The Silence of Trees

by Valya Dudycz Lupescu

  But I couldn’t tell her.

  I put more energy into my mashing, adding salt and pepper.

  "How are those onions coming along, Lesya? Would you get me the butter from the icebox?"

  She brought me the butter and stood staring at me.

  "Why don’t you ever want to talk about the past, Baba?"

  "What nonsense are you saying? I talk about the past all the time. I tell you about when your father was a little boy. About your Dido and I, when we came to Chicago and worked in the factories. I tell you about when you were a cute baby. The smartest I have ever seen. But don’t tell your sisters or cousins. I’m not supposed to have favorites." I winked at her. "Why do you say I never talk about the past? When you’re old, that’s all you have."

  I took the butter from her and put it beside my bowl. Adding salt and pepper, I remembered too late that I had already added some. Ah, in my haste I put in too much. And I was supposed to be watching Pavlo’s "sodium," the doctor said. Pavlo always put too much salt on his food.

  "Ah, now see what I’ve done! Go sit and talk with your Mama and Aunt. Let me finish my varenyky in peace." I motioned toward the dining room, but she didn’t leave. Instead she pulled out a kitchen chair and straddled it like a horse. I hoped she would tell me what was bothering her.

  "That’s your Dido’s chair, and he’ll be right back," I said. "He just ran out to get some more milk from the co-operative." I turned around and tried to ignore her, although I felt her staring at me from behind. I added the butter and kept mashing.

  "What? What is it?" I asked without turning around. "It’s obvious you want to talk with me. So talk."

  I heard her take a deep breath, but only silence followed.

  "Well? Are you scared to talk to your Baba, hmm?" I turned around and looked at her. Her arms were folded on the back of the chair, and her left cheek rested on her forearms. Her eyebrows were gathered together; her lips pouting.

  "What is it? Are you pregnant?" I asked, turning back around to the potatoes.

  "No, Baba. I’m dating someone."

  I sighed with relief. "That is good news. Who is it? That nice boy, Myron? Or maybe that young Nosenko boy from Detroit? He really liked you. At Bingo, his Baba told me that he thought you were the prettiest girl at the New Year’s Eve Dance."

  "Baba, no," she softly muttered.

  "You’re definitely not too young to be dating. I already had three children at your age. Is your Mama giving you a hard time? You know her; she is very protective. Now, I’ll talk with her."

  "Baba."

  "Oh, maybe it’s that man—what’s his name? The Professor. Yaroslav Somebody. Of course you would like an older man. I’ll talk to your father. It’s okay if the man is a little older—"

  "Baba, listen to me." She stood up and walked to the icebox again. "He’s not Ukrainian. He’s . . . German American. I met him in school. He studies history like me." She said this all in one breath, then looked at me, eyes wide and defiant. She was ready for a fight.

  "What?!" Pavlo’s voice boomed as he came in from the porch. He walked toward Lesya, and slammed his umbrella on the table, raindrops scattering.

  "What?! Who is German?" He looked at me. "Nadya, what is she talking about?"

  I walked toward Pavlo, holding my hands out in front of me. I didn’t need him having a heart attack. I said softly, "Calm down, Pavlo. Just calm down. We were just talking. Now go change out of your wet clothes."

  "Don’t tell me what to do," he said between clenched teeth. "Who is German?"

  Anna and Christina came and stood in the archway between the dining room and kitchen.

  "Dido, my boyfriend is. Well he’s American, but his grandparents—"

  "No." His face was blood red; the vein on his forehead throbbed. "I forbid it. No blood of mine will mix with German blood!"

  "Pavlo, your blood pressure. Please." I laid my hand on his arm and then turned to Lesya. "What are you saying?" I asked her while lightly stroking Pavlo’s arm. "Are you forgetting where you come from? Your roots?" I threw a glance in Anna’s direction. "How have you been raised?"

  Pavlo shrugged my hand away and stepped up to Lesya. His face red, he pulled back his shirt sleeve and pushed his arm in her face.

  "See this? See these numbers? Your boyfriend’s grandfathers did this to me." He grabbed his umbrella and left the house, slamming the door behind him.

  Lesya stood against the fridge, tears in her eyes, her arms folded at her chest.

  "That’s not fair," she whispered. "It’s not fair. This is America. Those aren’t my grudges. The past is the past."

  "Leave us," I said to Anna and Christina. They didn’t move, so I repeated louder, "Leave us."

  As they retreated to the front room, I sat down and motioned for Lesya to join me.

  "No, Lesya. You listen to me. The past is not the past. Especially not for your Dido and me. You’re a student of history. You know better."

  "But Baba, listen. His grandfathers weren’t even soldiers."

  "No. You listen. The Germans came to my home. They killed everyone I loved. They destroyed my country. Your country. They destroyed everything. Can you imagine having everything taken away from you? Everything? But not my memory. This I have.

  "It is easy for you to keep the past on paper. For us, the past is alive, breathing down our necks. When we see an old woman on the street that looks like our sister. When we hear songs our Mamas used to sing. When we smell tobacco our Tatos smoked. When we taste sausages seasoned with garlic and pepper that are so much like the ones our Babas once made. When we dance the dances of home. When we celebrate the old traditions. The past is there with us.

  "It is understood. We don’t have to say anything to each other. We kept ourselves safe with silence. To speak the words is to somehow make it more real. To make it more painfully real."

  I tried to stay calm. She was still young; I needed to explain. But she didn’t look me in the eye. She stared at the photographs I had taped next to the calendar: photos of her and her sisters, my other grandchildren, my sons, my daughters.

  "Baba, I understand the past is painful, but this is America—"

  "I know this is America." I was so close to losing my temper. I took a deep breath, then continued. "I came here so I could raise my children in peace. So I could save our traditions, keep our culture alive. That’s why your father learned Ukrainian. That’s why you speak it. That’s why your mama took you to Ukrainian School on Saturdays, Ukrainian dancing, Ukrainian church. So everything the Germans and Russians tried to destroy would not die. So it would live here, in America. So our traditions, our ancestors, our history would live in you."

  I paused to catch my breath. She didn’t look at me, so I continued, "Lesya, I know this is America. Don’t tell me about this country. Why do you think the Ukrainian community is so close, so united? Because we all share the need to keep our traditions alive. Is it so easy for you to turn your back on all this? To throw it all away for a stranger? He is not one of ours. He can’t understand."

  I went to the kitchen cabinet and pulled out the cedar box. I sat back down with the box in my lap; my fingers traced the beautiful carvings. "This box was made in America. But the hands that created it are Ukrainian; the style is Ukrainian. These patterns: Ukrainian. The stars for hope, the moon for dreams, the egg for new life. These symbols are very old. Your Dido remembered them and carved them for me. It is a message in wood.

  "This box is like you. Like the tree, you were created and grown in foreign soil. But like the wood, you were transformed by the magic of memory. By family, school, church, traditions, you were shaped. Carved inside of you are ancient patterns: songs, stories older than me. They make you something very precious. They are carved into who you are. You cannot erase them. But you choose what to carry."

  Lesya didn’t look at the box. "Baba, America is not just a place for Ukrainian culture; it’s a place for many cultures to live together. To learn about each other. To
share—"

  "Learning . . . learning is okay. You go to school for that. But remember where you came from."

  "I am not forgetting, Baba. I was born here."

  I didn’t know how I could explain it to her. She was so smart; so good with words. I placed the box on her lap, but she didn’t touch it.

  "Lesya, to bring him into the family is to say that what the Germans did in the war was okay. Can you do that?"

  "Baba, no. To date him is to date one man, not a country. He should not be condemned for things done over fifty years ago in a different place by different people."

  "One man? Not a country?" I tried to catch her eye. When she refused, I picked up her chin with my hand. "What about you? Are you just one woman? Is being Ukrainian not important to who you are?"

  For a moment she didn’t answer. Then tears. She placed the box on the table and said calmly, "You don’t understand. I love him. I’m not turning my back on who I am, but I refuse to condemn someone because of his grandparents. I believe that in this day and age we need to forgive and understand. I’m not saying forget—"

  "It is so easy for you to say that, Lesya. It is so easy for you to say." I thought of the empty envelope inside the cedar box and shook my head. The past did not stay buried.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The only person I could have discussed the envelope with was Ana, but she had died the year before. I still felt her presence, and I would often sit among the plants in our garden and talk to her. It had been our special place—beside the fence where we had stood and chatted for years when we were neighbors. I wished I could have talked to Ana then, but I had the entire family coming for Palm Sunday lunch, and there was no time for such an indulgence.

  As I was staring out the window, I felt a swift whack on my behind. I turned to find Pavlo grinning sheepishly, his left eye brow raised in mischief and a long pussy willow branch in his hands.

  "It’s not I, but the willow, that taps you on this week of Easter," Pavlo said the traditional Palm Sunday words and tapped me once more; this time lighter. "Nadya, this is the only time each year when I can smack your behind all I want, and even the priests approve."

  When he tried to hang up his coat, it fell to the floor. I picked it up and hung it on the chair. Of course, he hadn’t noticed. For him, things miraculously appeared in their place. Maybe he thought it was the domovyk, the house spirit, who kept the house in order.

  "And where is my pussy willow, Pavlo? Did you bring me a few blessed branches, or did you give them all away to the old widows at Slavko’s Bar?"

  "What?! And risk your wrath?" His grin widened. "Besides, you don’t need a weapon; your words are enough." He shook the pussy willow playfully in front of me.

  "You’re not funny, old man. It’s Palm Sunday. The kids and grandkids will be here any minute, and I still haven’t set out the sweets and coffee. Stop playing your games and give me my branch." I quickly reached for the branch, but he lifted it high into the air above me. Even though age had taken inches off both our heights, he was still a head taller.

  "No," he said and took a step back. "You can’t have it."

  "Fine." I walked to the icebox to get out the milk and butter. "One of my children will bring me one." I was not in the mood for his childish behavior.

  Another smack on the behind, and then the doorbell rang. Pavlo shuffled onto the back porch to answer the door. I heard voices repeating the traditional Palm Sunday greeting, accompanied by hearty taps on body parts. I quickly tried to make everything ready as my daughter Zirka and her husband, Peter, filed into the kitchen.

  "Hi, Mama." She tapped me lightly on the shoulder. "It’s not I but the willow that taps you on this week of Easter."

  "Yes, yes. But did you bring me a branch?" I motioned toward the table. "Peter, sit down and have something to eat. You look too skinny. Doesn’t my daughter feed you? I taught her how to cook, but she must have forgotten." I glanced at Zirka. "I’ve told you many times, a skinny husband is not a happy husband."

  "Mama, I know how to cook. Peter eats plenty at home." She took a plate and knife and began to peel an apple plucked from my fruit basket, carefully cutting off the skin, then slicing it into eight even pieces. She handed it to her husband.

  "Enough for a pigeon," I mumbled. I put some varenyky in the frying pan on the stove and added onions and butter.

  "Where are the twins? Soccer practice again? Kung Fu? Hockey? Chess Club?"

  "Mama, they have an important game tomorrow. They need to rest and practice." Zirka began to peel another apple.

  Peter leaned against the fridge, and I watched him pick at the fruit. Maybe he’s sick.

  "Have some coffee, Peter. Help yourself. Are you feeling well? I have some vitamins that Dr. Shelepko gave me. I’ll give you some to take home—"

  "Mama. No vitamins." Zirka poured coffee for herself and Peter. "We have vitamins. Besides, you know how I feel about Ukrainian phy-si-cians."

  I smiled as she said the word in the sing-song voice that she used to use as a child. For a minute, I saw my little girl beneath her fancy clothes and hair. But only for a minute; then she was back to her "professional" tone.

  "Peter is not sick; he’s in excellent shape," she said.

  "All right, all right. I’m sorry for worrying about my kids." I took the pork chops off the stove and set them on the table. "When will I get to see my handsome twin grandsons? Are you hiding them from me?"

  Zirka glared at me. "I am not hiding them from you—"

  I interrupted. "Eh, you know those boys are going to forget what their Baba looks like."

  ""You’ll see them next week for Easter," Zirka said in between careful bites of her apple.

  Peter leaned over to me and whispered, "I tried to get them to come, Mama, but you know Zirka. She wants the boys to get scholarships to college."

  I smiled and patted his arm. Poor man. My daughter could drain the energy out of any healthy husband; no wonder he was skinny. He had more meat on his bones when they married.

  The doorbell rang again.

  "Are you going to come by later tonight? Your sister will be painting pysanky. It’s been so long since you’ve painted them, and you have such a gift. Why don’t you stop by?"

  "Mama, Peter and I have tickets to a show. We’re going out to dinner with clients."

  "My daughter . . . the big important business lady, but she doesn’t have time to paint eggs with her sister." I looked at her new suit: very fancy. Everything neat and in its place. Not a wrinkle in her clothes or on her skin. Zirka once tried to convince me to cover my face with some of her anti-age cream, but I told her that it was not natural. Women today worry so much about looking old. What did I have to look young for?

  Zirka walked over to Peter and put her manicured hands on his shoulders. "No guilt today. Please."

  Guilt?

  Honesty.

  My son Mark and his wife, Christina, stepped into the kitchen carrying a white box and several stalks of pussy willows.

  "Hello, my beautiful mother," Mark said after kissing both my cheeks. His eyes looked tired; playful, but still tired. Work was stressful for him. Setting the box on the table, he took all three branches and smacked Zirka on the behind. So much like his father. I looked around for Pavlo, but he must have stepped outside.

  "Mark, you always overdo it." Zirka pinched her brother until he yelped.

  "Hi, Mama. We brought a chocolate cake." Christina opened the box and pulled out a beautiful torte covered with strawberries and whipped cream.

  I sighed. "Christina, I have food here. I know how to bake. Save your money. You don’t need to bring me gifts. Just come and visit. Bring my grandchildren."

  Mark awarded me a light smack on the behind.

  "How could I resist such a target?" he said, stepping away.

  "Are those pussy willows for me, son?"

  "Uh, they will be," he grinned sheepishly. "But not yet. I’m waiting for Katya so I can give her a proper welcome.
I haven’t seen my sister since Christmas." Yes, so much like his Tato.

  He nibbled on a piece of coffeecake. I looked back at the torte he brought; it did look delicious, but I had to watch my weight. It was bad enough that everything was beginning to sag.

  "Can I slice this? Or will you be angry?" Christina asked while carefully measuring the slices for the torte.

  "Cut, cut. It’s too late now. But you must take the leftovers home with you. Pavlo and I are too old to eat so many sweets."

  I looked down at the table. No one had touched the babka I baked that morning.

  "What! No one wants my babka? It’s fresh and sweet. You eat coffeecake and torte, but not my babka. Do not insult me. Eat."

  I walked into the living room to find Mark and Christina’s daughters.

  I found Pavlo asleep in his recliner, a Ukrainian newspaper in his lap, and the willow still clutched in his right hand. Mark’s two daughters, Tamara and Petrucia, sat on the couch watching television. Catching the girls’ eyes and bringing my finger up to my lips, I stepped behind Pavlo and carefully eased the branch out of his hands. He let out a snore, but didn’t wake up. I saw that he was not wearing his hearing aid again.

  The girls giggled as I tiptoed over to the chair next to them and sat down. "Now, tell me why you come to Baba’s house and don’t come into the kitchen to say hello."

  "But Baba, Dido was telling us a story," Tamara, the youngest, said while turning off the television.

  "Funny that your Dido can tell a story while he’s asleep. Come give Baba a kiss." They jumped up, and I tapped each one lightly on the behind with the pussy willow.

  "I’ll tell you a quick little story. Do you know why pussy willows have these fluffy white buds?" I asked them. They shook their heads. "Well, once there lived a mean old farmer who had a pretty little brown cat—"

  "What was her name?" Tamara asked.

  "Her name was Kasha," I answered, "and one spring day, Kasha had nine beautiful baby kittens. But the mean old farmer didn’t want the kittens, so he took them all and threw them into a great big sack."