Dressing her daughter feels like her own heart, taken from the chest, rejoicing all on its own.
But there is woe again: the husband is taken to the village council. How much more do the pests need? They claw at you and bark: give! - if not money then bread.
“Mom, how much longer? I’ll wait at the square.”
“Soon - why the square? Just wait a bit, they’ll let the dad go and we’ll be on our way.”
“Mykola and Adriyko are gone.”
Waiting for the dad: if something happens… she’s scared to say it out loud. She brushes Olenka’s hair, taking great care of every strand, putting flowers in it, as if crowning her with stars atop a pale forehead. She doesn’t tell her anything, but the unspoken words are trembling like flashes in her chest: “My little flower!” - and the vague feeling spills over as if a foreshadowing of pain; no way to know what comes next. The soul resists the thought. The joy around the daughter is burning bright - like a crescent moon.
“I’m almost done, sit still!” - holding down the precious daughter, impatient for some reason, with a grey notebook in her arms: her studies are in there.
“Maybe I shouldn’t go?” - Olenka asks shyly. “They’ll laugh at me.”
“Who will?”
“The students, the teachers - everyone.”
“That’s unclever laughter, sinful.”
“They’ll ridicule me!”
“Endure it. Sometimes it’s better than always being praised.”
Daria Olexandrivna is hurt that “they” make fun of her child. The anger is rising - it would have been righteous, but somehow dangerous. Let it die in the vastness of the heart where there is no fuel for it to burn. Only the bitterness has remained, it became so familiar over the long years.
She endured it! - as always.
The mother frowns.
Her firstborn, four years older than Olenka, fell victim to the fear. “Who needs these relics?” - he said - probably, an echo of somebody else’s voice. Andriyko, the youngest, sometimes listens.
The youngsters think that their mom is simpler than those in the school, for they carry new books while she read the old ones... But those were the books with truth and soul, and what do these new ones hold? Wicked importunity. The mother feels like day after day “they” set her children against her beliefs and her will. The children have become estranged.
This causes her sharp, despairing pain as if a wound from a rusty knife that sinks in and causes agony. But what to do? - you may scream, but it won’t help; “they” are stronger.
Her face is elongated with sunken cheeks; with an unusually too narrow outline of the lower eyelids as well as eyes - way too deep-set, dark grey with no sharp glimmer. But their brightness is emphasized by the eyebrows and the braids in such a way that reminds the cinders of burnt silk and they seem darker than they really are on the unnaturally pale face.
Seems like Daria Olexandrivna is repenting on a holiday, atoning for her guilt: of the unnecessary acuteness for Olenka who recently got several low grades - not for her inaptness, but for mischief and carelessness.
Back then, maybe afraid of the shame brought by the sneering of others saying “what a stupid child you have” - Daria Olexandrivna angrily snapped at Olenka and nearly hit her. Even though she did not mean to hit. She did not expect what that snapping would cause. The child went white, her shoulders started trembling, and, nearly fainting, she retreated into a corner. She cried so hard shuddering in tiny spasms with painful sobbing that everyone in the house was stunned. It stopped quite suddenly and even though they all rushed to comfort her, she felt numb and seems to have fallen ill. Then she worked hard and got the best grades. She was happy for her mom who absolutely needed to see those good marks in her notebook. It seemed she did not fully understand why - she just had to.
Glancing at the notebook Daria Olexandrivna felt a painful sting in her heart: she was so sorry! - she would have given years of her life to undo what had happened.
Olenka sat patiently under her mom’s comb; dressed in white, all pale herself with bright eyes and raised eyebrows - just like her dad's. It seemed like those few flowers on her forehead were sprinkling light everywhere. Like a star - she lived in the house, marvelous in her quietness.
The mother is brushing Olenka so carefully today as they are getting ready to go to church; she will be standing next to her praying for forgiveness.
But what untimely woe! - those pests took her husband, no way to know what happens next.
And also - Olenka is moving astray. It’s so hard to convince her while the strangers are pushing her around with ridicule.
That will do; why stand around at the square?
“Olenka, if they tease you for going to church, don’t say anything! Their evil will disappear, but the truth never will.”
“Where will it be?”
“With people who live everywhere. And when they die it will be with them in heaven.”
“And where will we be?”
“With them, if we’re worthy.”
“What’s it like living up there?”
Daria Olexandrivna thought: just like your soul, innocent and loving, forgives everyone. That’s what it’s like.
“I don’t know, but - they’re happy.”
“Where?”
“Olenka, you’re asking me things I don’t know.”
“I think it’s high! - like birds. Where will they hide from the rain?”
“It’s above the rain and the stars.”
“What do they eat?”
“They don’t need to.”
“Not even bread?”
“No, not even bread.”
Olenka is looking out the window, deep in thought.
“I know! - just like the sun: it’s not holding onto anything and moving.”
She’s thinking again, looking at the light behind the windowpane.
“Don’t they separate?”
“Who?”
“All of them - relatives.”
“If they love each other - no, they stay together; unless they get separated at the gate.
“Where?”
“It’s invisible and it’s everywhere. Like the church.”
Olenka is holding a notebook like a report. The grey cover with earthy marks and a personal signature in round uneven letters.
The thought lingers: will they be together - “then”? Is it like stars moving through the welkin in a group and forming a picture? The thought dissipates.
It’s good: walking with your mom; a grandma standing in a church; you can just ignore the scoffers and that’s it.
It’s no secret why Olenka is holding the notebook, but the mother does not betray her guess: such is her loving deceit. The notebook with the cute squiggles - more precious than all the things in the house because there, in between the pages, are locked memories and light: like flowers collected in spring - to bring joy and sorrow when you lay your eyes on them.
She doesn’t see it! - Daria Olexandrivna pretends. She is cautious: what if her daughter becomes even lazier if she praises her? She should work hard not just for a reward. But - is it OK to ignore her signal like that? That was done out of respect for her mom.
“Show me the notebook!”
Olenka is happy: mom will see her work again. The letters are labored and uncertain as if built from tiny spikes and bent hoops. But for Daria Olexandrivna they are the best - better than the painted decorations on holidays.
“So pretty!” - she says and puts the notebook on the shelf full of books.
She fixes Olenka’s dress, straightens, brushes, or just touches; and she can keep neither her feelings nor her gaze off her.
It’s time. On the way, she would ask the boys if they have seen the dad.
“Well, Let’s go!” - she tells Olenka, handing her a mirror as if to say, see how your mom has dressed you up, and remember: nobody can dress you up better.
Some steps rustle by the window; aunty Hanna is coming to visit through the kitchen garden, maybe to ask about the gathering.
The neighbor is older than the hostess; rough wrinkles around the mouth.
She smiles at Olenka.
“Fine girl! - she’ll make a lovely bride, let me not bedevil it...”
She blows lightly as if trying to shoo away the evil.
Olenka put down the mirror immediately, flung the door open, and flew outside through the vestibule.
“What’s with the village council?”
“What do you think? They want the bread - the last of it.” It seemed like the shadow fell over them right after these words: a shadow over the entire world; it felt like the windows grew dark.
“Woe for all of us!” - the aunty complains.
She’s wrapped tightly in a shawl even though the weather is fine, one of those warm days before the rain. The checkered shawl is heavy: it covers her like an overcast covers a drying cherry tree.
The face, at the dawn of her days, is colorless and covered with ripples that disappear at her eyes, full of thought.
“I had a dream," - says aunty quietly, pronouncing every sound carefully, like a song, - "where I saw - as close as this stove - a jacket before me; and I couldn’t tell what it was hanging from - the doorframe or what? The jacket was made from a lizard, even though it had wool, the red one, you know, lizards don’t have that… Still, I knew it was a lizard one. I reached out to touch the wool so I could figure out what it was made of, but it burned my hand with cold. A bad dream - what’s it about?”
“That’s a bad dream all right, - agrees Daria Olexandrivna. - You’d dress your sorrows in a lizard jacket.
“You would, wouldn’t you? A bad dream! Haven’t seen anything like it! Where are the boys?”
“At the square. I wanted to take them to the church but they refuse for they make fun of them in school, torture them with ridicule.”
“Those evil beasts!”
“They got it into the kids’ heads that the new books have outgrown church. But those books are dead!”
“Same thing with my nephews. They glue their eyes to those new books even though I can tell: they’re bored. If they happen to get their hands on an old book - they spend the whole night perched next to the lamp like little owls.”
“That’s a shame, but still you’ve got to teach them lest they become dead-beats.”
“That’s true, - the aunty agrees. - If only they taught them properly. They don’t know anything by heart. Back in the old days… take me for example - I did not study for long, but I knew so many songs and stories! - you could wake me in the middle of the night and I’d tell you.”
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(fan translation by Natalie K. for educational purposes only)