The Silence of Trees

by Valya Dudycz Lupescu

  So I told Halya what I had done, and she was upset with me . . . for a few hours. She never held grudges for long, and soon she was asking me to play with her again. That night, after I left my piece of makivnyk outside for the demon, Halya snuck me a small piece.

  "Because I know it’s your favorite," she whispered, carrying it in her small hands. "And because I love you."

  Waves crashed and whirled around me, struggling against the ice that formed in the more shallow parts of Lake Michigan. The roaring pushed aside my thoughts, and all was still inside my head, the kind of silence that only occurs when a sudden surge of noise drowns out everything else—even regret.

  I slipped into it, the rolling hush of waves and wind. It echoed in the pulse throbbing inside my veins, the rush of wind through the trees, the steady hum beneath my boots, the waters slapping against stone. Those sounds joined and blended to become the same rhythm, a steady heartbeat that reached inside and outside, across the ocean and over time. The pulse of life, Baba would say, the rhythm of the universe, the heartbeat of the Mother.

  I reached again into my pocket and pulled out the cigarettes I had found beside Stephan’s letter. Pavlo’s. I never smoked a single cigarette, but I watched Pavlo light and relish many in his lifetime. My hands attempted to mimic his as I lit the match and held it to the end, waiting for it to catch as I puffed. The smoke was warm and slightly bitter in my throat. I held it up, protecting it from the wind.

  "This is for you, Pavlo. I’m sorry for never giving myself to you wholly. I’m sorry for keeping things from you, and I forgive you for the same thing. No matter what, we had each other, and we made a beautiful family. Rest in peace, my love, and I pray that you let me go to live the rest of my life."

  I sat and smoked my first and last cigarette, enjoying the slight buzz in my head even as I coughed occasionally.

  "I think I can see why you liked this filthy habit, Pavlo." I said aloud. "This one is for you."

  As the cigarette burned down to the end, I stood up and flicked it onto the winds and watched as it fell into the waters. I missed the slight warmth, and once again I became aware of the cold.

  I closed my eyes and saw Pavlo’s face, heard his voice, tasted his breath on my lips.

  "I’m not sure what’s going to happen next, but I miss you, Pavlo, more than I ever thought I would."

  Because of the cold, my senses seemed more acute than normal. Everything felt so alive that it almost hurt, a fine line between pain and pleasure. Goosebumps on my skin and hairs on my arms, so sensitive to the feel of all my layers of clothes. The silky pantyhose against my thighs. The warm, coarse knit of my sweater on the back of my shoulders, the tops of my arms. Lace against my breasts. Heavy wool scratching my neck, my hands. An illusion of warmth against this cool arousal of winter. I could only stay a short time, before my aches began to shout out reminders of my age.

  If only the wind could reach inside me, wipe clean my heartache, my guilt, my confusion. If only the waves could wash away this heartache, this jealousy and rage, this guilt and sadness. If only the rocks could lend me their stability, their strength, so I might choose wisely. If only the sun could burn away my past, so I would not have to live with any regrets.

  I stood still and listened for the answer on the waves.

  Just let it go. Let it go. Go.

  It was a voice inside me, and all around me. No, not one, but many voices: Baba’s, Mama’s, the vorozhka’s, Mama Paraska’s, Ana’s. Maybe even my own?

  "Goodbye," I whispered.

  But that was not the end. I had one more goodbye to make; one more offering to leave. From my pocket I removed the little black stone that I had carried for over seventy years. It was the only thing I had left of my parents, my family, my home. I was afraid to let it go, to let it rest on the bottom of the lake, a little piece of my old home there in my new home. Without it, I feared I would have nothing to hold onto. Without it, I would be forced to tell my stories because they would be all I had left.

  I held the stone in the cup of my hands and blew my breath onto it. Baba taught me that the breath is powerful. It carries with it a tiny spark of your soul. To blow on something is to imbue it with your essence and emphasize your intention.

  "My intention is to let it go . . . to love the past . . . to live in the present . . . and to look forward to the future," I said aloud. To the stone. To the lake. To myself.

  I visualized all those whom I held onto, and I fought the tears that threatened to spill out. "I will share your stories, and you will live on in their memories."

  I blew once more and summoned all my strength to toss the black stone into the water. I heard the tinkling of bells. I closed my eyes and made a prayer, giving thanks for all I had and asking for strength. Then I tossed the stone into the waters and released the past.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  On the way home, I stopped at a local flower shop to pick up some wheat and hay. Back home, people believed that our Ukrainian ancestors lived among the fields and crops, the trees and flowers, helping to ensure that each harvest was prosperous, that the lives of their descendants were happy. During the Feast of Obzhynky, the harvest, the best stalks of wheat were gathered into a sheaf called the didukh. On Christmas Eve, the didukh was placed in a special corner for the winter holidays. The ancestors would make their entrance into the family’s home with the arrival of the didukh.

  In America, I had had to settle for store-bought wheat, and I hoped that my intention when I was fashioning the didukh would please the ancestors. This year I would be inviting many more than before into my home, and I wanted their arrival to be happy.

  Once I was home, I put on a pot of coffee and lit a candle in the icon corner. I checked on the kutia, added a bit more honey, and then got to work preparing the dinner. The dishes were meatless to honor the animals that had given so much during the year. Each dish had its own special meaning. They were the same dishes my Mama used to make, and my Baba before her. Twelve ancient dishes—one for each apostle and each full moon in the year, my Baba used to say.

  "These dishes have magical properties, little mouse. They were once served on the longest night of the year," Baba said, while peeling potatoes for the varenyky. "Each one has a story, and when you make them, you should remember the story like a prayer for your family."

  "A prayer, Baba? Like the ‘Our Father’?" I asked, while playing with the hay we were going to spread under the table for dinner.

  "A little bit. But these prayers are older than that. They are like the prayers of a pine tree when a bird makes a nest in her branches, or the prayers of a river when she is full of fish. These are prayers of the spirit, blessings that the mistress of the house prepares for her entire family. You must make each dish with intention. It is a special job, to be taken seriously—" Baba stooped down to tickle me. "—but also with much joy. That’s why it’s good to cook in a house filled with laughter. Some of that joy will get passed into the food and will help the meal be happy."

  So as I prepared the foods, I made my silent blessings—ancient prayers that joined me to a chain of women stretching backward and forward in time. With each sacred ingredient, I blessed my children and their children and their children, on into the future:

  Kolachi: Three loaves of bread, each braided into a circle. Everything is interconnected. May they honor life in all its forms.

  Kutia: Wheat sweetened by Baba’s wisdom. May they remember their roots,

  Borshch: May these tart beets brighten their cheeks and bring them passion.

  Baked fish: May they swim in a sea filled with love.

  Pickled herring: May they find compassion in times of sorrow.

  Pidpenky mushrooms: Let them remember to find beauty in all creation.

  Holubtsi: As these cabbage rolls are bursting with rice, may their minds be filled with inspiration.

  Varenyky: May they always be grounded, their bellies filled with good food and good sense.

  Beans: May t
hey also soar, with active imaginations and open minds.

  Cabbage: When times are sour, may they turn to one another for comfort.

  Beets with mushrooms: May they find a balance of desire and stability.

  Fruit compote: May they not wait until the end of their lives to find the sweetness of joy.

  Makivnyk: Cake swirled with poppies and sweetened with honey, like life’s spiral of joy and sadness. At the end of their days, may they have the courage to face their ghosts and dreams, their successes and disappointments.

  I thought to myself, when I am gone, who will continue the traditions? Katya? She has no children of her own. Zirka has decided that Ukrainian foods are too high in calories, so she prepares bland versions of some dishes and completely avoids others. Maybe Ivanka. And Lesya, what will Lesya do with her German husband? Will they incorporate his traditions with hers?

  Eager to rest my feet, I sat down at the table to fashion the didukh, which I tied with a pretty blue and yellow embroidered ribbon. It had always been Pavlo’s job to make the didukh, and the year before we did not have one.

  I went outside to walk clockwise around the house three times before coming back in and placing the didukh in the eastern corner of the dining room, beside the icons, on top of an embroidered cloth. Then I arranged the leftover wheat stalks in a vase and carefully placed hay under the dining room table, hiding nuts, candy, and coins inside the hay for the children to find after the meal.

  While I was arranging the treats under the table, Katya arrived at the back door. I heard her unloading things on the kitchen table.

  "Are you here, Ma?" she asked.

  "Under the table. Did you buy the kolach?"

  "Of course."

  "Would you spread out the tablecloths and put the kolach on the table? Place a white candle in the center,"

  "You forget I’ve been doing this my whole life," she said, bending down to show me the loaf of braided bread with a candle already in its center. "And you should have waited for me to do the hay. You don’t need to be bending down under tables."

  "I’m not so old, Katya."

  I walked back to the kitchen and handed her four cloves of garlic to place under the four corners of the tablecloth, to ward off any evil spirits. Together we set out all the candles I had around the house, leaving one in the window to welcome travelers. We warmed the food on the stove and changed our clothes. Then I opened a window to cool off the kitchen, and we sat down to have some tea as we waited for the family to arrive.

  "Katya, I invited Andriy Polotsky to come to Sviata Vecheria. He has no one else, and I thought it would be nice for him to spend the evening with us—"

  "I think that’s great," she said with a smile. "I’m glad that you’ve reconnected."

  "He’s just my friend."

  "Don’t be defensive. Whatever he turns out to be, it’s okay." Katya reached for my hand and squeezed it. "I just want you to be happy."

  "Thank you, Katya. I want you to be happy, too. I worry about you. I don’t want you to be all alone."

  "I’m not alone, Ma. One can never be alone with a family like ours."

  "You know that’s not what I meant," I said, but I let it drop. I didn’t want her to be sad.

  "Robin is really sorry that she can’t make it," Katya said after a moment. "But she thanks you for the invitation,"

  "Is everything all right?" I asked her.

  "She had to be with a friend at the hospital," Katya said.

  "I’m sorry," I said. "I really like her. I hope her friend is okay. Maybe she can come next year. It’s nice that she has such an interest in our traditions."

  Mark and Christina and their girls came through the open door, and the calm was broken. My youngest granddaughters each gave me a kiss and then ran to the living room to peek at the presents under the tree.

  "How are you, my beautiful mother?" asked Mark, hugging me from behind.

  I turned around and looked at my son. He looked so much like his father. Christina walked over to me, holding a torte.

  "Mama, just a little something for dessert."

  "Christina." I shook my head. "Next time, just bring yourself. We already have too much food." But she looked offended, so I added, "Put it in the icebox, and we’ll have it for dessert. It looks delicious."

  She smiled and headed toward the icebox. So much for my diet.

  Ivanka and Roman came in from the front, and directly behind them were Zirka, Pete, and the twins. After getting a kiss from each of them, I snuck the twins over to the pantry and gave them each ten dollars, for ice cream. They rushed out to join the men in the living room watching television.

  "Let the party begin; I’m here," announced Taras with arms full of presents. Anna came over, hugged me, and then immediately started stirring the borshch on the stove. I cautioned her not to add any salt when I wasn’t looking. Tanya came in carrying a wreath and went to hang it on the front door.

  Taras followed her into the living room to set the presents beside the tree. This year’s theme was an all-natural tree, complete with berries, acorns, and popcorn garlands. Khvostyk loved lying underneath when I had the white Christmas lights turned on.

  "Mama, you’re looking beautiful today. Is that a new apron?" Taras asked when he got back into the kitchen. He poured himself some coffee.

  "Taras, it’s the same apron I’ve been wearing every year since you were married."

  "A new haircut then?" he asked.

  "Is my brother kissing up to you again, Mama?" asked Mark, coming into the kitchen.

  "It’s not kissing up, it’s called complimenting. You should take some lessons."

  "Is that your secret to success, Taras? Brown-nosing?"

  The two men hugged and patted each other on the back. Then they went off to the dining room to tease the twins. Each was a godfather to one of the boys, and they had decided that this allowed them the special privilege of relentless teasing. It was also another source of competition, as each of my sons claimed the superiority of his godson.

  "Is Lesya here yet?" asked Anna.

  Katya hugged her sister-in-law and said, "She mentioned something about stopping by Natalie and Jerry’s to see if they needed any help with the baby."

  As if on cue the doorbell rang, and I rushed into the living room to answer the door. The room smelled like pine and mulberry from all the candles.

  First Natalie came in carrying my great-grandson.

  "Hi Baba," she said, kissing my cheek. As she handed little Pavlyk to me, I noticed that she had a little belly. She caught my eye and nodded, smiling.

  "Another one?" I asked, handing the little one to his grandfather.

  "Another what?" asked Taras loudly.

  "Another baby, Tato," said Natalie quietly. Of course everyone heard her, and she was ushered into the house with good wishes and blessings.

  Jerry walked up to the door and shook off his boots, "Hi, Baba."

  "Congratulations, Jerry." I said, and he smiled, his arms full of baby supplies and presents.

  Lesya stood behind him and behind her was a tall silhouette.

  "Hi, Baba," she said, pulling off her mittens, "You remember Luke."

  Luke stepped into the hallway and handed me a bottle of wine.

  I paused, then smiled as he greeted me. "It’s nice to see you again," he said. "Merry Christmas. Thank you for inviting me."

  I went back to the front door and peered into the darkness. I wasn’t sure when Andriy would arrive, but I hoped he wouldn’t be late. Looking for Mark’s daughters, I spied them on the couch and walked over. As the youngest, they had an important responsibility.

  "Girls, you must look out the window and watch for the first star. Only when you spot the first star in the sky can we begin to eat. This is important. As soon as you see it, you have to let us all know. Do you understand?"

  The girls nodded seriously and ran over to the window in the living room. I walked back to the kitchen and asked Tanya to set the table.
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br />   "Baba, maybe next year I’ll have a boyfriend here too," she said, carrying plates. "I’m not much younger than Lesya, and I’ve been writing to Borys in Ukraine for almost seven years now. Hey, maybe next year he can come here for Sviata?"

  "If he comes to America, Tanya, then he’ll be welcome," I said and put my arm around her. "Now get to work, and don’t forget to set an extra plate for the ancestors."

  The doorbell rang and I caught the puzzled glances from some of the kids. As far as they knew, everyone had arrived.

  "Is that the carolers already?" asked Mark.

  "No, we have a special guest coming." Katya answered. "Mama reconnected with an old friend from home—the famous playwright Andriy Polotsk— and she’s invited him to dinner. Let’s be on our best behavior, everyone."

  "Then we won’t be ourselves." Mark said playfully.

  "Maybe he’s looking for inspiration for a new play?" asked Christina fixing her hair. "Or maybe he’s on the lookout for new talent?"

  "No, no, no," I said, shaking my head. "He’s just my friend from a long time ago. He had nowhere else to spend the holiday, so I invited him to join us."

  "Just be yourselves," I said as I walked toward the front door, trying to appear calm.

  Andriy looked handsome in his coat and suit, and he was carrying a big bouquet of poppies, wheat, and blue cornflowers.

  "You look lovely," he said, kissing both my cheeks.

  When he entered the house, there was silence as everyone stood around watching us.

  "This isn’t the noisy crowd you described, Nadya," he said playfully.

  He turned to everyone, "Khrystos Razhdaietsia!"

  To his traditional Ukrainian Christmas greeting of "Christ is born," everyone responded in unison, "Slavite Yoho!" Let us praise Him.

  I took his coat and set it on the bed with the other coats. When I came back to the living room, someone had handed Andriy a cocktail, and he was chatting with Christina and Anna. They were positively glowing in his company. I watched him for a moment, admiring again how charming he was.