"All day while she worked in her Tato’s fields, Valentyna would sing songs about the mountain, about how she could kiss the moon and touch the stars if she reached the very tip. Her sisters would laugh and make fun of poor Valentyna, because all they thought about was playing games, singing and dancing with boys."
Baba stopped for moment as coughing once again shook her.
"As she grew up, Valentyna never lost her dream. She would tell beautiful poems and stories about the people who lived at the top of the mountain, about the strange animals who would dance with the cloud spirits when no one was looking. People would come from all the nearby villages to hear her songs and poems. They would sit around a campfire at the foot of the mountain and listen as Valentyna painted pictures with words."
Baba’s voice was soft, like her round cheeks, like the hanging skin beneath her chin that I liked to touch. And when she spoke, the air seemed lighter, the room less frightening.
I waited for her to continue, but when she didn’t, I asked, "Baba, how does it end? What happened to Valentyna? Did a prince find her? Did she meet a bear? What happened?"
Baba smiled at me. "Because Valentyna found her voice, she told beautiful stories that brought magic into the lives of the villagers. Soon many people began to dream about climbing the mountain."
"Did they? Did she? Did Valentyna climb the mountain?" I asked, squirming with anticipation.
"Valentyna did climb the mountain, and others followed her." Baba stopped to cough again.
"But what did she see? What did she find at the top?" I asked, impatient for the ending.
"What do you think she saw?" Baba asked me in return.
I closed my eyes for a moment and imagined the top of the mountain.
"She saw a horse with wings dancing with a dragon. And on top of the horse sat a beautiful prince, the prince of the mountain. He married her, and they lived in a beautiful castle. They had lots of cake and coffee. And she didn’t have to do her chores because he knew magic. Oh, and her whole family came up to live with her, even her mean sisters. And her Baba, too."
Baba laughed and laughed. "Very good, Nadya."
Then her heavy coughing rocked against my small body. I opened my eyes, suddenly scared.
"Baba? Baba, are you okay? Stop coughing. Stop it!"
Her coughing fit ended and she frowned at me, but her voice was gentle. "Nadya, I can’t stop it. I’m dying. I’m going away. Just like my own Baba had to go away."
I wiped sweat off her brow with the cool rag that lay beside the bed.
"Then I’m going with you," I said stubbornly.
"No, little one, you can’t come. Not now. But I want you to know a part of me will always be inside of you, right here." She tapped against my chest.
"But who will tell me stories?"
"Nadya, I’ve told you many stories. Someday you will tell them. But remember. Remember that stories are more than just words, more than fairy tales. They are magic."
Her voice grew softer, and she looked behind me to a dark corner of the room where Dido Mykola’s fiddle sat against a pillow. "Stories, they are songs that carry us to dreams."
Then her eyes opened wide. I heard a quiet thread of violin music coming from the corner.
Baba smiled and hummed along with the melody. Then she spoke in the direction of the violin: "Mykola, welcome. How handsome you look." She stared off into the dark corner. "Ah, how we used to sing under the stars. You would smile at me while you played, and I would dance with my sisters. But really only for you. My dance was only for you."
I suddenly smelled lilacs, but there were none in the house.
Baba’s face flushed pink. "Thank you, they’re lovely. You always brought me lilacs. Oh, their smell would fill Mama’s house. And I knew I loved you when you first said my name, and then we danced. I loved to dance with you."
For a moment, she seemed to remember that I was there and looked toward me and said, "Your Dido Mykola. Remember. Remember us." Then she looked back toward the corner and whispered, "I will dance with you, Mykola."
Her head fell to the side, and the music stopped, but the smell of lilacs lingered. I lay down beside her again, my head against her chest, listening. But the silence had filled her up inside.
I cried myself softly to sleep.
CHAPTER THREE
The morning after Stephan’s capture, Bozka woke me with the gentle nudging of her slipper. I had fallen asleep outside, curled in Stephan’s coat. Sometime during the night, someone had covered me with a warm, woolen blanket.
"Wake up. Wake up. It’s morning. The soldiers will be back soon. Come inside and eat." She held up a string of sausage and some cheese. "You have a long day ahead. You need to wash and eat."
"Thank you, but I’m not hungry." The thought of food brought clenching pains to my belly.
"Really, you should eat." She shook the sausages closer to my face. The smell of garlic . . . her face shifted for a moment. It changed into the soldier’s face, spit clinging to his lips and stretching from my cheek. I sat up quickly, wrapping my arms around my chest.
"Stephan? The soldiers." I shook my head as images flashed before me. Mama? Baba? I wanted to go home.
"Gather your wits about you. I’ll pack this food for later."
Bozka then sat down across from me on the grass and began to explain her plan for my escape. She had a rich cousin who had married a German merchant at the beginning of the war. They lived in a large house a few miles away. The cousin’s husband had connections in Germany with several work camps that were looking for young women to work as housekeepers and in factories. Because I was young and pretty, she was sure that I could get a job working in one of the German officers’ homes. In a few hours, the old woman would take me to her cousin’s house, and from there I would board a train to Germany. Even further away from home.
I allowed Bozka to usher me onto the train car without even thinking about where I was going or what I would do, but I left the sack of food behind. I didn’t want anything from that place, nothing to remind me.
The train to the camps was filled only with women. The one I remember most was an old Ukrainian they called Baba Lena, who sat across from me eating a loaf of bread that she had pulled out from under her skirt. From a crack in the wood behind me, moonlight slipped into the car to light up Baba Lena’s face. She cradled the bread, rested her hands on her knees, her legs drawn close to her chest, her shoulders hunched over, and eyes staring only at her polished black boots. Man’s boots. Soldier’s boots.
She ate without a breath, without offering to share even as the young mother beside her cradled her starving baby and whimpered. Baba Lena took no notice of the other skeletal shadows, the growling bellies, the smell of urine and vomit, the cries of the young children. She sat eating the small loaf for hours, taking the tiniest bites and chewing each one many times. Never lifting her head above the bread. Never lifting her eyes. Sometimes in between bites, I saw the saliva between her lips catch the light and glisten like a web.
When only crumbs were left hidden in her palms, I watched her tongue, cat-like, dart out and lift the smallest specks into her mouth. And after they too were gone, she licked her palms over and over and over, in between each finger, sucking on each fingertip. Then she licked her lips and lifted her head up and back against the wall of the train car.
"I have lived long enough to be selfish," she said to no one. To everyone.
The young mother beside her cursed her and wept. I tried to see her baby, who had stopped crying a short time earlier, but the darkness kept her hidden. When a bump bent the moonlight in her direction, I saw that the child’s eyes were open, staring but not blinking. The mother continued to cry and coo.
I turned back to Baba Lena, who was now staring at me from beneath large white eyebrows that stood out against her dark skin. She smiled. Once again licking her lips, she asked aloud: "You think I’m a witch, a Baba Yaga, for eating while babies die of hunger?"
&nbs
p; Baba Lena scratched at the babushka that covered her head and answered herself: "No."
She stopped and closed her eyes. After some time, she fell asleep, her lips open to release a series of gurgles and rasps. Another large bump woke her, and as she shook her head, she continued: "When you are old, you deserve to eat and sleep. You earn this with age; you earn this with all your deaths."
As she spoke, Baba Lena bobbed her head back and forth with the rhythm of her words. "You are young, all of you. Death is still new, still fresh. I have died hundreds of times. With my parents, my brothers, my sisters, my husband, my sons, their sons. I died in the first big war when my brothers never came home. I died when they took away our land. I died when soldiers stole our cows, our pigs, our barley. I died when they shot my granddaughter for trying to pick up a single grain of wheat in the dirt. They hung her on a fence post as a warning.
"I died when we had nothing left but the cats. I died when the dead filled the streets with stink. I died when no one was left alive in the village except for me and my son, who was blind.
"So I fed him the only meat there was. The only food the Russians left for us. This was before the second war. My son did not know what he ate. I choked down the flesh I cooked. There was nothing else left. Then some people came and told us it was over. Stalin had had enough. They asked how we survived. I lied.
"I have died hundreds of times. I died when this war took my last son. Yesterday, soldiers took him from the Slovak village. Then they raped me, again and again. An old baba is still a woman, they said. So again I died.
"This bread I ate, they spat on and threw at me when they were finished."
She began to laugh over and over again. I closed my eyes and tried to think of something else, but she kept cackling. I covered my ears, and even that did not stop the laughter. Eventually she fell back asleep.
"I sat bundled in Stephan’s overcoat, my arms wrapped around my stomach trying to still the rumbling of my belly. Why had I refused Jan’s wife’s bread? Reaching into the tiny secret pocket in my skirt, I pulled out my good luck stone. I placed it in my mouth, trying to remember not to bite down and break my teeth.
The black stone felt cool and smooth on my tongue and tasted of the spring water from where it came. I could taste the sweat from my own hands, having held the stone for hours and hours. It was all I had left from home. The Russian soldiers had ripped the crucifix from my neck after they tore open my blouse.
When the young mother began to eye me suspiciously, I slipped the stone from my mouth and replaced it in its hiding place. I could not fight her for it.
I became aware of a quiet shuffling sound. I looked to my right, where another young Ukrainian girl sat. Blond curls lay flat against her face, her cheeks round in contrast with her thin body. She sat with her eyes closed, head leaning against the train wall. Her clothes were dirty and ripped—like those of many women on the train—but she wore a pair of dainty black gloves. The rustling came from her hands, which she kept rubbing together over and over again. A sound that became soothing, and when it stopped, I noticed she had fallen asleep.
Soon she began to cry out softly, mumbling, "No, Juliek . . . Papa . . . come with us . . . not without you . . . "
Baba Lena opened her eyes and glared at the sleeping girl, who continued to whimper quietly.
"Jewess." Baba Lena sputtered. Then louder: "Jewess!" She pointed and stared. Around the girl, people began to pull away until only Baba Lena and I remained sitting near her. The others sat even closer together, smashed to one side of the car to stay away from the sleeping girl. Under her breath Baba Lena began to chant "dirty Jewess, dirty Jewess, dirty Jewess" over and over and over again.
A Polish woman on the opposite side of the car shouted, "Shut up, old woman! They will take us all away." Baba Lena stopped but continued to glare.
I looked over at the girl, who was finally awake and staring at the other women. "I am Ukrainian," she whispered. Still the others stayed away from her.
Then she looked at me, eyes pleading. "I am Ukrainian." She couldn’t have been much older than Halya, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old.
Not knowing how to respond, I nodded.
Baba Lena laughed, a loud laugh that shook her old body.
Suddenly, something in the girl snapped. I recognized the look in her eye, and the hairs on my neck rose, a shiver on my shoulders. Her eyebrows gathered together, thick wrinkles formed on the bridge of her nose. Her lips curled and pulled back to show perfectly straight, white teeth that she gritted tightly together. She stared at the old woman.
"You are not the only one to face death," she said slowly, each word heavy in her mouth. Then she brought her lips together and spat in Baba Lena’s direction. Baba Lena just smiled.
The girl straightened her thin shoulders and looked at me. She motioned for me to move closer. I was terrified.
"Sit here," she said.
When I didn’t move she said "Please" and motioned for me to face her, my back to the other women. "Please block them from my sight."
For some reason I did, although I hated to have my back to anyone. Maybe it was because she reminded me of my sister. Maybe because I was drawn to her strength, that flash of warrior spirit in her eyes as she faced Baba Lena. Maybe I did it because I was so lonely.
After I sat down, something in her face softened. Again she looked so young, so frail.
"Thank you," she said, and tears began to stream down her cheeks. She didn’t move to wipe them away.
"I am . . . so tired . . . of fighting." She shook her head. "So tired . . . of all this."
She coughed and turned her head away. The coughing didn’t stop, and she lifted to her mouth a discolored handkerchief with "Miriam" embroidered on it in tiny blue stitches. When she took it away, it was stained dark red.
"Will you listen?" she whispered. After looking behind me around the car, I nodded.
"I’m dying," she said. Again I nodded. I could smell death on her now. It clung to her, sweet and metallic.
"I want someone to know." She brushed damp blond curls away from her face, and then began rubbing her hands together. Again the soft rustling sound.
"So much," she exhaled. "So tired."
She looked at me for a moment, at my face, and frowned. "I’m called Miriam," she said.
Cocking her head to the right, she stared at my eyebrows, my forehead. How hard she stared with those deep blue eyes. Then she looked down at my hands. The rustling stopped as she reached out to take my hands in hers, holding my palms upward. The gloves were stiff and coarse against my skin.
Time passed, and all she did was look down, exhaling heavy breaths and shaking her head.
"Ukrainian hands," Miriam said. "Ukrainian hands. Calluses on your fingers, your palms. Strong hands." She held them, but her grip was so weak. She kept her eyes on my palms and said, "You see, everything can be seen in the hands. Future. Past. It’s all there. If a man’s hands are graceful and thin, his nails too long and well-groomed, if he always rubs his thumb against his fingers, then his nature is that of a fox. He will be crafty and cruel." Miriam continued to stare at my fingertips.
"I saw it when he pushed open the door," she continued. "His hands were thick and hairy like a black bear. After he entered, they rested always in fists."
"They took me and Mummy outside. The one with bear hands tried to kiss me. I spat in his face, tried to gouge his eyes. I had long beautiful nails, strong. They left a deep scratch on his face. He slapped me, grabbed my wrists, and walked me over to the fire."
At this she let go of my hands and pulled off her black gloves. The effort brought tears to her eyes. She winced and asked, "Do you see? Look at mine, do you see?" I stared at the black wrinkled flesh. It didn’t look like skin at all. It reminded me of burned meat, dry and dark.
"He held my hands in the fire," Miriam said. "I saw skin melt away . . . the smell . . . then pain. I fainted. When I woke, I was naked . . . bleeding . . . burned. Mummy l
ay next to me . . . dead."
"Your hands." She looked first at her own and then mine. "I can see so much in the way you keep them in your lap, fingers curled round each other, the way you were cradling your stone. You have gentle hands, small but strong; your nails short but thick. Yours are the hands of a female wolf, loyal and fierce, and kind." Miriam reached for her handkerchief and coughed again. More blood.
The wind carried wisps of thick black smoke through the car, the scent of death. It was like the smell around my parents’ burning barn, but stronger, thousands of times stronger. Even the sleeping women gasped and coughed.
Miriam stiffened and put the gloves back on her hands. We took turns peering out through the crack in the wall. I saw only the sky filled with thick black smoke. Miriam shuddered and began to rub her hands together again.
"It’s just a factory," I said.
"No, it’s not," she whispered.
We sat there in silence for what seemed like hours, the only sound the rustling of her gloves and her occasional coughs. Only after the smell finally faded away did she speak again.
She told me about her rich family in New York City, America. Her mother used to write letters to her Uncle David, who owned his own business. Miriam told me about this strange new place. To pass the time. To keep our thoughts away from death and darkness.
"How wonderful it is there. Everyone is rich. They have stores filled with fruit and vegetables, apples and pears and exotic fruits, like oranges and coconuts. They have moving pictures, fancy cars. You can go to dinner and sit next to a movie star or the president. Everyone is equal. It’s heaven." Miriam got very quiet, spoke in a tiny voice. "I can get my hands fixed there. I can play piano again. Draw. Feel things."
She blinked back tears. "I miss feeling things."
I held her gloved hand as she talked. I had never known anyone who lived in America. I didn’t know much about it, except for rumors about Hollywood that Sonya had heard from her Aunt Sophia. As long as Miriam talked about this magical place, she filled my head with new dreams to replace the nightmares of the past few weeks. As long as she kept talking, I didn’t have to think about Stephan or Mama or Halya. I could live in her words.
The Silence of Trees Page 4