say much; even though I couldn’t tell them her whole story.

  I’m beginning to think that Sister Maria is still here. She’s gone, but she hasn’t left. She’s just with me in a different way now. It’s going to take some getting used to, and it’s going to be hard. Remembering her makes my heart ache. Forgetting would be easier. I’ll take it one step at a time.

  I said her name today.

  That’s a start.

  Eight

  I get the letter near the end of grade eleven. We regret to inform you…. Although your application was very…. Unfortunately we cannot offer…. I don’t bother reading all of it. I don’t need to. I knew what it said before I even opened the envelope.

  When Mom and Dad ask to read it, I tell them that they can’t. I’ve crumpled it up and thrown it away, along with all of the uwc brochures and information booklets that I collected over the past few months. As far as I’m concerned, the application and the interview never happened.

  So I go into grade twelve like everybody else. It’s just as well. I don’t have to worry about making new friends. I can keep my old locker in the English Wing, next to Dad’s classroom. In September, I settle back into my old timetable – English, social studies, math. Nothing ever changes much at Regional. Same place, same faces. Same routine. The only difference between this year and last year is that I’m not in Mr. Schultz’s class anymore. Dad has arranged for me to practise the piano in the auditorium at Regional while everyone else is in Band. I’m trying to finish grade ten piano on my own. If I do, I’ll get credit for it – as though I were in Mr. Schultz’s class.

  My piano lessons are on hold, though, until I go away to Edmonton next year. I’ve decided to apply for the Bachelor of Music program at the University of Alberta. I’ll have a new teacher – a professor – for private lessons twice a week, plus classes in history, ear training, and theory. There’s no point trying to find someone to replace Sister Maria as long as I’m living in St. Paul. I’ll only be here for another year.

  Once in awhile, when I’m alone in my bedroom, I catch myself staring at the spot on the floor, between my bed and the wall, where I used to keep Sister Maria’s boxes. A few weeks ago, I moved her boxes into the bottom of my closet. For a couple of days, I left the doors open. Lately, though, I’ve been keeping them closed. It’s hard enough trying to work on the pieces we were preparing for my grade ten piano exam – hard enough seeing her writing in the margins of my music. Softer! Watch your tempo! Let the melody soar like a bird in flight! I miss her so much. More than I thought possible. I’m determined to finish grade ten, but I’m not ready to look through her papers. Not yet.

  As long as I’m in St. Paul, I’m supposed to make an effort to enjoy myself, make the most of my grade twelve year. I’m supposed to do more socializing outside of school with people my own age. That’s what Mom and Dad tell me at the beginning of the school year. They think I’m too serious. I’ve got my nose in the books too much. I’m missing out on dances and parties and boyfriends – all of the normal teenager stuff. I need to go out more. I should be staying out late. Dad says that I can help myself to his liquor cabinet, as long as I’m responsible about it. I’m almost eighteen anyway, and all the kids drink at parties. Mom says that I don’t need to worry about curfews. “Just call if you’re going to be out late,” she says, “to let us know that you’re all right.” I must be the only teenager on earth with parents who want me to stay out all night, and go to parties, and drink.

  I get the feeling that Dad talks to Mr. Kaushal about me, and that Mom calls Mrs. Paulichuk and Yolande Yuzko. Because, suddenly, Mr. Kaushal doesn’t have time to eat lunch with me in the cafeteria. All of a sudden he has marking to do – every single noon hour – or staff meetings. Then, out of the blue, Kirsten and Tanya invite me over to their table in the cafeteria. It can’t be their idea. I’ve never been part of their group in high school. They ask me to go shopping with them after school. They want me to go to beerfests with them on the weekend, and to the bar. I’m not interested. I wouldn’t know how to act. I think Kirsten and Tanya are relieved when I turn them down. I’d probably cramp their style.

  “At least graduation,” says Mom one day over supper. “At least get into the spirit of graduation. I want you to go to the banquet with your friends. Maybe you could help plan it. Join the Graduation Committee.”

  I snort.

  Plans for graduation at Regional start early. The ceremonies and the banquet take place in June, but the Grad Committee is organized in September so that the students in grade twelve have time to do fundraising to pay for the caterer, the decorations, and a dj for the dance. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all a joke. Even though the Grad Committee spends all year planning the banquet – and even though girls spend hundreds of dollars on their graduation gowns – nobody actually stays for the dance. Grad coincides every year with Rodeo Weekend in St. Paul. After the meal and the speeches are over, all the grads race out of the school gym so that they can change out of their gowns and tuxedos, into jeans and cowboy boots. Then they head over to the Rodeo Beerfest at the Rec. Centre across town. Sometimes they don’t even stay for the speeches.

  Mom says, “If you don’t go to graduation, I’ll go to –”

  “I know,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I know. You’ll go to your grave with a broken heart.”

  “You might change your mind,” says Dad.

  I snort again. Fat chance of that happening.

  I didn’t count on being obliged to go to graduation.

  After the first semester’s grades are tallied, in early February, the grade twelve student with the highest average is named Valedictorian of the graduating class. And he – or, in my case, she – has to give a speech at the banquet. I don’t actually have a choice about going to Grad. I have to go. I’m the Valedictorian.

  Mom is thrilled. Three months in advance, she makes me an appointment with her hairdresser for the morning of Grad. She books one of the other teachers at her school – Mrs. Stefansyk, who sells Mary Kay – to do my makeup. Between February and May, Mom takes me to Ed
monton three times to look at grad gowns. We spend three whole weekends in the city, overnighting at Sophie’s place, before we find the perfect dress. Three weekends of fighting in various malls, in a dozen different dress shops. I refuse to spend more than a hundred dollars on my dress; Mom thinks we should spend no less than five. I want something simple, possibly short, preferably black. Mom wants a gown with satin and lace – full-length, with a hoop or a crinoline – in any colour except black. Maybe mauve. Or powder pink. Or fuchsia.

  We finally settle on a navy blue satin dress. Long, but not puffy. Originally six hundred dollars, on sale for half-price.

  But when Mom starts talking about what type of corsage I should have, and how we should make sure that my escort’s bow tie and cummerbund match my dress, I put my foot down. No more compromising. I’m going to Grad alone. I’m not going to ask some guy I hardly know to escort me to Grad just because everyone else goes in couples. It’s silly. Mom says that I could ask somebody in my class, like Henry Popowich, or one of the Babiuk twins. She says that I could ask my cousin Wayne or my cousin Darrell. I say that I’d rather not go at all than go on a boy’s arm. I’d rather die than take one of my cousins.

  I’m more concerned about my speech than anything else. The valedictory address is the highlight of the whole banquet.

  Deep down, I sort of like the idea of being the star of the show. The problem is that I’m used to singing in front of crowds, not talking. I wonder if I should memorize my speech, or write it out on recipe cards. How long should it be? I don’t want to talk too long. I’ll lose the attention of the crowd. But it can’t be too short, either. It has to be profound, thought-provoking – funny at times – and, ultimately, heartwarming. I’m just not sure if I can pull it off.

  Eventually, I go to Dad for advice. He’s always giving speeches, plus he’s been to lots of grads over the years.

  “Basically,” he says, “there’s a formula to it. You talk about the twelve-year journey you and your friends have been taking, and how you were helped along the way by your parents, your teachers, and each other. Thank the parents. Thank the teachers. Thank the friends. Then say something about how the journey isn’t really over. You’re just at a crossroads now, and it’s time to pick a fork in the road.”