I missed Ana. If only she were here, I could talk with her. She would have known exactly the right thing to say and do. I waited, but all I heard was a cat in the neighbor’s trashcan and a siren in the distance.
Just as I thought my life had reached a calm, a peace that comes with age, that cursed envelope arrived to haunt me with thoughts of what might have been. Still, I had no answers. I continued to wait for something to happen, for something to change.
My Baba always told me that when you needed a teacher, the Universe would send you one. When you needed an angel, you needed only to look around. I keep looking and listening. I suppose I had been lucky in my past, blessed with many angels in my life. If Andriy was one such angel, should I have gone with him? Americans say "Hindsight is 20/20," but even looking back, I didn’t know if I made the right decisions.
***
I collapsed at Andriy’s feet, exhausted and heavy with pain and guilt and confusion and regret and shame. Andriy knelt down beside me and extended an arm, which I pushed away. Rushing at me were the events of the last two years, they raged inside like wildfire. I felt again the deaths of those I left behind: Mama, Tato, Laryssa, little Halya, Stephan, Miriam. I felt again Pavlo’s cruel accusations. They were like a fist around my heart, squeezing. Yet, I could do nothing but cry and pound the earth. I thought nothing of the child in my womb, nothing of my own health, nothing of the future.
I wanted to die.
I awoke, having cried myself to sleep, my face in the grass, my hands still in fists. Andriy sat beside me, hands folded in his lap, watching me. The sky was still dark; I could not have slept for long.
"I’m so sorry," I said, my throat raw from crying.
"I would do anything for you," He said.
"How, Andriy?" I asked, angry and suspicious. "How can I believe you? You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about who I am." I looked at him.
"You have a choice," Andriy whispered in darkness.
"No. It’s not that simple." At least the pounding in my chest had stopped.
Then I remembered. Choice. I did have a choice. Mama Paraska knew all about herbs. If I didn’t want this baby—
"You’re right Andriy. We need to go see your mama." And I leapt to my feet.
After I explained to her my plan, Mama leapt shook her head. Andriy stood behind her, his right hand on her shoulder, his left hand tugging at his eyebrows. They looked like a biblical icon, standing there together. The angel standing behind the saint. If only I had the patience for painting. Or the freedom.
Mama Paraska just stared at me, eyes unblinking, and said, "Kill your child?"
She looked up at her son, "Kill her child? You can’t approve of this."
Andriy said nothing. He just kept tugging at those caterpillar eyebrows. He hadn’t said anything since we left the gardens.
"Mama Paraska, I don’t want a child made in hatred—"
"It’s a child!" Her eyes bright, her voice even stronger, "A human child, Nadya." She stood up and rushed at me, placing her strong arms on my upper arms. Her cheeks were white, her hands shaking, she brought her face right up to mine. Standing up on her toes a little, she glared at me, and I could feel power from this woman. I could feel it like heat coming off her body.
"Above all else, life is sacred," Mama Paraska continued. "Have you learned nothing in this war? How can you ask this of me?"
I looked away. "Will you help me?" I wanted no child conceived in War.
Silence. I walked over to where someone had left a fire to burn itself out. I stared into the embers, feeling glares on my back. The snap and pop of the fire called to mind Miriam from the train, whose lovely hands had been burned by the German soldiers. Why create more children for this horrible place? To die at the hands of cruel men, or worse. To live lives filled with pain, suffering, deception, death. I thought of Halya, of Mama, of Baba Lena. Or worse yet, to give birth to a son who could someday treat women in such a way. No. A child conceived in hatred would only live out that hatred in his life.
I looked over at mother and son. Mama Paraska stared at me. Andriy stared at me. Waiting.
"I will not give birth to this child. I will not. If you won’t help me, I’ll find someone who will."
Mama Paraska walked closer to the fire and again reached out to touch me. I shook her away. She reached up and grabbed my chin, pulling it down so I could not help but look her in the eye.
"If you kill this child, I can never again call you daughter. If you kill this child, I can never again call you friend. You kill this child, I can never speak to you again, Nadya. Never."
"Thank you," I said.
"Do not ever thank me, not for this." She walked away, and I went back to the barrack.
An hour later, Mama Paraska walked to my door with a cup of warm, dark liquid and said, "Eat nothing. Drink this and go to sleep. The pain will wake you." She slowly handed me the cup, and as I took it, she said, "Nadya, you can still change your mind. Listen to your heart."
She held both of her hands out in front of her, palms facing upward, and took a step toward me. As I stepped back, she reached out and cupped my cheeks in her warm hands, holding my head still so she could peer up into my eyes.
"Nadya, know this: there is balance in the universe."
But I shook her hands off. "Paraska, I can’t birth this child. I can’t."
She let go and took a step back, her cheeks flushed, her eyes tearing.
"At least bury him," she said, "and give him a name." Mama Paraska wrapped her arms tightly around herself. "I put in a little milk of the poppy to help you, to dull the pain a little." She looked up at the sky, crossed herself, and walked away,
I closed the door, then lit a candle beside my bed to protect me from any evil spirits who might smell death and come to call. The other couples who shared the barracks were still out dancing, drinking, and enjoying this, one of the last warm nights of summer. Pavlo was undoubtedly passed out somewhere, so I had the room to myself for a few hours. I drank down the warm liquid, tasting honey and a hint of mint, then closed my eyes and lay down to sleep.
Crying, not pain, woke me from a dreamless sleep. A soft whimpering from the darkest corner of the room, and a tiny voice: "Mama, why is there no love for me?"
I sat up in bed, suddenly shivering, and looked around for my blanket. Seeing it on the floor, I reached over the edge to lift it up and felt a cold breeze brush against my arm. I quickly drew my hand back and pulled my knees up to my chest. Nothing moved in the room, and for what seemed like hours, I sat there. My eyes grew heavy, I must have drifted back to sleep. Again the voice: "Mama, why did you take away my breath?"
"Who-who’s there?" I asked, afraid. Only silence.
A breeze must have burned the candle out, so I reached for matches. I felt a tight cold grip on my wrist in the dark, and for a moment I hesitated, afraid. When I finally lit the candle with shaking fingers, the light cast no shadow on my arm. Still that icy pressure around my wrist.
"Leave me in peace," I cried out. "Leave me; I have no choice."
Tears were forming in my eyes. Pain, like a deep throb in my belly, forced me to lurch forward on the bed. I was chilled except for the fire beginning to burn in my womb. I rested my chin against my thighs, trying to rid myself of the chill, but still that icy pressure on my wrist.
"Leave me in peace, please." I begged. I wept. No longer in control.
"Mama, why? Why is there no love for me?" Again that sweet voice.
"I have no love," I said aloud. "I have no love left. It died inside of me, and there’s nothing I can do."
I sat back up and shook my hands, trying to rid myself of the grip. Then a stab, like nails scraping against the inside of my belly.
I fell over onto my side and wrapped my hands around my stomach, my eyes squeezed shut.
"Mama." A whisper, closer to my face.
I refused to open my eyes, the pain intensified.
"Mama?"
I bit th
e inside of my cheek and tried to picture myself anywhere else. Still, the ripping. Still, the stabbing. Still, the feeling that I was not alone.
"Mama. I chose you."
Another stab and burning and pounding in my head behind my eyes. My heart was beating so quickly. I opened my eyes and saw on the ground the shadow of a little boy standing at the foot of my bed.
"Stephan," I whispered.
I closed my eyes. Fluid gushed from between my legs. Then the painful throbbing. Suddenly, the chill was gone, replaced with a fire of pain. Then a black and heavy silence.
CHAPTER NINE
"It’s time to burn them," she said.
My dearest Ana often appeared to me in my dreams. The night before the Feast of the Triytsya, I had a particularly vivid dream of Ana, so I knew she was sending me a message. In it, Ana was standing beneath a tree with falling leaves. She beckoned me closer, and when I came, I saw that the leaves were really envelopes falling to the ground.
"It’s time to burn them," Ana repeated.
That morning before having my coffee, I set fire to the envelope over the stove and watched it burn. I had learned nothing from it, and there was nothing left to learn. I felt sadness as I swept the ashes into the sink. Then I went to Mass at St. Volodymyr’s Cemetery to honor my dead. After Mass, everyone went off to lay flowers on the graves of family and friends. The feast day was popularly called Zeleni Sviata, "The Green Holidays," another religious tradition that we continued from the old country. I often wondered if the souls of the dead still entered the flowers and trees in this foreign soil. I suppose they do. But many of my dead are not resting in this American ground.
***
On the first Zeleni Sviata after Baba died, I was so anxious to receive a visit from her, to be able to somehow touch her again. I stood beside Mama during the service, and as soon as we finished singing, I ran around to each of the trees. Knocking gently on the bark of each tree, I’d whisper, "Baba, are you in there? It’s Nadya. I came to find you. Where are you? Are you here?"
Mama told me it was impossible to know which tree held Baba’s soul, but I insisted. For what seemed like hours, I ran from oak to pine to maple to sycamore, until I saw a white hare sitting quietly in the shadow of a fir tree. Forgetting everything, I crept up to the hare. As I approached, it just sat there twitching its whiskers, looking at me.
I stopped within steps of the hare and put out my hand, expecting it to run away. Instead it hopped over and smelled my palm. With my other hand, I gently petted its fur. Then it scurried around the tree and disappeared. For a moment I smelled lilacs on the air. That was when I knew this was Baba’s tree.
I couldn’t reach the branches, so I called Mama over and asked her to break a branch for me.
"This is Baba’s tree." I told her.
She smiled at me and broke off the branch, but I knew she didn’t believe me.
Later we went home with the branches and flowers we had collected and spread them all over the house, so the ancestors were all around us. The house felt full, like it did on holidays when so many visitors would pile into the tiny room that I couldn’t see the other side. And it smelled wonderful, as if a forest had sprouted in our home.
Mama prepared a seven-course supper, and before we ate, Tato greeted all the ancestors:
"Oh, shining Sun, radiant Sun,
Oh, Blessed Mother of all life,
Holiest of ancestors,
Spirits of the forest, waters, fields,
We greet your visit with the coming of summer.
We honor you. We welcome you."
***
It was not quite the same celebration here in Chicago. But at least it survived. As part of the tradition, I first went to the grave of Mykola, my youngest son. Tracing the numbers on the tombstone with my finger—1952-1971—I thought, He was just a baby. Too young. I lifted the tiny American flag that had fallen over. The sun had bleached it, and I forgot to bring a new one. Kneeling down, I kissed the stone and rested my cheek against it. It was so cold. At least the flowers were growing nicely. I knew Katya came here often to tend to them. She and Mykola were so close, even with the large span of years between them.
Katya had tried to convince him not to enlist in the army, but he said it was his duty. I remember sitting in the kitchen that day as they argued in his bedroom:
"Mykola, you’re not violent. In the fifth grade, you wouldn’t hit Tony Malaniuk even after he gave you a black eye and called you a sissy."
"Yeah, it did wonders for my reputation to have my older sister come over and yell at the class bully. I thought you were going to hit him. So did he."
"I was just looking out for you, Kolya. Tell me, what have the Vietnamese ever done to you? It’s not like you’d be fighting the Russians."
"Katya, what else can I do?" He lowered his voice. "I can’t go to college. You know there’s no money. I’ll end up being drafted anyway."
"No, I’ll help you—"
"Katya, I’ve made up my mind."
"Kolya, think of what you’re doing to Mama. She’s crying in the kitchen right now."
"I’ll be okay. I’ll come back a hero. You’ll see."
"If you come back."
"I will come back."
I went to church every single day that he was gone. Three hundred and fifty days in Vietnam, and I lit a candle for him each morning and said a prayer. Every night before I went to sleep, I prayed to the Blessed Mother to keep him safe, to keep all our boys safe.
But the soldier still came, the chaplain standing behind him, trying to offer solace, offering no explanation. Later, a metal box was sent with an army medal and Mykola’s watch.
I looked again at the dates on the tombstone. It’s not right that a mother should bury her child. I wouldn’t speak to God for a long time after that—a very long time.
After visiting Mykola’s grave, I walked over to see Ana and her husband, Nicholas. Sitting down, I stared at their photo on the headstone.
"Hello, old friends," I whispered. "I miss you."
***
We had met them on the boat to America, the General Stuart. Like so many other couples, Pavlo and I slept huddled next to each other in the darkness, while our children were curled up beneath Pavlo’s heavy coat and a tattered bed sheet. I was pregnant with Mark, and he was already keeping me up at night. The pregnancy, combined with Pavlo’s snoring, made my seasickness unbearable.
I remember waking up to the sound of moaning. While my eyes adjusted, I expected the darkness to reveal a seasick passenger. Instead, I saw an attractive dark-haired woman passionately kissing a tiny, fair-skinned man. He had his hand inside her shirt, on her right breast. Her eyes were closed.
I looked around, but it seemed that everyone else was sound asleep. I knew I should look away, but I sat there amazed; staring. I watched as she stroked his head gently, playing with his fine blonde hair. I watched as he switched his hand to her left breast. What kind of people were they to have no sense of shame, no pride? Suddenly she opened her eyes, looked up and met my gaze. Embarrassed, I looked away. But not before she smiled.
The next morning the smiling woman came over, introduced herself as Ana, and offered me sweet bread. At first I refused, but she sat down next to me and would not leave until I had tasted some of her husband’s bread. I had never met a man who could cook, so I tried the bread out of curiosity. I shared the soft honey-flavored loaf with my children while listening to Ana explain her remedy for my obvious seasickness.
"It’s a purple kiss you need," she said with a glance in
Pavlo’s direction. He was sitting with a few of the other Ukrainian men.
I must have blushed, because she touched my cheek and laughed. Her fingers were cool and smelled of peppermint. And that laugh—a deep and round "hahaha" her mouth wide open, large teeth showing.
"Oh, my darling, it’s not what you think. Although there are other remedies I could suggest."
I could feel the heat spreading dow
n my neck and across my chest.
She continued, "But this is quite ordinary. It’s a flower. Wait, I think—" and she hurried over to her things, mumbling to herself along the way, a habit that I would eventually pick up, much to Pavlo’s dismay.
I watched her walk. A tall woman, she didn’t slouch to hide her height but stood proudly erect. She was older than I was, in her late twenties or early thirties. Everything about this woman seemed too much: her shoulders too broad, her breasts too large, her hips too full, her hair too wild, her voice too loud. She commanded attention and always looked into your eyes.
Ana came back with a brown woven bag. As she opened it, I was struck by the many unusual smells that I could not identify. Over time, she would teach me to recognize and utilize the different scents.
Her long fingers reached into the bag and poked around until she exclaimed,
"Ah, hah!" Everyone nearby turned their heads.
She smiled at me. Yes, everything about her seemed to take up too much space, except her mouth. It was perfect: lips like a heart, full and red. Small on her face, they worked together with her deep blue eyes to balance out her nose. I smiled despite myself.
"Oh, we’re going to be good friends," she said, "Whether you like it or not."
And my own self-conscious giggle highlighted her robust laugh.
"Okay. Now, here we go. This is marjoram." She pulled out a tiny sprig of purple flowers.
"See, they have two lips. I call it ‘purple kiss’ because if they have lips, why not use them? Plants are quite erotic, you know."
I glanced down at my children, who had fallen asleep despite the early morning hour.
"Don’t worry so much, darling. Now take this and steep it in a cup of hot water twice a day. You’ll feel much better. It’s good for cramps, too. It will calm your stomach."
She reached over and took my hand. Looking at my palm, she placed the dried flowers in it.
"Trust me." she said. "What’s your name, darling? We’re going to be friends, so I should know your name."
"Nadya," I said, placing the flowers in my handkerchief.
"Perfect." she said shuffling around in her bag.
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