Stolen Child

by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch

  “This is serious,” said Mychailo. “I don’t know where you really came from, but if you want to stay in Canada, you had better get used to calling Marusia and Ivan your mother and father.”

  I didn’t say anything to that. I knew he was right and I was surprised at myself for slipping up. At the DP camp, I never let my guard down, but now that we were safely in Canada, my past was forcing itself to be remembered and my thoughts seemed to get all jumbled.

  Just then we heard a truck stop in front of the house and Marusia’s voice calling out a goodbye to the other farm workers.

  “I should be heading home,” said Mychailo. “Don’t say hi to me at school, okay?”

  I shrugged instead of answering. Maybe I would say hi to him just to get him angry.

  A few seconds later Marusia came around to the back. She was carrying a heavy paper bag so I scooted over and grabbed it from her and we both walked inside.

  She took the bag from my arms when we got inside and tipped it over onto the table, spilling out a few giant tomatoes, then onions, a small cabbage and some green peppers. At the bottom were half a dozen beautiful big apples. “I’ll make apple squares for dessert,” she said, her eyes sparkling.

  She seemed to notice what I was wearing for the first time. “You’ve changed,” she said.

  Then she looked at my unbraided hair. “And you took your hair down.”

  We put the vegetables and some of the apples away in silence, and Marusia prodded the boiling potatoes with a fork to see how done they were. “How was your first day at school?” she asked.

  I took a deep breath and held it. I needed to tell her right now what had happened. To clear the air and not hurt her feelings, but I couldn’t get the words out.

  Marusia’s forehead crinkled in a frown, then she took a paring knife from the drawer and began to peel one of the apples. I watched the peel of apple skin grow. I had seen her skin an entire apple by paring off a single long tendril. Ivan couldn’t do that. Neither could I.

  The silence between us grew. I got the dishrag and wiped off the counter. I got out the broom and swept the floor even though it was already clean.

  Marusia broke the silence. “I was telling the girls at the farm today about the outfit I made for you.”

  I didn’t trust myself to say anything, so I caught her eye and tried to smile.

  “They told me that students don’t dress like that in Canada,” she said. The apple was peeled, so she set it down on the counter and wiped her hands with a cloth. “Did you have trouble today?”

  “I … I … love the new clothing.” I stared at the floor and couldn’t say any more. My throat was choked with tears.

  Marusia stepped towards me, took the broom from my hands and set it against the wall. She held me tight. I exhaled. I could feel the tension and worry leave with that long-held breath. I rested my head on her chest and wrapped my arms around her waist, sinking into her warmth and the scent of apples, sweat and straw. I breathed in deeply, but I still couldn’t speak.

  She rocked me gently and murmured, “It’s fine, Nadia. Don’t worry. You’re safe now, Sonechko.”

  The words soothed me. And with them came an image of another mother holding me and soothing me. Another time I thought I was safe …

  That night in bed, I tried to remember more about the other time and another mother, but it was like trying to catch my shadow. I couldn’t fall asleep, so I turned on my lamp, squinting at the sudden brightness. Once my eyes got used to it, I grabbed the Freddy novel and propped myself up on my pillow. On the cover was a pig wearing a cap, looking through a magnifying glass. Page one began, It was hot … That much I could read.

  I tried to sound out more. The story seemed to be about two ducks looking at a house in the heat. It didn’t make sense. Maybe if I wasn’t so tired it would make sense. I set the book down and got The Picture Dictionary for Children. I had gone through the whole book four times, and each time I did I would find something new.

  This time as I flipped through it, I kept on noticing the same couple of pictures that were used for various words. For example, the words automobile, drives and parks were all illustrated with a fancy car. It wasn’t coloured in, but in my imagination, it was a shiny black car. The picture for burn was a house burning down, and the same burning house was used to show both destroy and fire.

  My nostrils filled with the memory of smoke. How many times had I seen burning buildings? It was so familiar. Yet who was I and where was I when these things had happened? This was yet another piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit.

  I closed the book and waited for my heart to stop pounding. I didn’t turn off the light.

  I am in the back seat of a long black car, dressed in pink finery. The doors are locked and the windows rolled up tight.

  I look out the window and through the haze of smoke. Girls and women running from a burning building. One girl glances my way. It is like looking into a mirror. She calls something to me but she’s pushed away by a man in uniform. I pound at the window and pound at the door. Let me out, let me out!

  The book slid off my chest and fell to the floor with a thunk. I jumped awake. The lamp was still on. I was safe in my bedroom in Canada. My head still swam with the nightmare. I rubbed my eyes and the image disappeared. I had been safe in the car and the fire was outside. Why had I wanted to get out? And who was that girl who looked like me? Was it just a trick of a dream, or did this really happen?

  Chapter Ten

  Linda

  Those first few weeks of school were better than the horrible first day. Miss MacIntosh taught one of the higher grades and she’d nod to me when we passed in the hallway. Knowing she was in the building gave me comfort. It was the same with Mychailo. For all anyone could tell, we were strangers, but we were the only DP kids there and we had a special bond.

  After school he would often drop by. He even helped me with homework once. If the other boys ever knew that, he would be teased. But I had Linda to play with at recess, and each day English seemed easier. I was grateful that Miss Ferris would not tolerate me being called “the Hitler girl” in her presence. But that didn’t stop Eric and David from whispering it behind my back.

  One recess as Linda and I were walking around the schoolyard pretending to be interested in watching the other children play, she turned to me and asked, “Would you like to come to my place after school today?”

  I was delighted with the invitation, but had to say no. “Marus— Mama wouldn’t know where I was,” I told her. “Can you come to my house instead?”

  Linda grinned. “I could do that. I’ll let Grace know and she can tell Mom and Dad where I am.”

  It felt nice walking all the way home with someone to talk to. Linda loved the swing Ivan had made for me. I showed her through the house as well. When I opened the doors to each of the rooms, I tried to see it through Linda’s eyes. Would she think that we were extremely poor? What would she think of the chipped tub in the bathroom and the repainted icebox in the kitchen? She hadn’t commented on the cinder blocks that we used as back-door steps, but I noticed her looking at them.

  When we got up to my bedroom, she sat on the bed and tested the springs. “Comfy,” she said. “And I love the lilac-coloured walls. Everything here is so fresh.”

  I looked at her face to see if she was making fun of me. I was sure that most of the kids at school had nicer homes than mine, but she seemed sincere.

  “You must love it here,” she said.

  I was beginning to get used to my new home, and Canada was growing on me. Did I love it? Maybe. “The place I lived in before was much nicer than this,” I said. The words were out before I knew it.

  “Where was that?” asked Linda, flopping down on the bed.

  “In Europe,” I said, my heart starting to hammer. Why had I started this conversation?

  “If you had a nicer place, why did you come here?”

  I said nothing. I wished I could take back the words I had al
ready let out.

  “Doesn’t make sense,” said Linda.

  “It was because of the war.” I hoped that would end the conversation.

  She looked at me strangely. “If you had a nicer place, were your parents well off?” she asked.

  I opened my mouth to reply, but then closed it again. Why had I started this conversation?

  “I was kidding,” I told Linda. “We were just regular people.”

  Mychailo had warned me to never let Canadians know that Marusia and Ivan weren’t my real parents, because the government could take me away from them. Marusia too, all those years at the camp, and on the ship.

  I was so mad at myself for coming so close to betraying them. The last thing I wanted was to be separated from the only two people who had ever cared for me. I smiled at Linda and shrugged, hoping she’d brush off my comment.

  “Nadia? I’m home!” The sound of the front door creaking open and Marusia’s footsteps on the wooden entranceway made me practically jump out of my skin.

  “I’m up here,” I called down. “With a friend.”

  I could hear Marusia walking into the kitchen on the level below us, and the rustling of a grocery bag as she set it on the table. Then I heard her footsteps on the stairs.

  In a few seconds she appeared in the doorway of my bedroom. “There you are, Nadia.” She looked from me to Linda. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  “Ma– Mama, this is Linda. Linda, this is my mother.”

  Linda scrambled to her feet and held out her hand. “Glad to meet you, Mrs. Kravchuk.”

  Marusia shook Linda’s hand. “Come on downstairs in a couple of minutes. I’ll go make you a treat.” She turned and walked back down the stairs.

  When we could hear her down in the kitchen again, Linda whispered to me. “What did she do in the war?”

  I didn’t know how to answer that. Why hadn’t I been quiet about it like Mychailo had warned me to? “I’ll tell you about it later. Let’s go get our snack,” I said, hoping she would forget about all of this.

  When we went downstairs, Marusia had sliced an apple in a bowl for each of us and drizzled them both with honey. “You can take it outside to eat if you like,” she said. “But bring the bowls back when you’re finished.”

  The swing was just wide enough to hold us both if we squeezed on together, and Linda’s legs were long enough to keep it steady, so that’s where we sat together and ate our snack.

  “This is yummy,” said Linda, crunching with satisfaction.

  I loved the gooey treat too. It wasn’t something Marusia had ever made just for us. I guess she wanted to serve something special for my friend. She always tried so hard to make things good for me. It made me feel guilty for the things I had said to Linda.

  Linda looked over to the house and whispered to me. “She can’t hear us from inside, can she?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So what did she do during the war?”

  I slowly swallowed the piece of apple that sat on my tongue. “I was just being silly.” I said. “She was a factory worker.”

  “What about you?” asked Linda. “It must have been exciting to grow up in the middle of a war.”

  Exciting? I had never thought of it that way. So terrifying that I couldn’t remember half of it, that’s what it was to me. “I was young,” I said. “It’s all jumbled in my mind.”

  “Tell me what you remember, then.”

  So I told her about Marusia and I escaping and our arrival at the Displaced Persons’ camp. Linda’s eyes went wide as I told her some things. I held back the ones about the German family.

  The back door opened and Marusia stuck her head out. “You two are cosy on that swing,” she said, grinning. “Finish up your apples. Linda, Nadia and I will walk you home.”

  “I can walk home myself,” said Linda.

  “We would like to walk you home,” said Marusia.

  She washed and shone some apples and put them in a paper bag to take with us. I was puzzled at first, but then realized what Marusia was up to. She wanted to meet Linda’s parents. The apples were a gift.

  Linda’s one-storey yellow brick house was on Usher Street — behind the railway station and one street closer than the Ukrainian church. I had passed by on the way to church, but never realized she lived there.

  “Would you like to come in?” Linda asked.

  “That’s not necessary,” said Marusia. “I just wanted to make sure that you got home safe.”

  Linda knew as well as I did that the real reason for this little walk home was to check out her family. “Wait here,” she said. “I want my mom to meet you.”

  She ran ahead of us and flew in the front door of her house. A moment later a careworn woman drying her hands on a blue apron stepped out onto the front step and greeted us, Linda peeking out from behind her. “I’m Rita Henhawk, Linda’s mother.”

  “I’m Marusia Kravchuk, and this is my daughter Nadia. Here are some apples,” she added, holding the bag out to Mrs. Henhawk. “I picked them today.”

  Mrs. Henhawk took the bag and smiled. “Are they from your own tree?”

  “No,” said Marusia. “I work at a farm.”

  Mrs. Henhawk nodded in understanding. “Can you come in for a cup of tea?” She opened the door wide. A striped cat darted between her legs and ran out onto the road.

  I was about to chase after him, but Linda’s mother said, “Don’t worry. He’ll be back. Joe never misses his supper.”

  We stepped inside the house and were enveloped by warmth and a savoury scent of something cooking. “Excuse the mess,” said Mrs. Henhawk. “I’ve been making corn cakes.”

  There was no mess. The front door led directly into a living room that had only a few pieces of furniture in it. They had a worn sofa, two hardback chairs and a wooden chest that served as a coffee table. There were no bookshelves and the wooden floor was bare, but it was a tidy room. I could tell that the Henhawks were poor, but proud like us. So Linda had been sincere about the nice things she’d said about our house. That made me feel so much better.

  Beyond that was a kitchen with a red linoleum floor, so newly mopped it was still glistening. A carved wooden bowl covered with a checkered cloth sat on one end of the kitchen table. Linda’s older sister sat on a chair at the opposite side of the table, a textbook and binder spread out before her and a half-finished glass of milk close at hand. Grace looked up when we stepped in, gave a bit of a wave and went back to her homework.

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” Mrs. Henhawk said, indicating the sofa. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “That would be lovely,” said Marusia. She sat down on the sofa and patted the spot beside her. I sat down.

  “And some milk for you, young lady?” Mrs. Henhawk asked me.

  I wasn’t thirsty, but Marusia nudged me in the ribs, so I said that would be lovely. Linda went into the kitchen to help. In a few moments she came back out, carrying two glasses of milk and two mugs of tea on a tray. Her mother came out of the kitchen with a platter of small golden cakes.

  I held my corn cake in both of my hands and blew on it to cool it down. Marusia took a bite of hers. Smacking her lips with delight, she said, “This is delicious.”

  I bit into mine and had to agree. It was like butter, corn and bacon all mixed together.

  “It’s an old family recipe,” said Mrs. Henhawk. “I’m glad you like them.”

  Marusia and Mrs. Henhawk made small talk while Linda and I sat impatiently waiting for them to finish. I would have liked to explore the neighbourhood with Linda. Or at least explore the house. But I knew this step was necessary. Marusia is very protective of me.

  Finally, Marusia finished her tea and set down the cup. “It was so good to meet you,” she said. We both stood.

  “They seem like nice people,” said Marusia, as we walked back home. “You can go there after school sometimes, but you’ve got to let me know the day before.”

  C
hapter Eleven

  Ghosts

  I had a friend in Linda, parents who loved me and a roof over my head. The weeks marched by, and before the first frost, Ivan had finished all the painting and had installed the inside doors. Marusia and I planted tulip and daffodil bulbs by the front walk. I looked forward to seeing them bloom the following spring. I was lucky to be loved by Marusia and Ivan.

  It wasn’t all perfect. Eric still called me “the Hitler girl” whenever he saw me at recess or on the way home — and he made a point of seeing me often. Thank goodness that other boy had tired of the game. My memories of the past had stopped coming at me so quickly and I was able to sort some of them out, but there were still huge blanks in my memory.

  On the last Sunday evening in October, I sat between Marusia and Ivan on the cinder-block steps at the back of our house. Someone in the neighbourhood must have been burning leaves, because there was a haze in the air and I could smell smoke. Marusia brewed a pot of camomile tea with honey and we each sipped a mug of it. As I sat there between the two people who had changed their lives to protect me, I looked at the swing that Ivan had made me. I saw the lilac bushes that he had planted for me. I thought of Marusia protecting me in the camp and of the skirt and blouse that her farm-worn hands had stitched with love. I began to cry.

  “Sonechko,” said Marusia, leaning her head onto my shoulder. “What is the matter?”

  My throat was filled with sobs. “Nothing … it’s fine, it’s fine … ” I tried to stop the tears but they had a mind of their own.

  “Did you have another nightmare?” asked Ivan.

  I shook my head. “I am happy,” I said. “I don’t know how you can love me, but I’m glad that you do … ”

  “Nadia, Nadia,” cooed Marusia. “You may not be the daughter of my blood, but you are the daughter of my heart. I love you and Ivan loves you.”

  “But I don’t deserve to be loved,” I sobbed. “You say I’m not a Nazi, but my memories say I am.”

  Ivan pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dried my tears. “Tell us everything you know, Nadia. Maybe we can help you make sense of it all.”