The Silence of Trees by Valya Dudycz Lupescu Page B

words carefully, "Tell me about your history instead of keeping it hidden inside your little wooden boxes."
    I tried to calm myself before I said something I would regret. She was young; she didn’t understand.
    "Lesya, my Mama and Tato, my sisters died in that war at the hands of German soldiers. They burned my entire village because the Russians were coming back. Can you understand that? They were killed in their home in a country that I had to leave forever. I have no cemetery where I can visit with my dead.
    "I tried to honor them by teaching my children and grandchildren about their homeland. Would you disgrace your heritage? Would you throw this all away?" I motioned to my cupboards filled with framed photographs of our family, painted pysanky, Ukrainian books and records. "All I’ve worked for."
    How could I convince this stubborn child? How could I show her, tell her?
    "This is America, Baba. Their memories live in me, but I have to make my own future."
    Oh, she loved to argue with me, this one. Lesya should have been a lawyer.
    "I will teach my children our traditions, our language,"Lesya said. "I don’t need a Ukrainian husband to do that."
    "You say this now. You will see that it is not so easy to do all by yourself." I stood up. "I have to feed Khvostyk."
    I walked into the kitchen and poured him some cat food. Then I turned on the faucet and ran my hands under the warm water, splashing my face. I heard my own baba whisper from my memory: Anger has its place, Nadya. It’s not bad, but it is deadly, like fire. Raging out of control, it can kill and destroy. It is hard to heal a bad burn, sometimes impossible. When fire begins to grow, you can use water to control it. Same thing with anger. Turn to water to soothe you.
    How was she so wise? And she was younger when she died than I was today. When I turned toward the dining room, I heard Katya steer the subject back to pysanky.
    "And once you have everything covered in wax, then you need to dip the egg in the lightest color. In this case, orange. Orange is the color of endurance and strength."
    "All right," Lesya said, still irritated. "I don’t need to know their ‘magical’ meanings. It’s not like you believe it anyhow. It’s interesting and all, but you can save it for your class lectures. We’ve moved beyond those supersti—"
    She stopped when she saw that I had come back into the room. I quietly sat back down in my chair.
    "Ma, why don’t you tell her a little about the war. Help her to understand. It’s not something you usually talk about," Katya said while staring at her egg in the orange dye. Clever woman to put me on the spot.
    "No," I said avoiding both their gazes. "I will not share the history of my life with someone who does not respect me or my so-called superstitions."
    I turned my attention back to my embroidery. Let them talk; I was going to embroider. Katya reached over and pulled out her egg, bright orange from the dye. Lesya placed hers in the jar.
    "Now you take the wax and cover everything that you want to keep orange in whatever pattern you’ve chosen." Katya explained and then began to draw three snakes winding through the quadrants. She looked at me. "The snakes are for protection from disaster." She turned her eyes back to the egg, still talking. "Snakes are an ancient symbol of the Goddess, who was worshipped on our lands for thousands of years. The snakes are a symbol of feminine power."
    Lesya played with the kistka in her hands. "Baba, don’t prejudge him. You spent time in Germany; you know that they’re not all bad people."
    "Lesya, they killed my family. Who knows what else they did to them first? I’ve had fifty years to imagine all kinds of cruelty." I threaded my needle with black thread. "It’s even harder for your Dido. His experiences were more horrible than mine. Talk with him, Lesya. Hear his stories."
    "What about your stories, Ma? I’ve been waiting to hear your stories for most of my life. It’s ironic