Read Online The Silence of Trees by Valya Dudycz Lupescu - Free Book Online Page B
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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behind him.
Lesya stood against the fridge, tears in her eyes, her arms folded at her chest.
"That’s not fair," she whispered. "It’s not fair. This is America. Those aren’t my grudges. The past is the past."
"Leave us," I said to Anna and Christina. They didn’t move, so I repeated louder, "Leave us."
As they retreated to the front room, I sat down and motioned for Lesya to join me.
"No, Lesya. You listen to me. The past is not the past. Especially not for your Dido and me. You’re a student of history. You know better."
"But Baba, listen. His grandfathers weren’t even soldiers."
"No. You listen. The Germans came to my home. They killed everyone I loved. They destroyed my country. Your country. They destroyed everything. Can you imagine having everything taken away from you? Everything? But not my memory. This I have.
"It is easy for you to keep the past on paper. For us, the past is alive, breathing down our necks. When we see an old woman on the street that looks like our sister. When we hear songs our Mamas used to sing. When we smell tobacco our Tatos smoked. When we taste sausages seasoned with garlic and pepper that are so much like the ones our Babas once made. When we dance the dances of home. When we celebrate the old traditions. The past is there with us.
"It is understood. We don’t have to say anything to each other. We kept ourselves safe with silence. To speak the words is to somehow make it more real. To make it more painfully real."
I tried to stay calm. She was still young; I needed to explain. But she didn’t look me in the eye. She stared at the photographs I had taped next to the calendar: photos of her and her sisters, my other grandchildren, my sons, my daughters.
"Baba, I understand the past is painful, but this is America—"
"I know this is America." I was so close to losing my temper. I took a deep breath, then continued. "I came here so I could raise my children in peace. So I could save our traditions, keep our culture alive. That’s why your father learned Ukrainian. That’s why you speak it. That’s why your mama took you to Ukrainian School on Saturdays, Ukrainian dancing, Ukrainian church. So everything the Germans and Russians tried to destroy would not die. So it would live here, in America. So our traditions, our ancestors, our history would live in you."
I paused to catch my breath. She didn’t look at me, so I continued, "Lesya, I know this is America. Don’t tell me about this country. Why do you think the Ukrainian community is so close, so united? Because we all share the need to keep our traditions alive. Is it so easy for you to turn your back on all this? To throw it all away for a stranger? He is not one of ours. He can’t understand."
I went to the kitchen cabinet and pulled out the cedar box. I sat back down with the box in my lap; my fingers traced the beautiful carvings. "This box was made in America. But the hands that created it are Ukrainian; the style is Ukrainian. These patterns: Ukrainian. The stars for hope, the moon for dreams, the egg for new life. These symbols are very old. Your Dido remembered them and carved them for me. It is a message in wood.
"This box is like you. Like the tree, you were created and grown in foreign soil. But like the wood, you were transformed by the magic of memory. By family, school, church, traditions, you were shaped. Carved inside of you are ancient patterns: songs, stories older than me. They make you something very precious. They are carved into who you are. You cannot erase them. But you choose what to carry."
Lesya didn’t look at the box. "Baba, America is not just a place for Ukrainian culture; it’s a place for many cultures to live together. To learn about each other. To share—"
"Learning . . . learning is okay. You go to school for that. But remember where you came from."
"I am not forgetting, Baba. I was born here."
I didn’t know how I could explain it to her. She was so smart; so good
Lesya stood against the fridge, tears in her eyes, her arms folded at her chest.
"That’s not fair," she whispered. "It’s not fair. This is America. Those aren’t my grudges. The past is the past."
"Leave us," I said to Anna and Christina. They didn’t move, so I repeated louder, "Leave us."
As they retreated to the front room, I sat down and motioned for Lesya to join me.
"No, Lesya. You listen to me. The past is not the past. Especially not for your Dido and me. You’re a student of history. You know better."
"But Baba, listen. His grandfathers weren’t even soldiers."
"No. You listen. The Germans came to my home. They killed everyone I loved. They destroyed my country. Your country. They destroyed everything. Can you imagine having everything taken away from you? Everything? But not my memory. This I have.
"It is easy for you to keep the past on paper. For us, the past is alive, breathing down our necks. When we see an old woman on the street that looks like our sister. When we hear songs our Mamas used to sing. When we smell tobacco our Tatos smoked. When we taste sausages seasoned with garlic and pepper that are so much like the ones our Babas once made. When we dance the dances of home. When we celebrate the old traditions. The past is there with us.
"It is understood. We don’t have to say anything to each other. We kept ourselves safe with silence. To speak the words is to somehow make it more real. To make it more painfully real."
I tried to stay calm. She was still young; I needed to explain. But she didn’t look me in the eye. She stared at the photographs I had taped next to the calendar: photos of her and her sisters, my other grandchildren, my sons, my daughters.
"Baba, I understand the past is painful, but this is America—"
"I know this is America." I was so close to losing my temper. I took a deep breath, then continued. "I came here so I could raise my children in peace. So I could save our traditions, keep our culture alive. That’s why your father learned Ukrainian. That’s why you speak it. That’s why your mama took you to Ukrainian School on Saturdays, Ukrainian dancing, Ukrainian church. So everything the Germans and Russians tried to destroy would not die. So it would live here, in America. So our traditions, our ancestors, our history would live in you."
I paused to catch my breath. She didn’t look at me, so I continued, "Lesya, I know this is America. Don’t tell me about this country. Why do you think the Ukrainian community is so close, so united? Because we all share the need to keep our traditions alive. Is it so easy for you to turn your back on all this? To throw it all away for a stranger? He is not one of ours. He can’t understand."
I went to the kitchen cabinet and pulled out the cedar box. I sat back down with the box in my lap; my fingers traced the beautiful carvings. "This box was made in America. But the hands that created it are Ukrainian; the style is Ukrainian. These patterns: Ukrainian. The stars for hope, the moon for dreams, the egg for new life. These symbols are very old. Your Dido remembered them and carved them for me. It is a message in wood.
"This box is like you. Like the tree, you were created and grown in foreign soil. But like the wood, you were transformed by the magic of memory. By family, school, church, traditions, you were shaped. Carved inside of you are ancient patterns: songs, stories older than me. They make you something very precious. They are carved into who you are. You cannot erase them. But you choose what to carry."
Lesya didn’t look at the box. "Baba, America is not just a place for Ukrainian culture; it’s a place for many cultures to live together. To learn about each other. To share—"
"Learning . . . learning is okay. You go to school for that. But remember where you came from."
"I am not forgetting, Baba. I was born here."
I didn’t know how I could explain it to her. She was so smart; so good
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