Read Online The Silence of Trees by Valya Dudycz Lupescu - Free Book Online
Authors: Valya Dudycz Lupescu
Tags: Literary, Historical fiction, Romance, Historical, Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, European, Family Life, Genre Fiction, Kindle-Edition, Contemporary Fiction, Women's Fiction, Literary Fiction, Cultural Heritage, Domestic Life, The Silence of Trees, Valya Dudycz Lupescu
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If she rolled over, he would sleep on the pillow beside her.
"Now, Lesya, come here and make yourself useful. Chop these onions for me." She came closer and stood beside me at the counter, rolling up her sleeves.
"I really don’t want to talk about this right now, Baba." She chopped the onion in half with a precise whack. "You’ll only get angry with me, and I don’t want to spoil the day. Can’t we talk about something else?"
"All right, all right. Your Tato told me that you have some project at school, some paper you need my help for? What is all this about?" I put the potatoes in a big bowl and started mashing. I tried to catch her eyes, but Lesya kept staring at the cutting board.
"Oh, it’s a paper that I need to write before I can finish my Master’s."
"In literature?" I asked, knowing very well that it’s in history. We’ve had this joke since she was a little girl, when I would ask her about her favorite subject in school.
***
Little Lesya had looked precious in her First Holy Communion dress, white with a little blue embroidery around the edges. She looked so much like Halya, except that Lesya had my thick brown hair.
“Baaaba. Nooooo. I like hiiiis-stooor-reee.” Little Lesya answered in that sing-song voice, stretching out her words.
“Not English?” I asked again, patting down her brown bangs, frizzy from the heat.
“Noooo.” She giggled. “Baaaba. You’re not listening.”
“Why history, Lesya?”
“I like stories that are true.” She giggled. “And my memory is good. History is just remembering, Tato says.”
***
Lesya stopped chopping for a minute and looked up at me with a full grin. "History, Baba. Very funny. You know it’s history."
"Ah, I’m an old lady. My memory is not so good."
She laughed and leaned an elbow against the counter. "You can pull that with Tato and everybody else, but I know that you remember everything. Where do you think I got my amazing memory from?"
"Hmm, I don’t know," I said, unable to resist. "I forgot."
She groaned and went back to her chopping.
"I’m writing about the immigration of our family from Ukraine to Chicago. The factors that brought you here; the problems you encountered: World War II, the DP camps. Why you left Ukraine, how you got to Germany, what it was like for you.
"Well, that’s only part of the paper: the personal narrative section. It’s more than just personal history; it’s also a study of the immigration patterns of Eastern Europeans over the course of the war. But I’m using my family history as a springboard—"
Lesya kept talking, but I stopped listening and began to panic.
I couldn’t possibly talk about it.
I couldn’t tell her how I got to Germany. What if word got back home? But everyone was dead. But the letter? Maybe someone? No; no one was left alive. But still, I couldn’t tell her. Why was the past trying to resurface? What would be next? What other messages? What other messengers?
I glanced at Lesya, who stared at me over the onions.
"Hello? Baba? Where did you go?" she asked, folding her arms. Lesya pressed her thin lips together—just like her father, that same stubborn look. He used to do that when I told him he couldn’t stay up to watch late-night monster movies on the television.
I smiled at Lesya. "Sorry, dear. Mention the past, and you send an old woman into daydreams. The past is heavy for an old lady like me."
"Ah, you’re not old. But what were you thinking about?" she asked.
I looked at her plate. She had finished chopping the onions, and there I stood with half-mashed potatoes.
But I couldn’t tell her.
I put more energy into my mashing, adding salt and pepper.
"How are those onions coming along, Lesya? Would you get me the butter from the icebox?"
She brought me the butter and stood staring at me.
"Why don’t you ever want to talk about the past, Baba?"
"What nonsense are you saying? I talk about the past all the time. I tell you about when your father was a little
"Now, Lesya, come here and make yourself useful. Chop these onions for me." She came closer and stood beside me at the counter, rolling up her sleeves.
"I really don’t want to talk about this right now, Baba." She chopped the onion in half with a precise whack. "You’ll only get angry with me, and I don’t want to spoil the day. Can’t we talk about something else?"
"All right, all right. Your Tato told me that you have some project at school, some paper you need my help for? What is all this about?" I put the potatoes in a big bowl and started mashing. I tried to catch her eyes, but Lesya kept staring at the cutting board.
"Oh, it’s a paper that I need to write before I can finish my Master’s."
"In literature?" I asked, knowing very well that it’s in history. We’ve had this joke since she was a little girl, when I would ask her about her favorite subject in school.
***
Little Lesya had looked precious in her First Holy Communion dress, white with a little blue embroidery around the edges. She looked so much like Halya, except that Lesya had my thick brown hair.
“Baaaba. Nooooo. I like hiiiis-stooor-reee.” Little Lesya answered in that sing-song voice, stretching out her words.
“Not English?” I asked again, patting down her brown bangs, frizzy from the heat.
“Noooo.” She giggled. “Baaaba. You’re not listening.”
“Why history, Lesya?”
“I like stories that are true.” She giggled. “And my memory is good. History is just remembering, Tato says.”
***
Lesya stopped chopping for a minute and looked up at me with a full grin. "History, Baba. Very funny. You know it’s history."
"Ah, I’m an old lady. My memory is not so good."
She laughed and leaned an elbow against the counter. "You can pull that with Tato and everybody else, but I know that you remember everything. Where do you think I got my amazing memory from?"
"Hmm, I don’t know," I said, unable to resist. "I forgot."
She groaned and went back to her chopping.
"I’m writing about the immigration of our family from Ukraine to Chicago. The factors that brought you here; the problems you encountered: World War II, the DP camps. Why you left Ukraine, how you got to Germany, what it was like for you.
"Well, that’s only part of the paper: the personal narrative section. It’s more than just personal history; it’s also a study of the immigration patterns of Eastern Europeans over the course of the war. But I’m using my family history as a springboard—"
Lesya kept talking, but I stopped listening and began to panic.
I couldn’t possibly talk about it.
I couldn’t tell her how I got to Germany. What if word got back home? But everyone was dead. But the letter? Maybe someone? No; no one was left alive. But still, I couldn’t tell her. Why was the past trying to resurface? What would be next? What other messages? What other messengers?
I glanced at Lesya, who stared at me over the onions.
"Hello? Baba? Where did you go?" she asked, folding her arms. Lesya pressed her thin lips together—just like her father, that same stubborn look. He used to do that when I told him he couldn’t stay up to watch late-night monster movies on the television.
I smiled at Lesya. "Sorry, dear. Mention the past, and you send an old woman into daydreams. The past is heavy for an old lady like me."
"Ah, you’re not old. But what were you thinking about?" she asked.
I looked at her plate. She had finished chopping the onions, and there I stood with half-mashed potatoes.
But I couldn’t tell her.
I put more energy into my mashing, adding salt and pepper.
"How are those onions coming along, Lesya? Would you get me the butter from the icebox?"
She brought me the butter and stood staring at me.
"Why don’t you ever want to talk about the past, Baba?"
"What nonsense are you saying? I talk about the past all the time. I tell you about when your father was a little
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