The Silence of Trees

by Valya Dudycz Lupescu

  I was suddenly self-conscious again. I felt comfortable with him, but we were strangers.

  The waitress came back, and he ordered the Greek omelet.

  "Anything for you, ma’am?" she asked.

  "No, thank you," I answered, suddenly feeling self-conscious about my age. The alcohol must have started to wear off because I began to worry about how I looked. Had my powder caked up around my wrinkles? Did my neck look flabby? Andriy was looking at me so intently that I wondered if I had spinach in my teeth from the puff pastry I had tried back at the Black Hat Lounge.

  "So what did you—"

  "I thought the play—"

  We both started talking at the same time and laughed.

  "Please, you go ahead," he said.

  "I thought the play was beautiful," I said, looking at his watch. It looked like it had diamonds on the face.

  "Thank you. You weren’t angry?" he asked.

  "Not angry, but surprised," I said. "Do you often use real life to inspire your plays?"

  "Always," he said and went on to talk about how he had returned to Ukraine with his mother, then moved to England to study after she died, and eventually to America. While he was still living in Ukraine, he collected material about folklore and superstitions from the small villages, recording songs and poems and taking photographs.

  "I wanted to preserve the old ways which were disappearing. I have given much of my collected material to Slavic folklorists, but it left a lasting impression on me, as did the war. As did you."

  I blushed, not sure of what to say.

  "Was Mama Paraska—was your mother furious with me? Did she ever forgive me?" I asked him, trying to change the subject.

  "She was. She did. Mama was simply disappointed that you hadn’t come with us. She loved you like a daughter, and she could tell that I cared for you."

  "I loved her, too," I said. "She was an amazing woman."

  "I heard about your husband; I am sorry for your loss," Andriy said as the waitress set his food in front of him. "Uh oh, now it’s your turn to talk so I can eat all this food." He winked at the waitress, who gave him a big smile in return. He was so charming.

  "I’m not sure what to talk about." I stopped and searched for something to say. Then, I don’t know if it was because of the alcohol, because we were in the booth where Ana and I used to talk, or because I felt connected to this stranger from my past, but I opened up to him. I told him about the envelope from my sister, about Pavlo hiding the letter from Stephan, and even about Katya and Robin’s purification of my house. I told him how sad I had been, how afraid and guilty, how lonely I had been feeling.

  While I was talking, he watched me carefully, spooning food into his mouth like an afterthought. Andriy sat so straight at the table, his shoulders back, his head held high and cocked slightly to the right. He was an attentive listener. I never felt like he was bored or drifting in thought.

  When I finished my story, he wiped his mouth with his napkin, set it on his empty plate, and said, "You’re an amazing woman, Nadya. I can’t believe you’re here with me in this place having coffee. Thank you for sharing that with me." He stood up.

  For a minute, I thought that was his sign for ending the evening. Had I talked too much? Was he disappointed with me? Had I bored him after all?

  "May I sit beside you in the booth?" he asked.

  I was too surprised to say no, so I nodded.

  "I didn’t want to have to shout over the noise of the diner," he said, and only then did I notice that all the tables and booths were full, and the voices around us had gotten louder.

  "Nadya, I don’t want to scare you away. I don’t want you to think me too forward, but you really did save my life during the war, and I never forgot you. For most of my life I’ve been hoping that you and I would meet again."

  "I know it’s getting late, and you’re probably tired, but can I see you again? I think we have more to talk about, and it would make me very happy."

  I nodded. "All right, I would like that."

  He leaned over and kissed my cheek before getting up to pay at the counter. I touched my cheek after he walked away.

  Snowflakes had begun to fall outside; the first of the season. Andriy insisted that he bring the car around so I didn’t have to walk outside in the snow. Driving to my house, I looked at the Chicago skyline in the distance, obscured by the light snowfall. It was a beautiful night, and I felt like a princess. Maybe it was the cold or the late hour, but I felt exhilarated and bold. When Andriy walked me up to my door, I gave him a hug and whispered, "thank you" in his ear.

  He smiled at me and then slipped down the stairs and fell.

  "I’m okay!" he shouted.

  Andriy stood up, spun around, and bowed in my direction. I laughed out loud and applauded, and he walked a little more carefully to his car. I smiled in the window as his car drove away, and then I sat down on the couch and looked around the room. I almost wished I had invited him in just so the evening would not end. Then I could have lived in the fantasy a little longer. Unless it wasn’t a fantasy? I was afraid to consider the possibility. Then I felt guilty for even thinking that. What would Pavlo think? Would he be angry? Jealous? I remembered my vision of Pavlo in the park. He had said, "It’s never too late," but what did he mean?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Winter settled into Chicago, the temperatures dropped, and the sun spent more time behind the clouds. It was a winter without snow. None had fallen since November, and anticipation hung heavy in the air. Over the next few weeks, Andriy and I spoke frequently on the phone, but we hadn’t seen each other. He was busy with his play most of the time and also had to fly back to New York on business.

  I remembered my Baba’s words, that I find someone to share my stories with. I hoped to share them with Andriy, but I also wanted to reconnect with my family. I invited Katya and Lesya to come by and help me bake bread. I was glad that Lesya’s mother had other plans, because I wanted to spend the time alone with my oldest daughter and my favorite granddaughter. I wanted to share my life with them, and even though I was afraid, I knew I had to take this step. Katya knew some of the story; Lesya knew very little. If I had any hope of putting the past behind me, then I would have to entrust my memories with those I loved.

  They came by after breakfast, letting themselves in with the spare key I always kept under my statue of Mary in the front yard. I had them sit at the table with cups of coffee and my freshly made almond torte.

  "Wow, Mama. A torte? You haven’t made one in years. What’s the occasion?" Katya asked playfully, but she was right. The torte took hours to make, and it was created with the sole intention of honoring my life, a life that I was going to start enjoying again.

  "I’m celebrating my return to the land of the living," I answered, "and I wanted to share this moment with both of you."

  First, I handed Katya the letter from my sister, watching as she read it, tears forming in her eyes. Then I gave her Stephan’s note. When she finished reading, she passed the letters to Lesya.

  Watching her read, I felt as though I were standing outside myself, as though I were viewing this scene from far, far away: a mother, daughter, and granddaughter in a play or a movie: The kitchen was pretty, neat, yellow. There were plants all around, decorated with silk flowers. Cheerful. Everything was in its place except for a throw rug lying crooked on the floor, a tiny coffee stain on one corner. The oven was preheating, releasing a faint smell of old cheese burning on the bottom. The aging cat slept under the grandmother’s chair. The clock ticked, ticked, ticked too loudly, exaggerating the seconds, creating a heartbeat in the room to match the old woman’s heart. An army of pictures arranged on the wall tried to fight off time—to freeze the past, to rekindle happier moments. A life in pictures from every decade, some black and white, some color. The counter of the hutch was cluttered with birthday cards and a vase with dying flowers. The smells of yeast and cinnamon lingered in the air from unkneaded dough on the counter. Li
ght focused on the letter—written on white lined stationary—in the granddaughter’s hand. Everyone was still, barely moving, only breathing, and the clock ticked, ticked, ticked. Except there were things the camera couldn’t see. Things the daughter and granddaughter almost sensed, but could not see—ghosts that lingered in the corners of the room. An old man and an old woman with a scarf around her head stood with their arms around one another, just behind the grandmother. A handsome young man in uniform sat on the radiator, holding his heart. A tiny old woman with rosy cheeks carried a laughing baby. A girl wearing gloves rubbed her hands together, healed and whole. And still the clock ticked, ticked, ticked. The camera didn’t see the visitors, couldn’t capture them except as a shimmer in the shadows, or a streak of light on the lens. But they were there watching them—watching the grandmother—watching me.

  "It’s an amazing story, Baba." Lesya said, putting the letters back on the table.

  "Are you okay, Mama?" Katya asked.

  "I left them behind." I said.

  "What happened?"

  "So much. I was young. I wanted to know the future, and instead I lost everything."

  "But what happened?"

  For a minute I felt the familiar sensation that the earth beneath me was slipping away, like I was going to slide into a deep dark hole. This was usually the point when I stopped talking, but this time I felt as if I were supported. I felt as if my roots were dug deep into the earth, too deep to be washed away. Ana would have said I felt grounded, and I did.

  I remembered my conversation with Katya in the chapel on the night of Pavlo’s heart attack. I was afraid of how I would be judged by those I loved the most. I was afraid that the life I had lived had somehow not been authentic. As if Halya and I had switched places. Maybe she should have been in Chicago with a large happy family. Maybe I should have been in Ukraine, alone.

  "I sometimes feel like I don’t deserve this life," I said to Katya and Lesya. "I feel like I should have been there when the Germans came."

  They had both read the letters, so I had no choice but to fill in some of the blanks in the story. When all was said and done, I didn’t know who they would see when they looked at me. I was like that black pysanka, covered in wax and layers of paint. The letters had come to melt it all away. Then it would come together—the story revealed.

  Katya had already heard the beginning of this story, but I had to start at the beginning for Lesya.

  "At the age of sixteen, more than anything, I wanted to have my fortune told," I said, and I told them about Stephan, about the vorozhka, about the soldiers.

  "If I had only been there, maybe I could have saved them. Maybe I could have been there for Halya," I said in between tears. I avoided their eyes, afraid of what might be reflected there.

  But when I cried, they both cried with me.

  "I hated myself for leaving them. I hated myself for living." I said.

  Katya hugged me, stroking my hair. Our roles had reversed.

  "Baba, if you had stayed and died, none of us would be here today." Lesya said, holding my hand. "Maybe it wasn’t a curse on you that you left. Maybe it was a blessing, like someone was looking out for you because you had something special to do in this lifetime."

  A blessing? Certainly my family had been blessed, but how much of that was because of me?

  "Mama, I do believe that we are put on this earth to do something special," Katya said, still stroking my hair. "We all have a destiny, something that our souls need to do. Maybe yours was to be a mother and grandmother to us. You have been a wonderful matriarch, holding this family together, especially after Tato died. I never knew your sister, but I don’t think anyone else could have done that."

  Morning turned to afternoon, and although the first loaf of bread in the oven burned, I introduced Katya to her Baba and Dido, her aunts and uncles. I shared my happy childhood memories, and when I laughed, they laughed with me. I searched their faces for signs of condemnation but found only love.

  I told them about Mama Paraska and her son Andriy while we pounded the remaining dough, careful not to cry and bring sadness to the bread.

  "I still can’t believe that you know Andriy Polotsky," said Lesya, adding more flour to the countertop.

  "That was a very long time ago." I said, drying bread pans at the sink. I wasn’t ready to discuss my visit with Andriy after his show.

  "But didn’t you go see his play last month," Katya asked, as I glared in her direction.

  "I did. He sent me a ticket, and I went to see the show," I answered, trying to be nonchalant.

  "I heard it was fantastic, Baba. What did you think?"

  "What do I know about plays? I’ve only seen your school productions, but this was different. The sets, the costumes, the acting—they were all beautiful."

  "How about the story, Ma?" Katya asked, slipping dough into the pans.

  "It was a . . . familiar story, set during the war but with some fantastic additions." I said, "You should both go see it. I bet your German-American boyfriend would like it too, if he loves history as much as you."

  "His name is Lukas, Baba."

  "Yes, yes. I forgot." Then I winked at her. "I’m an old lady. My memory is not so good."

  Lesya laughed, then changed the subject, "I wonder about the soldier, Sonny. He’s never contacted you, even though he found your address from Andriy?"

  "No, I never heard from him. Maybe he wanted to give Halya time to contact me." I answered, wondering if he were still alive. "Maybe he got busy with other things."

  "Maybe he’ll still call. If he does, can I please talk with him? I would love to listen to his stories about being a soldier." Lesya looked so excited. Like the little girl she once was, the same little girl who ran into the house to tell me that the worm she had cut in the garden magically had turned into two worms. She must have been thinking of her next paper for those history magazines.

  "If he wants to talk about it, sure. But don’t be disappointed if he doesn’t. It’s not so easy." I told her.

  I watched Katya’s long fingers in the dough. She looked so thoughtful. She caught my gaze and smiled.

  "Are you okay with all this, Ma? It’s a lot to handle."

  "I wasn’t okay, but I am now." I told her. "I’m beginning to make my peace; it’s just hard to do. In time, I will be all right. There is so much more to tell."

  So I did, and I shared more memories that I had kept buried, memories of the dead. As I spoke each of their names and recounted their stories, I felt their ghosts leave me with a cool breath on my cheek like a kiss, or a light touch on my shoulder.

  Through the kitchen curtains I saw a sky without clouds. And as we sat drinking coffee, our eyes and noses red from crying to match the streaks of sunset in the sky, I was reminded of a time when I was young and hopeful.

  "I have never told you the story of the tsvit paporot, have I?" I asked them.

  "The feast of Ivana Kupala, Mama?" Katya asked. "I’ve read about it, but no, you haven’t."

  "In the camp I had a few friends, but one of the dearest was a girl called Natalia. She came over from the women’s barracks to the DP camp with Mama Paraska and me. Natalia was a poet, and even though she had lived through so many terrible things during the war, she still insisted that we try to find beauty around us. She’s the one who named our bunk Nebo, and she called us the Star Sisters."

  "Like the three Zorya sisters who watched over the sky throughout the day?" Katya asked.

  "Yes, like that," I replied. "You would have liked her, Katya. You are kindred spirits. Natalia and I would sit and compare stories from home. One day, right around midsummer, Natalia decided that we needed a little magic. This was before I met your Tato, when my heart was still broken and lonely and aching for home. We were both pining for romance.

  "She asked me if I knew about the legend of the paporot, the red fern that blooms only on Midsummer Eve, the night of Ivana Kupala. My Baba had told me about the old Midsummer celebrations, th
e dances held in the fields for Ivana Kupala, dances of life and light and love. But I didn’t know much about the paporot.

  "Natalia told me about some of the legends, about how if you found the tsvit paporot, you were given a wish. She explained that some people believed if you found it, you could understand the animals’ speech for the whole evening. Others said that you could make anyone fall madly in love with you if you found it. There were many beliefs.

  "Well, we decided to sneak off and look for the tsvit paporot on the upcoming midsummer night. We walked in darkness through the trees, listening for the rusalky singing and looking for flickering lights. When we couldn’t find any clues, we sat down across from one another next to a patch of wild flowers and held hands. We closed our eyes and listened for any sounds on the wind. I remember that it felt almost like home, with the leaves rustling, the birds singing, the grass against our legs, the scent of flowers in the air. I almost believed that if I opened my eyes, I would be in the forest by my Tato’s house.

  "‘Make a wish,’ Natalia whispered.

  "‘But we didn’t find the paporot,’ I replied.

  "‘It’s okay, it’s still a magical night,’ she said.

  "So, holding hands in the dark, we made our wishes. Then a howling wolf broke the spell, and we ran back to camp."

  "So, what did you wish for, Baba?" Lesya asked me.

  "It’s not right to ask someone about their wishes," Katya said. "It means they won’t come true."

  "But it’s been over fifty years," Lesya replied. "I think it’s okay."

  I smiled. It felt good to talk with them and tell them my stories. It was as if I were more fully connected to these women, having shared a little of my soul with them.

  I remembered Mama Paraska, and I brought together my thumb and first two fingers, kissed them and then lifted them first to Katya’s cheek, then to Lesya’s cheek.

  "I give you a piece of my soul," I said. "It’s something I learned from Andriy’s mama. It will keep us strongly connected, no matter what."