Stolen Girl

by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch

  That first night, people came to our house with gifts. There was all sorts of food—good rye bread and holubtsi and sausage. Marusia was given jars of pickled beets, strawberry jam, and honey, as well as eggs and a sack of flour. Someone brought a bolt of light-blue cloth and Ivan was given a bottle of vodka. The priest gave me a prayer book, and an English lady with a mole on her cheek gave me a package of crayons. Just as most people were leaving, a couple arrived with an angry-looking dark-haired boy in tow.

  “This is Mychailo,” the woman said to me, pushing the boy forward. “He’s a student at Central School.”

  His parents went into the house, leaving Mychailo with me in our yard.

  “What’s Central School?” I asked him.

  “You’ll be going there in September,” he said. “You’ll hate it.”

  “Why?”

  “They’ll make fun of you because you’re not Canadian.”

  “Do they make fun of you?” I asked.

  “Not anymore,” he said, balling his hands into fists. “I beat them up if they do.”

  It didn’t seem like something that would work for me. Maybe Mychailo would beat people up for me if we became friends?

  After everyone left, Ivan said, “I have another surprise for you.” He took my hand and walked me to the bushes that acted as a fence between our yard and our neighbor’s. “Did you notice what these are?” he asked.

  There were no flowers—the bushes looked like they had just been planted—but I recognized the shape of the leaves. “Lilacs!” I said.

  “I planted them for you,” he said. “They’ll bloom next spring and you’ll wake up every morning to their scent.”

  I was so overcome that I could barely croak out a thank you.

  “This is your home, Nadia,” he said, giving my hand a squeeze. “We want you to be happy here.”

  We dragged out the mattresses and slept in the backyard under the stars. The cool breeze soothed me and I loved being out in the open. The sound of chirping in the night startled me at first, but Ivan explained that it was the frogs singing, even finding a small one to show me. We had frogs back home but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen one. A frog’s song is so very different from the sounds of land mines, artillery fire, bombs. How many nights had I tried to sleep despite all those sounds, all through the war years? And the years in the camp, even without the din of war, we had lived so crowded in with other DPs that all I could hear were snores and grunts and sobs.

  As I lay there, looking up at the stars and listening to the frogs, I began to relax—just a little. Maybe everything would be fine. I took deep breaths of the cool evening air and closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. Marusia tossed and turned a little bit. She faced me and began to sing the lullaby I had known all my life.

  Kolyson’ko, kolyson’ko

  Kolyshy nam dytynon’ku

  A shchob spalo, ne plakalo

  A shchob roslo, ne bolilo

  Ni holovka, ni vse tilo

  I could feel the fear leave my body as I listened to the words. I was lulled by the coziness of the mattress and the bedding and being beside the two people who so far had kept me safe.

  I fell asleep feeling loved and secure.

  I am surrounded by the people whom I love most, snuggled together under a down comforter in a cozy bedroom. Suddenly, there is a banging at the door. I try to wake the people beside me but they have melted away. I am alone. My heart pounds. The door bursts open, but I cannot see who it is.

  I woke with my arms flailing, shouting, “Leave me alone!” Strong hands pulled me to a sitting position. I opened my eyes. I was in Brantford, in my own backyard. Marusia sat beside me. I was safe. But even in the darkness I could see the worry on her brow. Ivan was there too, kneeling at my other side.

  “Were you having a nightmare?” Marusia asked.

  It had seemed so real, but yes, it must have been a nightmare. I nodded.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  Marusia snuggled up close to me on the mattress and whispered the lullaby into my ear in a low, sweet voice. The words soothed me a little bit and I could feel my heart settle down.

  I wanted to sleep but I didn’t want to dream again. Once my breathing slowed, it was easy to convince Marusia that I was all right. She and Ivan needed their sleep.

  Marusia settled back on her mattress. I stayed awake, listening to the frogs and the rhythm of Ivan’s snores. When I knew that Marusia was also deep in sleep, I sat back up and breathed in some cool night air to try to clear my thoughts. Why did I have that dream? Who was pounding at the door?

  I clasped my arms around my knees and rocked back and forth, soothing myself like someone had once soothed me. I chanted the lullaby under my breath. The words made me feel safe and loved. I reached back into my memory to the last time I had felt completely safe. I remembered a time before the camp. I had a bedroom all to myself then, a room with high ceilings and big windows. I had plenty to eat and good clothing to wear.

  But had I felt safe? No. Who could feel safe in the middle of a war?

  After that nightmare, I tried to stay awake, but exhaustion must have won out, because somehow I slept. When I woke the next morning, I was damp with dew and my neck ached, but I was grateful to be outside and surrounded by clean, fresh air. I sat up and stretched and looked over at the other mattress. Marusia was asleep, but Ivan was not there.

  Then Marusia opened her eyes and answered my unspoken question. “He’s gone to work. And I need to find a job too.”

  “What will I do?”

  “School doesn’t start for two months,” she replied. “The lady who brought you crayons has offered to help you with your English.”

  Since there wasn’t a kitchen table, we balanced our breakfast plates of fried eggs, jam, and rye bread on our knees while sitting on the cinder-block steps. We washed with hot water in the bathroom and Marusia combed the tangles out of my hair and rewove it into two tight braids. Then she walked me two doors down the street to the house with the swing in the back. She knocked and we waited.

  The door opened. “Good morning, Nadia,” said the woman in slow and careful English. “My name is Miss MacIntosh.”

  “Good morning, Miss MacIntosh,” I replied, speaking as carefully as I could in English.

  The woman turned to Marusia and, in surprisingly good Ukrainian, said, “Hello, Marusia, I hope you had a good first night in your new home.”

  While the two chatted at the doorstep, I craned my neck to peek inside, but the curtains were drawn and the room was in shadow. A faint scent of lemons and something else wafted out the door.

  Marusia mentioned that she would be looking for a job.

  “What did you do in Europe?” asked Miss MacIntosh.

  Marusia looked flustered. “You mean during the war?”

  “Before that,” said Miss MacIntosh.

  “I was studying to be a pharmacist,” said Marusia. “But I will take any kind of job here.”

  “It will be difficult for you,” said Miss MacIntosh in Ukrainian. “Nadia will be fine with me all day.”

  What? I knew that Marusia would be looking for a job and that I was supposed to learn more English with this woman. But all day? I tugged Marusia’s hand and looked at her pleadingly.

  “Nadia,” said Marusia, “Ivan says that Miss MacIntosh has taught English to several children. You will be fine.” And then, with a determination that shocked me, she pulled her hand from mine and stepped away. “Trust me, Nadia,” she said. Then she left.

  If I had been younger, I might have run after her, but I did not want to make a scene. I took a deep breath and swallowed my tears away. I had lived through the war. I could suffer a day with Miss MacIntosh.

  Once my eyes had adjusted to the dimness of her living room, I could see that her floor was wooden like ours, but it was mostly covered with a colorfully braided rag rug. The bits of floor that showed at the edges of the room had
been varnished and waxed until they gleamed. Her living room was as tiny as ours, but I was amazed at how much furniture she had in it. Beside the door that led to the kitchen was a tall bookcase stuffed with books. Against the other wall was a fireplace with a photo-covered mantel. In the center was a silver-framed photograph of a sad-looking man in uniform.

  “Come and sit here,” said Miss MacIntosh, placing her hand gently on my shoulder and leading me to the overstuffed sofa.

  I perched on the edge and Miss MacIntosh drew a book from her shelf and sat down beside me. The book cover was a painting of a girl with blond braids just like mine.

  “This is The Picture Dictionary for Children,” she said, pointing at each word on the cover as she sounded it out.

  I love books more than anything. At the camp there were sometimes books in the CARE packages, but not often ones for children. I longed to touch this book, to hold it up to my face and smell it, but instead I sat still on the sofa beside Miss MacIntosh. She opened the book to a marked page. A drawing of a yabluko.

  “Apple,” said Miss MacIntosh, pointing to each letter as she sounded it out.

  “Apple,” I said.

  She flipped to another marked page. A drawing of a big aftomobile. “Automobile,” she said, grinning. Almost the same word in English and Ukrainian!

  We practiced half a dozen words, and then she flipped back to apple again and we reviewed them all. We did a few more new ones, and she started back at the beginning again for another review. I knew I wasn’t really learning to speak English, I was just learning the English labels for things, but it was fun doing it with the pictures.

  When Miss MacIntosh thought I had learned those first words well enough, we went on to the next six, and the next six after that. I have no idea how long we sat there, but it was likely hours because my bottom was getting numb.

  I flipped ahead and was startled by the image of a ferocious-looking pes. I took a deep breath, then pointed at the letters underneath the picture. “Dog,” I said.

  “Very good,” said Miss MacIntosh, but I think she could tell that the picture had scared me.

  “Time for a break,” she said as she stood up from the sofa. In Ukrainian, she asked, “Would you like something to eat?”

  “Yes, please!” I answered in my best English, getting up from the sofa and stretching. I had no idea how long we had been sitting there. Time had seemed to flash by.

  As Miss MacIntosh busied herself in the kitchen, I picked up the silver-framed photograph on the mantel. The uniformed man looked young. His uniform was dark and he wore a cap perched at an angle over his right eye …

  Another mantel … another uniform. This one also dark …

  An image flitted just beyond my grasp as I put the photo back in its place and turned to the bookcase. Miss MacIntosh’s books had colorful spines and the titles were all in English. I longed to pull one out to look at it but didn’t want to do that without permission, so I stepped just inside the kitchen and watched her.

  “You can sit there,” she said, pointing to one of her kitchen chairs.

  She set two glasses of milk on the table, two empty soup bowls, and two empty plates. She opened the cupboard and took out a red-and-white can and opened it. She slid the jiggly contents into a saucepan and added a can of water.

  Miss MacIntosh didn’t have an icebox like we did, but a refrigerator. As she opened it and took out an orange block of something, a bit of the cooled air escaped and enveloped my face.

  Miss MacIntosh sliced some pieces off the orange block and arranged the squares on slices of—Wonder Bread! I thought I had seen the last of Wonder Bread, but it was not to be.

  “Please, what is that?” I asked in English, pointing to the block of orange.

  “Velveeta,” answered Miss MacIntosh.

  “Velveeta,” I repeated, letting the unusual word roll out on my tongue.

  “It is a kind of cheese,” said Miss MacIntosh in Ukrainian.

  “Oh!”

  She set slices of Wonder Bread onto a cookie sheet, with the pieces of Velveeta on top, then slid the sheet into the oven. Steam rose from the soup. “It is ready,” she said.

  She pulled out the cookie sheet and brought it over to the table, then slid an open-faced cheese sandwich onto each of our plates. I watched my bowl fill with red as she ladled out soup for each of us.

  This soup was like nothing I had ever seen. Soup was a staple in the camp. Usually it was mostly water with some cabbage and potato, but every once in a while there would be a bit of meat. This soup was thick like gravy. I took a small spoonful and placed it on my tongue. A tangy sweet tomato taste. Not bad, but not really soup either.

  I smiled at Miss MacIntosh. “Good!” I said.

  She nodded in approval.

  The sandwich was another matter. I had never seen cheese quite that color before and the fact that it was on Wonder Bread didn’t help. I picked up the sandwich with my fingertips and took a small bite. The bread was toasty from the oven and the cheese had a pleasant, gooey texture. Miss MacIntosh was watching me expectantly. I swallowed down the bite, grateful—as always—for any food …

  Marusia and I are sprawled on an open flatcar in the blackest part of the night. Other escapees too, all holding on as the train chugs along at an alarming speed. It slows to a stop. I sit up and watch in horror as Marusia jumps off and runs into a farmer’s field. She is scrabbling in the dry earth, digging with her bare hands. I hear her hoot for joy. She runs back and jumps onto the flatcar. “Potatoes,” she says. “Two of them!”

  One of the other fugitives brings a pot out of a tattered bag and someone makes a small fire from gathered twigs in the middle of the flatcar. Another man who has run into the field comes back with his hat filled with muddy water. He dumps it into the pot. Marusia adds her potatoes.

  The steam of the cooking potatoes makes my stomach grumble. I have had nothing to eat for days.

  This is the first time the train has stopped since we’ve taken refuge on the flatcar. The potatoes are barely cooked through but we cannot wait. We have no idea how long the train will remain still and we’re afraid the smell of fire will bring soldiers.

  One man has a spoon tucked away in his frayed coat. He takes it out reverently and dips it into our soup and gives me—the only child—the first spoonful. It is the best soup I have ever tasted. The spoon is passed around like a sacrament. Within minutes, every drop is consumed. The train starts moving just as we’re finishing …

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and was startled back into the present. Miss MacIntosh looked at me with concern.

  Tears welled up in my eyes. I rubbed them from my face with the back of my hand and avoided Miss MacIntosh’s stare. These random images made me confused and angry with myself.

  Miss MacIntosh finished her own soup and sandwich, and then I stacked the dirty dishes and cutlery and began to carry them to the sink.

  “You don’t have to do that,” said Miss MacIntosh, taking the dishes from my hands.

  “But I would like to help you,” I said, knowing that Marusia would expect nothing less. And the busywork helped me shake away the memory. I stood beside Miss MacIntosh as she filled the sink with hot sudsy water.

  “Okay,” she said, handing me a dish towel. “You can dry.”

  I took each plate as she placed it on the rack and dried it carefully, admiring the delicate pattern of matching pink roses as I placed them in her cupboard. The pieces were smooth and light to the touch. Not at all like the mismatched cups and plates that Ivan had found for us.

  Miss MacIntosh drained the water from the sink and wiped the counter dry. “There,” she said. “All done. I think it’s time for a treat.” She set out some small brown cookies on a plate. “Gingersnaps,” she said, motioning me to sit back down at the table.

  “Gingersnaps,” I repeated. It was a nice word but didn’t exactly roll off the tongue.

  They looked like medvinyky—honey cookies. I picked one up and sniffed
it. They did not smell like honey. They smelled of that other scent that I had noticed when I first arrived at Miss MacIntosh’s house. I took a tiny bite. The cookie was crispy like a honey cookie, but its taste was like biting into a memory …

  The blond woman has her servant make cookies with a sweet yet peppery taste. And they are shaped like men. Gingerbread men. I bite off the head and swallow it down, and then an arm and a leg. I stare at the half-eaten cookie and feel ill. “Eat,” the blond woman says.

  The gingersnap was a dry lump in the back of my throat. I looked up. Miss MacIntosh was watching me intently again. I tried to swallow but nearly choked. I gulped down some milk and the cookie slid down my throat.

  “Good,” I said weakly. Miss MacIntosh smiled.

  There was a tap-tapping at the kitchen door. Had Marusia given up on her job search and come to get me?

  Miss MacIntosh opened the door. It wasn’t Marusia. It was that boy from last night—Mychailo.

  He looked from Miss MacIntosh to me. He frowned.

  “You can come in,” said Miss MacIntosh. “I have cookies.”

  Mychailo stepped in, then plopped himself down in one of the spare kitchen chairs. “Is she teaching you English already?” he asked me in Ukrainian.

  “Ask her in English, Mychailo,” said Miss MacIntosh.

  Mychailo rolled his eyes and reached for a cookie. He popped it whole into his mouth and hardly chewed at all before swallowing. He looked at me and said in painfully slow and loud English, “Are you learning to speak English, Nadia?”

  “Tak.”

  Miss MacIntosh gave me a look.

  “Yes,” I said. “I am learning to speak English.”

  Miss MacIntosh nodded with approval. “When you’ve finished your snack, you two can play in the backyard for a bit if you like.”

  I didn’t know whether I wanted to play with Mychailo. What I longed to do was to go back into Miss MacIntosh’s living room and look at her books.