The Silence of Trees (24 page)

"Lesya, I’m sorry. You see, it is so easy to get an old woman off the subject."

But to myself I wondered: Had the birds ever returned?

"I do have a point," I said. "I had claimed for myself that ancient linden tree because it was closest to Mama P.’s dorm room, within sight so she and Brother Taras could see that I was obeying the rules. But I wasn’t the only one who liked these trees. After many months at the camp, an American soldier started coming in the little grove to read.

"Everyone called him Sonny, because even at age twenty, he had about him a boyishness, a young face that appealed to the mother in most women and the father in most men. Even Mama P. liked him, and she didn’t like any men, except for her son, the priest Father Petro, and Brother Taras. But there was something kind about Sonny; he put us at ease.

Sonny had adopted the oak with the smoothest trunk. Later, he told me that most of the knotty oaks unnerved him. He said that when he sat next to all those heads, he felt as if someone were trying to read over his shoulder. So on his breaks Sonny would sit beside the smooth oak, and I would watch him from my own chosen tree, just a few feet to the southwest.

"Sonny had a ritual that he would perform each afternoon, as the sun began its journey westward. I would watch him lift his pack onto his lap, carefully pull out three books and spread them on the ground in front of him. It was always the same: Sonny first stroked the cover of the first book, tracing the letters with his fingertips. He lifted the book up to his face and drew in a deep breath as he flipped the pages . . . smelling the breath of old books.

"I knew that smell. I remembered it from the old books that had once filled my teacher Danylo’s shelves back home. I loved those books, and I admired their owner for his scholarly devotion. When we were younger, my sisters always teased me, saying that someday I would marry my teacher. I think he was the first man I cared for after my father, and I adored Danylo with that sweet love of youth. But he was my father’s age and his passions were only for books and music.

"I thought of Danylo often when I saw Sonny; they had a similar nature. Usually Sonny sat as still as his tree, silently tracing the words, his face determined over the pages. But sometimes, after touching the binding, he would pull his fingers back, burned by the leather. Then he’d fling the book away from him, his cheeks flushed, his hands bunched up in fists with which he would pull at his thick black hair and shake his head, as if to ward off some terrible evil.

"After a few minutes, he would look up at the sky still shaking his head, walk over to the book and carefully pick it up. His head heavy, he would sit down and lean back against the trunk, asleep? Praying? I pretended to write while watching him there, wondering what he was thinking about.

"One night, he put his head down on his helmet, buried his hands in his hair and sobs shook his thin, muscled body. The setting sun faded into violet, then black. I wanted to go to him, to comfort him. After weeks of watching him in the silence of the trees, I wanted to say something. I don’t know what compelled me. I was usually content to stay safe inside my own head, trying not to reach out to anyone, afraid of people being taken away.

"Perhaps it was the way he reminded me of Danylo that aroused an innocent adoration. Perhaps it was the way he relished the books that reminded me of home, of safe times when Tato would captivate me with fairy tales. Whatever the reason, I walked over and sat down across from him in the grass. He looked up at me, surprised. At that moment panic struck, as I realized that he probably did not speak Ukrainian, and I did not speak English. German was our only option.

"‘Wie gehts?’ I asked him if he was all right.

"‘Gut,’ he replied, I’m fine, but the German words seemed to catch in his throat as he struggled with them. He continued, ‘Ironic. We can only speak in German. Even after defeating them, they still hold a certain power.’

"He looked around toward the camp. ‘It’s the only language most of the people here have in common, the only language that allows us to communicate. Hitler must be laughing in hell.’

"I couldn’t find the words. Now that I was sitting in front of him, I just wanted to run away. Then I saw that the young soldier was not so very young. His shaking hands belied the rest of his strong body. His haunted eyes betrayed his bare cheeks. He had the look of a young dog that had been beaten and left for dead—angry and afraid and hungry. It was a look I had seen on many others during the war, but somehow I had expected the Americans to be invincible.

"‘Are you all right?’ I asked again.

"He shook his head, then rested his face in his hands and said, ‘I have seen so many monsters this last year that I am afraid I will never sleep soundly again.’

"I stayed quiet, afraid that any interruption would silence him.

"I have seen ovens with human bones in them, and so many dead waiting to be burned, the smell of their decaying bodies thick on the air. I have seen thousands of corpses not yet dead and watched hundreds of people deny their involvement. I am angry. So angry. And sickened.’

"After a few minutes of silence, he looked up at me, eyes red and wet, ‘This war has bred so many monsters. But I’m sure that you have seen your share. My name is David Goodman. Thank you for coming over. What is your story?’

"‘My name is Nadya Palyvoda,’ I responded, ‘and I’m just another DP who is afraid to go home.’

"‘Where is home?’ he asked.

"Without thinking, I answered, ‘A little village outside of Lviv.’

"He looked at his watch and gathered up his things, ‘Me? I can’t wait to get home. To scrub this death off my skin, kiss my parents and little sister, hug my girl, and try to sleep without dreams.’"

"Was this another admirer, Baba?" Lesya asked.

"No," I said, smiling. "We were just strangers who shared the same grove for a time. After that day, whenever we saw each other, we would say hello and goodbye, sometimes just nodding, I think, to avoid the German words. It took many more weeks before we struck up another conversation, and it was our last one. After that he disappeared; transferred to somewhere else."

"So he saw a concentration camp? Which one?" she asked, writing notes in her notebook.

"He was one of the soldiers who liberated Buchenwald, and the things he told me are still clear in my mind. The last time I saw him, he had just pulled out the three books from his bag when he called me over,

"‘Nadya Palyvoda, come sit with me. I am leaving tomorrow.’

"‘Your oak will miss you,’ I told him, sitting down across from him. I did not tell him that I would also miss seeing him. ‘May I ask you a question?’ I felt bolder, knowing I would never see him again.

"‘Of course.’

"‘What are those three books? I’ve watched you with them, and I’m curious.’

"He smiled wryly and told me his story:

"‘My squad was stationed in a castle, Saxe-Colburg. It had remained untouched by the occupying Germans because it was allied with the House of Windsor. I had never been in such a palace, surrounded by such wealth. The contrast with the war was painful, like staring into the sun after having lived in darkness.

"‘In the castle there was this library. I have always loved books, and so it was my favorite room. It was enormous, with bookshelves from the floor to the ceiling, and a ladder that slid along the top. The wood was dark and polished, and the floor was covered with expensive Oriental rugs.

"‘We were instructed not to touch anything while we were there, to leave everything in perfect order because of the British connection. But I had to take something with me. I couldn’t leave that place with nothing. I figured that they couldn’t possibly miss a few books. So when we were leaving, I went back to the library and grabbed three books off the lower shelves and threw them into my bag. I have carried them with me ever since. I have kept them safe, and I will take them home.’

"‘What books are they?’ I asked.

"‘That is the great irony,’ he answered. ‘One is by Goethe. Do you know that Goethe spent a lot of time in Weimar, the village just outside of Buchenwald? That’s where he died. Inside the camp there was actually a tree called the Goethe Oak. It was destroyed in a bombing, but the stump is carefully preserved.

"‘The second is Nathan der Weise by Gotthold Ephraim Lessing. It is a play on the theme of religious tolerance. And the last book was a religious text, a book of Christian prayers. So you know my secret. These are my three companions. I have never told anyone.’

"‘At home, will you tell them what you have seen?’ I asked.

"‘I don’t know. Not yet.’ he answered."

"And I understood, Lesya. It is so hard for us to speak of that time. I know you cannot understand," I said looking at her.

"Here in the safety of this house in America, you want to know everything. You want to learn everything, but there was a time and place when knowledge meant death."

"I am so happy that none of my grandchildren have had to be in a war," I said, looking at her. Looking toward the wall in my kitchen adorned with photographs of my children and their children.

"My life has been a life of soldiers. My grandfather Mykola. My father Ivan. My childhood friends . . ." I stopped. I was treading too close to the truth. "My sons."

"So many times I wished that I were a man, Lesya, so I could bring them all to justice. Men have revenge as an option. We have only silence."

"Baba," Lesya said gently, walking over to give me a hug, "Silence is not your only option."

For a minute she sounded like Ana.

Suddenly Lesya looked down at her watch.

"Shoot," she said, closing her notebook. "I’ve got to run. I have a . . . an appointment."

There was something she was not saying. She avoided my eyes when she talked to me.

"You lie to your Baba now?" I asked her.

"I didn’t want to get into a fight, Baba. I have a date. It’s Luke’s birthday."

"So that’s his name, the German boyfriend? Luke?" I tried to stay calm. Deep breaths, Katya told me. Something she learned in her Yoga classes. So I took deep breaths.

"Lukas actually. Lukas Neumann."

I needed to come up with a new strategy. I needed to think about it some more.

"Fine. Go on your date. We’ll talk again later." I stood up and started to gather the dishes for the sink.

Lesya walked over to me and kissed my cheek.

"I love you, Baba. Thank you."

Then she left, and I watched her through the window.

I ran the water so it got hot in the sink, hot enough to kill the germs. Baba always used to say that cool water soothes, but hot water can wash away everything, from dirt to heartaches. Well, Baba wasn’t always right. I remembered after I lost my baby in the camp. I felt dirty for months. So many months of scrubbing myself, always feeling as though blood were staining my hands and thighs. Pavlo never knew about the baby lost to him.

A few weeks after I buried the baby in Stephan’s overcoat under that grove of trees, Mama Paraska left with Andriy. Sonny left soon after. I was feeling alone again and trapped. Pavlo tried to mend his ways, but between us there was so much pain and regret that it seemed like nothing could bridge the gap. The wounds only started to heal after Katya was born. That was when something in Pavlo softened. She was his angel, his redemption. When the nurse put her into Pavlo’s arms, he stared at little Katya and said in a faraway voice, "The only things that can save our souls in these times are children."

The hot water felt good on my hands, but I would have to put cream on them later. They got so dry as the weather began to get cooler.

So Lesya’s love was Lukas. At least it wasn’t Adolf or Fritz or Hans. I didn’t know what to do with my granddaughter. She was a good girl. How could I make her understand? What could I tell her?

"You better be careful."

I turned to see my daughter, Katya, standing in the doorway.

"What?" I asked her.

"You better be careful with that mug," she said walking over to give me a hug. "That’s the antique I brought you back from England. It’s fragile and can’t handle extreme temperatures for long. And I know how you like to wash your dishes with super-hot water. So where’s Tato?"

"He went for a walk. He should be back soon. He probably stopped by Marko Somovych’s house," I smiled at my daughter. "Did you come to see your tato? What about your mama? What brings you to the neighborhood on a Wednesday night? Maybe you have a date later?"

She was so pretty, I didn’t understand why she hadn’t married. "You know, Katya, Yuri has been a widower now for three years. He’s a kind man with a good head of hair."

"Mama, I’m happy without a husband, okay? Now, do I need an excuse to visit my own mother?"

"Well, I usually only see you for Sunday lunch. This is a treat for me. So what brings you here?"

"I came over because I had an odd dream last night, really vivid, and I wanted to share it with you. Tell me what you think."

My children always came to me with their dreams for interpretation. They used to do it much more when they were younger. I wondered: Had they had stopped dreaming?

I turned off the water, wiped my hands and walked over to the icebox.