The Silence of Trees

by Valya Dudycz Lupescu

  "Nadya? Are you happy?"

  "Sure. Sure," I said. "What’s not to be happy about? We have a nice house, a big family, good health." I heard his knock on wood echoing my own.

  I didn’t want to sit down, so I continued looking in the cabinet. I felt Pavlo’s eyes on my back.

  "What’s wrong? Why are you getting upset?" He asked.

  "I’m not getting upset. I’m looking for something. For nutmeg."

  "But I just asked you a simple question, and you’re getting angry. Why?"

  I sat back down and poured too much cinnamon and nutmeg into my coffee.

  "Why are you pestering me?" I asked him, stirring.

  "I thought we were trying to have a nice conversation."

  "Sure. But you don’t like my answers." I tasted the coffee. Ruined.

  "What’s wrong? Did I do something to make you mad?"

  A list of complaints jumped to mind: not replacing the toilet paper roll, leaving toenail clippings all over the bathroom floor, forgetting to unplug the toaster, that one nose hair he never seems to clip, leaving the porch window open all night, opening my mail.

  "Why did you open my mail yesterday?"

  "What are you talking about?" Pavlo looked like I slapped him.

  "I had a letter from the doctor, and you opened it."

  "You open my mail all the time. It was just a bill from your last appointment. Besides, I didn’t know it was a secret." His face was starting to get red.

  "It’s not, it wasn’t. Forget about it." I took another sip of coffee.

  The house was quiet except for Khvostyk scratching in the litter on the porch. I could feel rage inside, but I wasn’t sure why.

  "No, actually, Pavlo, I have a question for you. I received an envelope from Ukraine several months ago. It had been opened, and was empty. Did you take it?"

  He stared at me, not blinking. "What?"

  "Did you open the envelope? Take the letter?"

  "A letter from Ukraine? I don’t even remember any letter from Ukraine?"

  "Think back. It was spring, and you brought in the mail. Before Palm Sunday. The envelope was there, but the letter was missing."

  "Nadya, how could you think such a thing of me? Who was it from?"

  A sob in my chest stretched up my throat and let loose so many tears, "I don’t know. I don’t know who could be left alive. I don’t know how they could find me. I just don’t know—"

  Pavlo walked over and tried to hug me in my chair, but I shrugged him away.

  "Why would I take your letter?" He kissed the top of my head. "I didn’t take away that letter you got from that Andriy Polotsky last year, did I?"

  I didn’t know Pavlo knew about the letter. He had heard of Andriy Polotsky. All the Ukrainians knew who he was. He gained the American spotlight in the 1970s. I first heard about him on the Ukrainian radio program in Chicago. Apparently, after Mama Paraska died, Andriy immigrated to New York. He started out as a stagehand, became an actor, and eventually started up a successful theater company. In time he became a wealthy man, who gave generously to help others with scholarships and charities. A good man.

  When someone of Ukrainian ancestry became famous, his fame would spread around the country until everyone Ukrainian knew about his success. We cheered them on, our brothers and sisters who had proudly declared their heritage in the public spotlight. Whether they were actors, athletes, writers, or politicians, their names were learned by the entire community: the cubist sculptor Alexander Archipenko, the actors Jack Palance and George Dzundza, the Olympic figure skating champion Oksana Baiul, Illinois State Senator Walter Dudycz, the NFL football player and coach Mike Ditka, and many others. To nash, to nasha, we would say. He’s one of ours. She’s one of ours.

  Andriy, to nash.

  I thought about calling him, but never did. When I told Ana about him and his mother, she urged me to contact him, but I didn’t have the nerve. What could I say that he would care to hear?

  Then, last year Andriy somehow found me. In the mail I received a plane ticket to New York and a theater ticket for the opening night of one of his plays. There was no note or letter attached. I burned both tickets on the stove. I suspected that Ana must have contacted him. Maybe if she had still been alive we could have gone together. But she died a month earlier, and I would not go alone.

  I never received another ticket. I would read Ukrainian newspapers and listen to Ukrainian radio programs for stories about Andriy, his adventures, his generosity. He was one of the most eligible Ukrainian bachelors. Women, young and old, sent him pictures and love offerings. I heard about it on a special St. Valentine’s Day radio program, and I tried to keep up with the latest gossip.

  But Pavlo knew! What else did he know? I crossed my arms and asked, "How did you know, Pavlo? I burned those tickets."

  "I saw the envelope. Besides, Ana told me that he was once your friend. I think I remember his mother from the camp. Mama Paraska, right? Crazy old woman."

  "She wasn’t crazy."

  "Sure she was. She thought she could talk to God. She once told me that you were promised to her son and I should walk away. Imagine that! Like I would listen to some crazy old woman."

  "She wasn’t crazy," but I smiled. So she went to Pavlo. She never told me.

  "Anyway, years ago, when Ana and Niki were in New York, they went to see a play at his theater and they met him, that Andriy," he said. "You know how Ana liked to talk to everybody. Well, she and Niki loved the play and asked to meet him, to talk with him and all that. They all had dinner at some fancy restaurant, and they found out that they both knew you."

  "But why didn’t she tell me?"

  "It was supposed to be a surprise. See, Ana came to me and told me that she had the perfect idea for a present for you. She told me I should surprise you and take you to New York to see one of Andriy’s plays. But I know how much you hate to travel. So I bought you the new coffeemaker, and we went to the Polish all-you-can-eat buffet instead, remember?"

  Ana met Andriy? So that was how he found me. That was why he had sent the tickets. She never told me.

  "Well, Ana said she would take you there someday and surprise you, but she must have forgotten. I guess after a few years that Andriy got curious, because I remember seeing the envelope from him on the table. I never even opened it or asked you about it. See?"

  He knew about that letter?

  "What else did Ana say?"

  "Nothing. She just wanted it to be a special birthday for you. She was upset with me that I didn’t get you the tickets, but we weren’t like them. We don’t just get up and travel all around the world."

  He’s right. We were not like them. I knew he didn’t take it. It was not something he could do now.

  "Nadya, I trust you. After all these years, I better trust you." His voice became softer. "I did some bad things when I was young. But times were so different then."

  Times were so different.

  He sat back down and said, "Do you know how lucky we are?"

  "Yes, we are lucky, Pavlo. Lucky to have lived as long as we have, survived all we have. But do you ever wonder what could have been? If we had never met? If we had chosen different lives?"

  "No."

  "No?"

  "No, I don’t. You see, Nadya, you’re a romantic. You try to deny it, pretend to be practical, but you’re not. That is why you are always disappointed.

  But me? I have few expectations, so when things go well, I’m surprised. I never expected to live beyond my teens. I have, and I’m happy. I never expected to find love, but I found you. I never expected to have a good life, but look at us. We have a nice house, a good family. It hasn’t always been easy, but we’ve survived so many things . . . together. Who else has been so lucky?"

  I thought about the other people I knew, couples who stayed together for their children and were now too old to start looking for something different. Some husbands had wandering eyes and crafty lies. Some women were obsessed with gossip and e
xcuses, they hid from their husbands except for meals and family visits. There were alcoholics, abusers and abused, and so many lonely people. So many people had no one to love. So many people had forgotten how to love, or maybe never learned how. During the war, we needed to hold onto something, someone. Often we turned to the person next to us, and the next thing we knew we were seventy-five years old and alone.

  "Ana and Niki were happy together." I said.

  "Sure, but their relationship wasn’t perfect. They were never able to have children, and all their traveling couldn’t fill that space. And look at Ana’s illness. They had their share of problems.

  "Nadya, we even sleep in the same bed, the same room, after all these years. Most couples we know, as soon as the kids moved out, they each got their own room. But not us, we’re still together."

  He was right. I couldn’t imagine falling asleep without Pavlo next to me. For so many years I worked the night shift, and he worked the day shift, and we never slept together except on the weekends. In our old age, I had grown spoiled by his body next to mine.

  "That’s just because you keep my feet warm." I said. "As soon as they make an electric blanket that doesn’t catch fire, I’ll take over the guest room. You hog so much of the bed anyway, I’m surprised you even notice I’m there."

  "How can I not notice that big behind of yours? Besides, you would miss my hugging at night and in the morning. No blanket can do that."

  As he talked, I stood up and went to brew another pot of coffee.

  "Sometimes I don’t know how I’ve ended up in this old body," I said.

  "You have a lifetime of memories." He said

  "To replace a lifetime of dreams," I said.

  Memories: one for every wrinkle, every gray hair.

  "But how did it happen so fast, Pavlo? I want more time, I want fifty more years."

  "And what would we do with fifty more years?"

  "Have adventures. Something meaningful."

  "Look there," Pavlo pointed to the photographs on the wall. "We have done something meaningful with them."

  "But is that enough?" I asked.

  "It is for me," he answered. "Is it enough for you?"

  We both looked around the room, at the walls, the table, and the photographs.

  "Look at the time," I said to break the spell. "I need to clean up the house. Lesya is coming by to ask me questions about her homework."

  As I was talking, Pavlo walked over, gave me a hug, and kissed the top of my head.

  "I love you," he said. "Thank you for talking with me."

  "Aren’t you going to have more coffee?" I asked.

  "Maybe after my cigarettes," he answered and walked outside.

  I stood watching the coffee fill the pot, a steady stream of dark brown. Khvostyk rubbed against my legs.

  "How can one lifetime be enough?" I asked him, scratching his head while he rubbed against my legs.

  Katya told me that in America cats have nine lives. If only we all had that luxury.

  "So Khvostyk, is the domovyk upset with us?"

  Khvostyk looked at me in earnest and let out a long meow. He must have thought I was asking him if he wanted a can of tuna. Pavlo’s theory was interesting, but I think that after living in our house for fifty years, our domovyk was probably grateful for the peace and quiet. House spirits liked a clean but peaceful house. When I was young, before my Baba died, she often complained that we sisters made such a racket that the domovyk was sure to be upset with our family.

  "Halya, Nadya, Maria, Laryssa," shouted our Baba. "Stop fighting right now. And clean up those dolls on the floor before your mother gets home. Don’t you know that the domovyk likes a nice, clean house? That way when he walks around at night nothing is in his way. You don’t want to make him angry."

  "Why, Baba?" asked Maria. "What happens if he’s upset?"

  "If he’s angry, he can bring bad luck to the house." She motioned for us to sit next to her. "Come here, my little ones. Come sit next to Baba near the fire. It’s cold, and we’ll help keep each other warm as I tell you a story about the domovyk."

  Laryssa spread our big brown blanket on the floor by Baba’s feet, and we sat close together bundled in layers of softness. Mama got the goose-filled comforters by trading her embroidery with the widow Moroz. We giggled as we pressed closer to the fire, watching the flames dance.

  "All settled now, girls?" Baba asked, stroking my hair.

  We nodded, excited to hear another of Baba’s stories.

  "Are you sure you’re feeling well enough to tell a story, Baba?" asked Laryssa, always considerate.

  "Shhh. Of course I am, it’s only a little cough, and I’ve drunk plenty of nice hot tea and honey. So I should be just fine."

  "Once upon a time there was a little girl who lived with her mother and father in a house outside of Kyiv."

  "Didn’t she have any brothers or sisters?" asked Maria.

  "No, she was their only child. But she did have a lot of goats to play with. She lived in a house like this one. She was a good little girl, but she was lonely. Her mama and tato would work all day and night, leaving her alone in the house most of the time. She decided that she would try to meet the domovyk so she would have a friend in the house.

  "Now, this is not completely unknown, because the domovyk can communicate with us. You just have to pay attention and know how to read the signs. If you hear shrieking or moaning, crying or wailing, then it is a bad omen, and you need to be careful. He will often cry when he knows that someone in the household is going to die. But if you hear laughter or singing, giggling or music, it is a good omen, and you should feel honored that the domovyk is sharing something with you.

  "Sometimes the domovyk will even touch you to give you a message. This usually happens if you are a sound sleeper and haven’t heard his earlier communications. If you feel a warm, gentle touch, like a cat’s fur or a dog’s breath, then it is a sign of good things to come. But if you feel an icy touch or a rough, prickly one, then your luck is turning for the worse. The domovyk will sometimes pull the hair of wives to warn them that their husbands are going to beat them. But only if they like the wife.

  "The domovyk is involved in everything that happens in the house. He watches the bread baking, the water boiling, the floor being swept, and everything in between. But at night the domovyk has special responsibilities.

  "Why, Baba?"

  "Because that’s what the domovyk does. Cats meow. Cows make milk. Foxes try to steal chickens. And the domovyk watches over the house. That’s life. We all have our place.

  "So the little girl, her name was Motrya, knew that the domovyk had a lot of chores to do at night, and they kept him very busy. He had to keep an eye on the goats, watch out that the neighbors didn’t steal any food or animals, and also protect the house from other spirits. Motrya decided that she would help him, so he could finish his chores more quickly and have time to talk with her."

  "How could she help him if she couldn’t see him, Baba?" I asked.

  "Little mouse, the domovyk doesn’t like to be seen directly, but it is not impossible to see him. Sometimes he looks like the previous owner of the house, other times he might look like a dog or a cat, or a furry little creature with an old man’s face. The domovyk can change his shape depending on how he wants to be seen.

  "So one night Motrya crept out to the yard and watched the barn for hours to make sure the goats were safe. Then she walked around and around the house to make sure no one was trying to steal anything. Finally, she sat on the threshold of the house and waited for any mischievous spirits that might try to come in."

  "But Baba, the threshold is the domovyk’s special place," said Laryssa.

  "That’s right, and of course the domovyk was watching Motrya all night to see what she was up to. When he saw her sitting on the threshold, he tapped her on the shoulder and she turned around to see a young boy with brown fur all over his body.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the domovyk as
ked her.

  ‘I’m helping the domovyk so that he will be my friend.’ Motrya replied.

  ‘The domovyk doesn’t have friends. He just lives alone and takes care of the house.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because that’s the way it is, Motrya. That’s the way of the world. Now, thank you for your help, but you should get some sleep, the sun will soon be rising,’ the young boy said and then disappeared.

  "Motrya went to sleep, but she repeated these chores every night for one month, hoping to see the little boy again. But the domovyk never appeared. She eventually gave up and grew up, alone and without many friends. Motrya spent most of her time inside the house or on the farm. She helped her mother around the house, but mostly kept to herself, reading books and telling stories to the goats. She always hoped to see the domovyk, but she never did. But every year on her birthday Motrya would hear music at night and wake up with her hair braided.

  "When she turned sixteen, her parents decided that they were going to send her to a convent because they didn’t have enough money for a dowry. They knew no one would want to marry the poor lonely girl whom the neighbors considered odd because she talked to goats and kept to herself. Motrya didn’t want to leave her home or the goats, or the trees or flowers. She loved the land on her family’s farm. She knew every rock, every patch of poppies and cornflowers. She was so upset that she sat up that night crying.

  ‘You’re sitting on my threshold again,’ said a voice behind her.

  She hadn’t noticed that she had sat down on the threshold to cry. Motrya turned around to find a handsome man with long brown hair standing behind her.

  ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. Are you the domovyk?’ she asked him.

  ‘I am,’ he answered. "And I am sad that you’re leaving. I’ve enjoyed listening to your stories, and you always keep the house so nice and clean.’

  ‘Then help me to stay here. I want to stay here. Maybe you have some magic that we can do to help me stay here?’

  ‘I told you once a long time ago, there’s no way. I must be alone.’