The Silence of Trees

by Valya Dudycz Lupescu

  Then behind me, fingers dug into my shoulders and spun me around. I struggled not to fall. I opened my eyes and saw the face of the Gypsy woman; the one I had seen dancing several weeks before, but somehow she looked different. Where were her beautiful clothes? She wore mismatched rags, like those my mother would sometimes wear around the house: a torn shirt of blue and white flowers, a skirt of red and yellow stripes. The colors, which may have once been bright, were now muted by blotches of dirt. Her hair hung in heavy clumps around her thin face. I dropped my gaze to her bare feet, so tiny. Smaller than little Halya’s feet. How could a grown woman have such small feet? Then I noticed the blood.

  Her feet were covered with scratches. The stains on her clothes were a mixture of dirt and blood, fresh blood that continued to spread across the dull patches of color. Her torn blouse revealed bruises on her neck and chest. And her face! Even in the dark, I could see blotches covering her cheeks, forehead and chin. What had happened to this woman? We had both walked alone through the woods.

  I wanted to ask if she had been hurt, offer some kind of help. Should I extend my arm for her to lean on or give her the handkerchief tucked inside my boot? Instead, I stood in silence, staring into black eyes that watched me with contempt and rage.

  She pushed me, then dropped her hold. Stepping back, she wrapped her arms around her chest and raised her head to stare into the night beyond my right shoulder. Firelight caught her features, and beneath the dirt and blood, I saw a plum crescent birthmark that stretched from the corner of her left eyebrow to the crease of her lips. I took a deep breath, and the Gypsy brought her hand to her face, catching my stare.

  Baba told me to respect those who had been marked for a special life, even if the rest of the world hated and feared them. Baba would stretch the neck of her blouse open to show me the tiny brown foot-shaped birthmark on her shoulder—caused by the "guardian angel who stood there when she was born." The Gypsy had also been born with a sign setting her apart from the others, marking her for a life of fortunetelling and magic.

  Russian words heavy with a foreign accent seemed to grow in her mouth until she was forced to gasp them out: "Why have you come here?" Avoiding my eyes, she stared above and beyond me. The only words I could mutter in my Ukrainian tongue were those I had practiced every night for two weeks while lying in my bed:

  "I came to have my fortune told. Can you h-h-help me?"

  The wind shifted, bringing her smell to me: sweat, blood, urine. Heavy scents, sour and metallic like those that filled the barn after Tato butchered runts of the litter. She exhaled deeply and rubbed her hands along her arms.

  "Of course." She laughed to herself and looked up to the moon. "Of course that is why she came. To see the ‘Gypsy’ in the forest." Her hands smoothed her skirts and settled into fists.

  "Are you frightened? Scared of the lady covered in blood?" She began to wave her hands in circular motions and lowered her voice to a raspy whisper. "Ooh, this ‘Gypsy’ must have been doing something ‘bad’ in the woods. Black magic. Maybe dancing with the dark god?" She stopped for a long second, then looked into my eyes.

  "Are you sure you should be here, gadji?"

  Fear blew through me, catching the cold in my bones, strengthening my shiver. For a moment, I heard Mama’s voice as if she stood beside me: "Be careful, Nadya. Come home. Don’t trust her, she is a Gypsy. It is all a trick. You will disappear into the night, and I will never see you again." I clenched my fists and bit my lower lip.

  The vorozhka raised her eyebrows and took a step toward me. "What is the matter, peasant girl? Are you scared that I am going to have my brothers steal you?" She wiped blood off her lips, rubbed her eyes.

  Then she stepped around me and closer to the fire. She was shivering. Dark circles hung under her eyes, and blood streamed in thin lines from the right side of her temple down her face. Her Gypsy face: hollow and full of shadows . . . and young. Not much older than my Ukrainian face: lighter and rounder, surrounded by brown hair woven into one neat braid.

  "That is all you girls come here for. To see the mysterious Gypsy camp. To have your fortunes told." She spit on the ground. "Your people only come here when they want something. Or someone to blame."

  I stood watching her as she rubbed her hands up and down her arms, arms covered with fine, black hair. I whispered, "What happened?"

  She lowered her eyes. Her voice angry as she mocked me: "What happened?"

  Looking around, she calmed herself and lowered her voice. "What happened? New soldiers arrived in the neighboring village. They decided to explore the woods—"

  "Soldiers," I interrupted, "What kind of soldiers?"

  She looked into my eyes. Again the hairs on my neck rose.

  "Soldiers are soldiers. They fight. Their life is war. And we . . . what are we in war? Things to be moved, broken, used, thrown away, claimed by whichever side comes through our camp.

  "My family, we travel far. We see how this war breaks people and land. We pass empty villages. We see pits they dig for bodies. We know the death smell." She rubbed her hands together. "We come here . . . to seek a quiet place. I went too far from camp." She laughed bitterly. "I thought I would be safe in the woods."

  I shook my head, not comprehending. She almost smiled.

  "Poor stupid girl, you don’t understand." Sighing heavily, she turned around to face the fire. I gasped when I saw the gash that divided her blouse in half, lines of blood criss-crossing like embroidery on silk. She continued, "Five of them. They threw me on the ground. Laughing. Shouting, ‘You like it, Gypsy bitch. Bark for us. Lick it. This is your lucky night.’" Her voice cracked, and she shuddered. "I tried to bite them. Hit them. Scratch them. They beat me. Two held me down. They—"

  Suddenly she turned around to face me, tears in her eyes. "Now do you understand?" She shook her head. "Probably not." The Gypsy picked up her skirts in her left hand and turned toward the river.

  "Wait here, peasant girl." She wiped her face. "I am drabarni, a vorozhka. I will read your fortune." She looked around the camp. "But first I need to clean myself in your river. Be quiet. You do not want to wake my brothers."

  She walked away.

  I held my breath, feeling my chest tighten as I watched her walk into the forest. When she finally merged with the trees, I exhaled, my hands cupping my nose and mouth, afraid even to whimper. What if the soldiers were still nearby? What if her brothers awoke?

  I sat down and looked around. Each time the moon crept out from the clouds, shadows darted along the campsite. Light would linger on dirty clothes and dishes arranged in strange, neat little piles. Firelight blurred with moonlight on the dull surfaces of the metal washtubs stacked beside an old maple tree. I looked around for cut wood for the fire but could not find any.

  Such a woman, this Gypsy. So strong that she could gather up her skirts and walk to her family’s camp with her head up, wiping away blood. Who was I next to her? She was right: I was only a peasant girl. What could have brought me away from the safety of my family?

  Then I remembered why I had disobeyed Mama, why I had crept through these woods. I needed to ask the vorozhka if Stephan and I would marry.

  He seemed so far away from me as I sat in the Gypsy camp, and I knew he’d be furious if he knew I’d come alone, especially if he knew about the soldiers. They must have been Russian. Tato had said he’d heard rumors that Russian soldiers planned to reclaim our land from the Germans, but he’d shrugged them away. Ever since the Germans had closed the schools and libraries, information from the outside had become more and more difficult to learn. So rumors hung on every tongue. But if they were Russian soldiers, I wondered how their return would affect Stephan.

  I remembered how the German soldiers had come to our village two years ago during the hot summer. They gathered all the young men, including Stephan and his brother, for three weeks of "training." When he returned, Stephan wore a German police uniform, his eyes darker, heavier; scars on his hands and face. His brother
never came back.

  When Uncle Vasyl spat at him and called him a traitor, I could only clench my fists. Stephan’s skin had lost its rosy color; the laugh lines had vanished from around his eyes, his lips. His "training" had silenced the music that once filled his face. After putting on that uniform, he never again picked up his guitar. I can’t even remember him laughing. Never aloud, only chancing a few careful smiles with me. Stephan would not tell me what had happened then. Nor did he talk about his missions, when he would be gone from the village for weeks. I searched his scars for clues, peered into his eyes for pictures, but they never came. He was closed to me.

  The flames began to die down to a flicker, and I thought perhaps I could gather wood for the fire. No sooner had I lifted myself up than I saw the Gypsy returning from the river, carrying firewood. As she walked to the camp, I was mesmerized by the thrusting, swinging motion of her hips. She led with her pelvis, in a motion both awkward and graceful. Small feet followed her hips through the grasses; her shoulders and arms an afterthought in movement. She was beautiful and terrifying. The vorozhka had a warrior’s spirit. Baba had talked about it, told me stories of women who once rode the steppes with long swords strapped to their backs. After dying in battle, they would return to live a new life fighting for their freedom and their families. This Gypsy was such a woman.

  She stopped beside me—near the dying embers—and put the logs on the fire, blowing the flames into life. Her clothes were wet but rid of most of the blood. Her hair smelled of the stream. I wondered how she had escaped the rusalky but did not ask.

  I was puzzled by her calm. She stood aglow with fire that shimmered in her skirts, her fingers, her eyes, her hair. I wanted to touch her to see if she was real, embrace her and tell her that I was sorry for what had happened to her, but she frightened me. And she was proud . . . a vorozhka with the spirit of a warrior. I was only a peasant girl.

  She leaned over me and pulled an embroidered shawl out of a dark satchel hidden beside a log. I was struck by how the scarlet and silver flowers on the black cloth shimmered in the light. She pulled the shawl tightly around her shoulders and picked up the satchel, tying it to her waist. Only then did she turn her gaze to me. "So, you are still here," she said bitterly. "My brothers did not find you and take you into the woods."

  I stumbled on my words. "I’m sorry. I-I came to ask—"

  She interrupted me. "About love, yes? All you girls running into the night aflame with love. Do you know that all around you trains carry people away? To be shot, burned, tortured." She sat in front of the fire and motioned for me to sit next to her. I could smell a perfume, like berries and mint, on the shawl. She continued. "Each girl thinks that time stops death for passion. Well, I will read for you, but my hands shake with what I know. If you saw with my eyes—" She sighed. "If you saw with my eyes, then you would seek different answers."

  She rubbed her hands together over the fire. "First my payment, peasant girl."

  I gave her the gold earring. She put it between her teeth, biting down. Then she lifted it closer to her eyes.

  "This is all you have for me?"

  I nodded, panic spreading through me.

  "Very well. I will read for you."

  She pulled a bundle from the satchel and unwrapped the scarlet silk cloth to reveal a deck of cards. She placed the silk on the ground in front of her and handed me the deck. I began looking through the cards, pausing to admire each one. They were beautiful, covered in pictures of kings and queens in fancy clothes. Only the icons in St. Sophia’s Church could compare with the bright colors and gold on these hand-painted cards. Each one told a story, and looking at them, I felt carried away into another land.

  The vorozhka placed her hand over mine and said, "No. Not for your eyes to admire. You would get lost. Just shuffle them back and forth, placing one hand over the other. Think about the question that drew you here."

  I closed my eyes and pictured Stephan in his uniform swinging me around, his arms at my waist. Shuffling the cards, I remembered how he would wait outside my teacher’s house to walk me home. I could feel my cheeks in a half grin as I thought of how handsome he looked in his crisp, dark uniform; his dark brown hair tossed about like stalks of wheat in the wind. I could smell his leather holster when I threw my arms around him. As he whirled me around and around, he would say in that deep voice, "My precious Nadya. What have you to share with me today?"

  He would set me down and take my books in his arms, watching my lips as I told him the day’s lesson, interrupting me with quick kisses, then urging me to continue. The right side of his lips would hint at a smile, the small hidden dimple almost revealed as I jumped about with excitement because I had learned a new thread of history or a new poem by Taras Shevchenko.

  "Your face is on fire when you come back from your studies, Nadya." And he would draw in a deep breath. "You are so beautiful."

  I would blush under his dark brown eyes. Baba used to say that dark eyes were enchanting; they held the magic of the night. Would I marry this man, spend my life with him?

  The Gypsy again put her hand on top of mine, took the cards and started to lay them out on the silk in a pattern of lines and crosses. When I began to ask her a question, she looked at me sternly and put her finger to her lips.

  "I need silence to tell your story, peasant girl."

  I grew braver. "My name is Nadya."

  "You are gadji, not Gypsy." She didn’t look up.

  I watched as the cards transformed into story on the silk before me, stained glass gods and goddesses glowing in the fire’s light. She spoke their names as she turned each card over. They sounded like poetry or a prayer.

  "Lovers. Queen of Swords. Star. Emperor. Page of Cups. Devil. Seven of Cups. Tower. Sun. Ten of Coins."

  Then she closed her eyes. When she took my hand, I jumped. Her palm was cool and dry; mine was sweaty and warm. I realized I was holding my breath when my lungs began to hurt. I exhaled, watching her. The smell of coming rain hung in the air.

  The vorozhka finally opened her eyes. She ignored a tear that fell down her cheek.

  "My name is Liliana," she said. "I will read your fortune."

  CHAPTER TWO

  Liliana peered into my eyes. "Understand me, these are not tricks. Not games I play to take your riches." She held the gaze in silence, and then continued. "This is the story of your life. A story that unfolds in these cards painted for my mother by a man who loved her many years ago. A story that I see in these images, in your eyes."

  "Let me explain this story as simply as I can. Nadya, your heart is filled with love and dreams of romance. You live in a world of fantasy, but your beliefs will soon be tested. Lurking nearby is tragedy, separation. Loneliness will chase away your hope. This is true, this will happen.

  "In the future, I see warmth, stability, a large family. You will cling to them and give your heart to those you love. But first, there will be death and deception. A breaking away from your past.

  "Nadya, you will need to walk away from here, but do not forget where you came from. You will need to learn how to open your heart again once the silence slips in. Remember how to forgive. Others and yourself."

  Liliana squeezed my hand gently. "In the future, you will have a choice. You will find yourself completely shaken. Stand still, and you will die. Move forward, and you will find happiness."

  I looked again at the cards before me, and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed rose streaks creeping from the east across the sky amidst dark clouds, violet in the light of the coming sun. If I didn’t return home quickly, Mama and Tato would know that I had been gone all night. I stood up.

  "Liliana, thank you."

  She opened her eyes and nodded in my direction.

  "Be careful, peasant girl. Yours is not an easy path. Those boots brought you here. They will carry you far away, but the steps you walk are familiar. Remember the roots of home, or you will always be searching. Remember, sometimes to leave is to find yourself."


  We looked at each other in silence before I turned and walked quickly toward the forest. A few steps into the woods, I caught the smell of something distant burning and began running to my parents’ farm.

  I strained to see the source of the smoke, my heart beating fiercely in my chest. What could have happened while I was away? I left no candles burning. I had shut the door behind me.

  My hand reached up to clutch the crucifix I had been given at my christening, and I gasped a prayer as I ran: "Guardian Angel, please watch over my family. Please keep them safe." I watched the sky through the leaves grow brighter as the sun began rising.

  I smelled burning wood and flesh before I reached the end of the forest. Then I saw the barn being devoured by fire. Flames shot up from dark pools that reflected the sky. The barn’s sides and bottom were already black; large holes revealed animals on fire. I watched smoke rush out; I saw cows and sheep trying to get through the flames. Those that tried to escape were pierced by sharp pieces of burning wood planks. Those that remained collapsed from the smoke. I could smell them as the flames consumed their flesh.

  I stood paralyzed, listening to the animals scream. The deep moans of the cows as they fell to the ground. The cries of the sheep, like children. The sound of flames like raging, angry winds filled my mind. Where was my family? Why didn’t they come to stop the fire?

  Thoughts raced through my mind. Then I heard a voice like Aunt Katia’s say: Run away from there. Now! Get help. And so I ran back into the woods. I headed south to the Bilyks’ farm. They had five brothers who could help put out the fire. They would help us.

  But when I got there, only ashes and the charred frame of their house and barn remained. I found no trace of the Bilyk family.