Godfather’s fist pounded the top of the sewing-machine cabinet.
“I am her Godfather. By the Lord’s holy name, I promised to stand in her father’s stead if it were required. The one who takes the Child takes the machine. Otherwise, no one shall take a thing from Philip’s home — over my dead body.”
The Uncles stood in silence while the new aunts exchanged vicious looks.
“I said I would take her,” Auntie Xena said again. “You have the least to offer,” Godfather said.
“I have God’s word. The Child will survive. I swear on my sister’s name and on her Bible.” She picked up my mother’s Bible which was on top of the smallest pile of household goods and hugged it to her breast. Her shoulders shook and the tears ran unchecked down her cheeks.
“Lena, Liza, speak now or forever shut those caverns of yours.
The aunts were silent.
“All of the food stuffs and linen shall go with Philipovna,” my Godfather said. “Xena and her brood will surely need them.”
On that day, I had a new name. Everyone continued to call me “Philipovna” because my Auntie’s daughter was also named Vera. In time, she became “Xenkovna” especially after Uncle Misha died. There was a lot more arguing and discussion but, in the end, Godfather held his own. I was packed into Uncle Misha’s wagon with my sewing machine and taken to Auntie Xena’s home in Zyladyn.
Christmas in Zyladyn
ZYLADYN WAS MUCH like the village of my birth, like most small villages in the Ukrainian countryside. It was on a tributary of the Dnipro River. The church, store and government buildings were built around the central square and the peasant homes encircled that. The more prominent families also built their larger houses close to the square. Beyond the houses the black soil lay exposed and rolled away for kilometres till it met the blue sky. After the cold winds and white frosts of winter these fields would be planted with grain and turn into oceans of green which would mature into the golden abundance of wheat for which our land is famous. One could have lived forever with a glass of vodka in his hand and a belly full of bread and potatoes the way our ancestors did for thousands of years before us.
Auntie’s house was on the edge of the village, not near the central square. It had a dirt floor which was always swept clean and its roof was thatched because, although Uncle Misha had some land, he was not one of the richest farmers in the village. The rich farmers had tin roofs on their houses and boards of wood on their floors.
My aunt and Uncle lived in a bigger house than the one my parents had, though it was just as sparsely furnished. It was square. On the east side was the room in which all our living was done. An icon, adorned by a red-and-black embroidered rushnyk, hung on the wall. The other side was divided into two smaller rooms. Auntie Xena put my sewing machine into one of them. Whenever no one was looking, I would go and take off the white cloth that covered it. I’d sit and spin the wheel or push the treadle and watch the needle go up and down. I wondered if Mama could sew as fast as the wheel could turn. Auntie Xena would find me and gently coax me back to the family or conveniently find a task for me to do; but when I returned, the machine was always neatly covered again.
“When you are old enough, we will both learn to use it,” she said.
The wall with the fireplace in it divided the house in half. In Ukrainian homes, the fireplace is the heart of the home. Uncle Misha built the platform of his with enough room for a couple of little children or an old person to curl up on should they need warmth or comfort. The stronger members of the family slept on benches along the wall. There were three of them who were younger than me. Maria and Marta were the baby twins and Viktor was a rosycheeked little boy whose eyes shone with mischief from the moment I first saw him. I wondered if my dead sibling would have looked like the twins or Cousin Viktor. I hoped he or she would have been like Viktor, as I really wanted a brother. There were also two older boy cousins, but they were mostly occupied by the endless chores that were required to keep a small farm going. Their names were Alexander and Michael.
Auntie Xena put my parents’ feather bed and pillows on the sleeping bench where my cousin, Vera Xenkovna, slept. She was six years older than me and had the same hazel eyes as her mother.
“Your Mama and Tahto watch you from Heaven and will help you to stay on the right track if you will say your prayers and open your heart to them,” Auntie said.
“We can sleep together like real sisters,” Xenkovna said. “And you’ll be less frightened at night.” As she stroked my heavy brown braid, I wondered how she knew that I cried myself to sleep most of the time.
We rose to the smell of bread that each morning Auntie pulled out of the oven in the fireplace with her wooden shovel. My mouth waters even now when I remember waiting for my portion as Xenkovna lathered it with the butter we churned. It was pleasant drinking tea with my Uncle and cousins, playing in the square and memorizing Bible verses and prayers by the fire at night. Of course, we also had to know the patriotic poems of our national hero, Taras Shevchenko. Sometimes, Uncle Misha played his guitar and sang for us. I liked the stories of Did Moroz — you know him as Jack Frost and how he came around at night to paint beautiful pictures of frost on our windows.
As the autumn of 1930 descended into winter, I settled into my new family. The dark nights and frost brought the promises of St. Nicholas Day and Christmas celebrations. Auntie taught us about St. Nicholas and how he gave his gold to those who were poor and really needed help.
“We should pay attention and use him as an example for our own generosity,” she said.
Uncle Misha supervised my lessons in the First Form Lexicon. The lexicon was a book with stories in it that were followed by quizzes to see how well the student learned the words and ideas they expressed.
“Make sure you write neatly,” Uncle Misha said as he watched me practice writing my letters on the slate. “If you aren’t going to write neatly, how will anyone be able to read it?” I was to start school after Christmas. No niece of Uncle Misha’s would be ridiculed for not knowing how to read, write and recite the complete lexicon before she started school. Even the poorest in our village were fiercely proud of their intellectual achievements if they could find a way to be taught.
Auntie Xena also found chores for me. I learned to milk the cow and carry water, a job that seemed never-ending with so many people to clean and cook for. I swept the floor and arranged the bedding each morning. As I was sweeping the doorstep one day, a gangly boy with ragged clothes and wild curls appeared from behind the woodpile.
“Are you the orphan?“ he asked abruptly.
“I—I don’t know. My name is Vera but they call me Philipovna now.” I didn’t want to admit that I didn’t know what an orphan was.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You look about the same as anyone else.”
He picked up an armful of wood from Uncle Misha’s pile.
“That’s Uncle’s wood.”
“I guess they haven’t told you about the ‘Unravelled One’. I’m her son. Your Uncle says I can take as much wood as we need. Ask him, if you don’t believe me.”
“The ‘Unravelled One’? Sounds more like a skein of wool than a person.”
“That’s how my Mama is,” he said with a scowl.
How could anyone look so angry at the mention of his mother, I wondered as I continued sweeping the doorstep. I knew if my Mama were alive, there would be nothing but smiles if I should have talked about her.
“I’m as much your cousin as most of the rest of the village is.” He half-sneered down at me and turned to go on his way.
“Wait,” I said, my curiosity unexpectedly giving me the words to speak. “I don’t really know anyone in the village.”
“If you want to find out the really fun stuff, come mushroom picking with me when you’re finished sweeping. I’m sure Auntie Xena won’t mind.”
“I don’t know how to pick mushrooms.” I blushed.
His grey-blue eyes wid
ened in disbelief.
“Then you’ll have to learn. We’ll pick enough for everyone. Which is it, Vera or Philipovna?”
“Philipovna, I guess.”
“My name’s Dmytro, but you can call me Mitya,” he said. “Auntie helps me and my Mama whenever I can’t figure things out for us.”
We walked out of the village, past Uncle Misha’s field and, with our footsteps crackling on the fallen leaves, we entered an orchard.
“This is Uncle Paulo’s cherry orchard,” Mitya said. “You’ll love the cherries next spring. We can climb up into the trees and eat as many as we like. Uncle Paulo doesn’t mind.”
I didn’t have the nerve to tell him that I had never climbed a tree. “There are no mushrooms here,” he said. “We have to go into the woods.”
“But aren’t there Baba Yagas and goblins in the woods?”
“You mean I’m going mushroom picking with a baby?” The sneer from the woodpile was back on his face.
“I’m not scared,” I said, resisting a strong temptation to run back to the warmth and safety of Auntie’s kitchen. “I’m just wondering if there are any around here.”
“That stuff is for babies,” he said. “If you want to know about the good stuff, forget about those stupid stories. I can show you where mushrooms are. And rabbits. In the springtime, I can even find some crayfish and nightingale nests. We can build a little fire and cook the crayfish, right by the river.”
“What about bears or wolves?”
“Are you picking mushrooms or should you be going back home and hang onto Auntie’s apron strings?”
I didn’t say any more. We walked through the woods of silver birch, pine and willows that grew close to the river, our steps crunching through the pungent masses of rustling leaves. I breathed in the tangy scent of the pines and the dusty aroma of the drying vegetation. The touch of the crisp air coloured Mitya’s cheeks and the late autumn sun cast the last of its warm rays onto our backs. He showed me how to find the mushrooms under trees and in the sheltered places by the river. He knew which were good to eat and which were poisonous.
“It’s a good thing we came out here today,” he said. “These mushrooms are going to be the last of the season. It’s getting too cold for them.”
We filled our bucket in no time. When we returned to Uncle’s woodpile, the shadows of the afternoon were long and blue in the approaching twilight. It was almost time to milk the cow.
“I can show you some other stuff whenever you want,” he said.
I smiled. From that day, I had my first friend. He didn’t like Children any more than I did, so before very long, we had our own friendship with our own secrets and special places. I found myself hurrying to finish my work for the day, so we could wander in the woods or skate on the river after it froze. If Mitya was late I was impatient and if he didn’t come I felt lonely. Is this what having a real brother was like?
In the final few weeks of the year, strange men appeared in our village. Some were dressed in military garb and stirred up much excitement when they came through the square. Others were fashionably dressed men with pale faces and polished shoes who tried not to get them messed up in the snow. They looked out of place amongst the villagers in their heavy, homemade clothing and felt boots. Mitya loved to swagger like them stepping deeper and deeper into the snow until he would feign losing his balance and fall down on his face and start swearing in Russian. I would laugh and laugh till Auntie Xena heard us in the yard one day and put an end to it.
“You must not show such disrespect,” she said. “You don’t know what you’re playing at and you never know when the Comrades will show up. Can’t you play a game of Baba Kutsya, like good Children?”
“That’s for babies,” Mitya said. “I’m almost a man.”
When the Comrades did come to our village, Uncle Misha said that they came to look at how many animals we had and how much grain we grew. He wasn’t concerned, as the grain quota had already been collected by the bread procurement committee and the army. One day, one of these men stopped at Uncle Misha’s barn and inspected his fields.
“Camarad,” Uncle Misha said mockingly over tea in the early evening after Comrade Zabluda had gone away. “He can’t even speak in our language. How can he call me ‘Comrade’?” Uncle lingered on each syllable. “What is the Party thinking anyway—sending out these city know-it-alls to tell us how to farm? You know he called the new colt a calf. When I tell the fellows at the square, they’ll laugh him out of the village. It’s hard to imagine that they made him a twenty-five Thousander, isn’t it?”
“Be careful who you tell,” Auntie said.
“Woman, you don’t need to worry. The Party can’t be serious about the artil. If they were, they’d send someone out who knew what he was doing. They tried it in the war and you see the state farms that are left. They’ve learned that communes are not the proper places for any self-respecting farmer. If I have to, I’ll defend this piece of land the way my father did.”
“And you may have to pay for it the way he did if you tell the wrong person.” She sighed and crossed herself.
I stared at my Uncle. I had heard stories of how, during the war which ended three years before I was born, his father wouldn’t surrender his land or livestock, how he was tortured and finally died in prison and how his mother went to beg for his body so that he could have a proper Orthodox burial. But this was the first time Uncle had ever referred to them himself.
“The Party isn’t so stupid that they would try the collectives after what went on here in the war. Simon and Paulo don’t intend to give their land away either. Simon says that he will try to reason with them but Paulo thinks he can stick it out on his own.”
“That’s what those choleras say now,” Auntie said. “But you never know who will bend or even break under pressure.” Uncle Misha was about to speak but Auntie cut him off.
“Enough!” she said, and with her soft, hazel eyes shushed Uncle because she could see that I was shivering.
I didn’t have the courage to ask them about the revolver that I had seen conspicuously displayed on Comrade’s shoulder holster. I didn’t even know what a shoulder holster was until Mitya explained that it was used for carrying a gun. It was the first weapon I had ever seen because, after the war, the Communists had completely disarmed everyone in the village and there wasn’t a single gun left to shoot a rabbit should one need to find game for his cooking pot.
“What is a Thousander?” I asked.
“Don’t concern yourself with things like Thousanders,” Auntie said. “You are too young for such evil matters.”
This time Uncle shushed her.
“Comrade Zabluda is called a twenty-five Thousander because he is one of the men that supervises twenty-five thousand families for Comrade Stalin,” Uncle Misha explained. “But it’s easier to say ‘Thousander’.”
“And who is Comrade Stalin?”
“He has set himself up as our new tsar and father.” Uncle Misha went on. “But he knows nothing about being a tsar, especially being the tsar of the Ukrainians. The only father we need is God, our Holy Father. Comrade Stalin hasn’t learned that we are an independent sort and will die for it if we’re put to the test. We don’t need any tsar.”
“For the love of God, enough of this!” Auntie exclaimed. “What if they come and make trouble again? You shouldn’t be saying such things to her. Philipovna, are you ready to recite?”
After that evening, Auntie and Uncle often had quiet conversations in the barn or in the corner by the icon. They wondered what the Thousanders like Comrade Zabluda were going to do and warned us to stay out of the path of the men who called themselves the Propagandists. They couldn’t believe that the rumours of the collective farm were really true.
“After all, they’ve been tried and they failed,” Uncle said.
“There might be war again and then how will we survive?” Auntie crossed herself and wiped tears from her eyes.
But the cit
y men kept coming.
“Philipovna, come and see what’s happening in the square,” Mitya shouted one December morning when he passed me as I swept off our doorstep.
I finished and leaned the broom in its place by the door. “What’s the hurry?” Auntie asked.
“There are men in the square,” I said, calling over my shoulder without stopping for fear that she would not let me go.
The square was full of villagers. Comrade Zabluda had taken over our small government building. A team of workmen was unloading some strange-looking machinery.
“What are they doing?” Mitya asked as he pushed his way to the front of the crowd with me in tow. He was two years older than me and, because he was a boy, wasn’t afraid of anything. He would fix those steel blue eyes of his on a person so intently that they just couldn’t help but answer any question he would ask.
“We’re installing telephone lines, now get out of our way.” One of the workers tried to brush him off.
“What’s a telephone?”
“Vasel,” the worker said, grinning at his colleague. “This bumpkin doesn’t know what a telephone is. Imagine, the Comrades are wasting time on such stupid peasants. Putting in a telephone for jokers that don’t even know how to use it. Is this what they mean by progress?”
“If you don’t tell us what it is, how will we know how to use it?” Mitya said, red with embarrassment and anger.
“Let him alone,” Vasel said. He was a kind-looking man with greying hair and heavy moustache. “Come here boy.”
We stepped closer to Vasel as he pulled out a black box with a wire hanging from it.
“You use this machine to talk to people who are far away,” he explained. “It works on wires like the telegraph but you can hear the other person’s voice and they can hear you. See, here’s the part you put to your ear.”
Mitya put the receiver to his ear.
“I don’t hear anyone talking. Here Philipovna, maybe they’ll talk to you.”
The men roared with laughter.
“You stupid boy,” the first worker said. “It isn’t connected to the wires yet.”
Philipovna Page 2