Matryoshka

Svobody Prospekt 13, Lviv, Ukraine. The city was awash with the smells of summer. Inhaling deeply, I smiled. Spectating from my customary corner table of the Grand Hotel was never tiresome. Masses of commuters vied for position in jerky, accelerated bursts, an undulating metal quilt in which the covers were constantly fought over. One must be fast on their feet when negotiating the streets of Lviv! Traffic signals are brief and motorists will simply not stop if they do not have to. It's all a bit of a cowboy movie showdown, really. Both you and the oncoming driver know the light is about to change. Squinting, you catch each other's eye: I dare you! Extremities twitch in readiness: Signal change! Draw! And even though your vehicular opponent exhibits no indications of slowing, you simply - step, into the crosswalk and proceed! Sometimes, the driver will nod in respect, smile or even a chuckle. More often than not, there is swearing.

Leaving a tip, I rose from my table and headed out. Svobody Prospekt beckoned. My contracting job teaching English was coming to an end, as were my thinning funds and my remaining days in Lviv were precious. Truthfully, I was astounded to be working here. I had sent a Letter of Interest more than a year previously and my Ukrainian, was, and still is, poor, though improving. Therefore, when unexpectedly offered a position for the equivalent of twenty-thousand American dollars in return for a sixth month commitment, I leapt, payed up my lease and entrusted the care of my budgie to a friend with allergies.

There she was! The Babusya, crossing the street, exactly on time! She was bent ninety degrees at the waist and toting a tattered cloth bag. Her chin jutted forward as if she had been hurrying since birth. Clad in heavy, black linen reminiscent of a religious order, the lack of a cross and the presence of a faded flowered scarf about her neck denied a life spent in austerity. Earnestly, she crossed Svobody Prospeckt twice daily: 7:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. Reaching the corner, she assessed the Grand's facade as if it were a a long absent relative and then looked intently and knowingly at me. Was she aware I observed her daily? I self-consciously looked away. Distracted, I failed to notice the taxi cutting the corner. Its sideview mirror clipped me and broke and I was sent sprawling. Sunglasses and water bottle were scattered and my dislodged black Moleskine notebook landed in the gutter a few paces away. Cursing over the loss of mirror, the taxi driver sped off.

Needing invisibility as quickly as possible, I rose painfully, fingers fumbling as I gathered my things. The Babusya retrieved my notebook and rather than return it, shoved it into her bag with defiance and rapidly strode away, nearly trotting up Petra Doroshenka Street! What on earth? She's like some Ukrainian Artful Dodger! What a schtick! Extricating myself from concerned hands, I pursued her bent, black form. She'd already outdistanced me significantly and though her feet didn't seem to move any faster with the upslope she seemed to gain. It wasn't the loss of the hryvna, tucked away in the Moleskine's iconic and omnipresent pocket that was unacceptable - though it would wound my pride and bank account. No. Its contents were irreplaceable; thoughts, drawings, poetry; a microcosm of my brain, sacred and not to be pilfered.

Mutually darting through the crowd and onto Slovats'koho Street like two birds, I desperately cut the intersection at a diagonal. Drivers honked. Brakes squealed. More cursing. Across! Thank you, God, for the blessing of long legs! Just two more steps, a hard right, reaching, and... and? Vanished! What? Where..? I stood with clear line of sight before a wedge of a building reminiscent of a lone, forgotten piece of party cake with its top layer sliding off. Its faded aging door sloughed layers of paint and old posters. Other than a couple smoking boredly from a nearby bench, the streets were empty. I castigated myself severely. Taken in by a bent over old lady!

Suddenly, a boney, black sleeved arm extended itself from the crack of the door, yanking me inside. Eyes adjusting to the lower light I spied my notebook lying plainly on a worn table. I rubbed my head where it struck the low hanging lintel, and protested, snatching my property. Removing the hryvna from its pocket, I gestured for her to take it. I only wanted my notebook! Palms extended, she motioned me to an empty chair, tea pot and cup. A thief wanting to serve brewed remorse? Puzzled, I obeyed.

While she poured, I surveyed the room which was little more than a converted vestibule and not unsurprisingly sparse. A large, floor to ceiling Ukrainian stove clad in rose pink tile, ornate in design, swallowed the majority of space and was the room's only ornamentation. A make-shift bed occupied the opposite wall.

From the hearth, The Babusya produced a small suitcase which she set upon the table and from it, placing in descending order, matryoshka, a family of Russian nesting dolls, an envelope which birthed its black and white photographic contents, and a plate. The back of the first photo read: 1922, Tsarenko, Ivan, Olga. Marching forward the parental dolls together in procession and exhibiting the photo like a playing card bearing both king and queen, she produced a smiling couple, modestly dressed, on their wedding day.

The second photo read 1932, Tsarenko - Ivan, Olga, Yana, Andriy, Ivan, Boris. Her old body trembled slightly but not so her hands which were steady. Resolute. The Tsarenko family stood in a garden, the eldest child cradling a pug-like dog in delight. She pointed to herself then pointed to the name Yana and back to herself again. Yana. Her name was Yana Tsarenko. She brought forward in presentation the remaining matryoshka family, placing them firmly one by one on the table: Yana. Andriy. Little Ivan. She held up her fingers: Eight. Five. Two. Yana. Andriy. Little Ivan. And then to Boris, the dog. Smiling, I gingerly held the brittle photo. Though black and white, sparkling blue Ukrainian eyes were easily discernible. Yana pointed to the dog once more and motioned to the plate on the table. Boris' plate? She pointed to the photo again, and taking it from me, handed me the plate. My stomach growled. She tensed, and with surprising suddenness, seized the father doll, abruptly bringing it down onto the table's edge, loudly splitting it in half lengthwise! Shocked and startled, I jumped, slopping my tea. She cupped the two halves together like spoons and held them at eye level for me to see, then stood the halved pieces on the the table, setting the Andriy doll beside it, separated from the rest of the family. Thus placed, Yana emphatically knocked the doll icons over and then covered their places on the photo with both index fingers. She drew in her cheeks and patted her belly. Gone. Died. Death by starvation! And in desperation, the family had eaten her dog, Boris! She returned the broken patriarch, Andriy and plate to the suitcase then took up small wooden Ivan and cradled him gently in her palm. Tensing, I held my breath. She kissed him and, not looking up, shook her head slowly before returning wooden Ivanovich, prone this time, to the table. She placed the mother doll, top half only, alongside. The emotional impact of the two together was profound. Thus shortened, the mother doll appeared to kneel sadly in grief, graveside, all but one of her children gone. How I wanted to scream, to rage at the inequities of life, to stand them up, resurrect the doll family from this macabre form of play to one that was carefree and happy! But this was not play. It was Yana's life, told to me in the only way she could. The Holodomor! The Terror Famine! My heart pounded in my ears. How many Ukrainians died in that single year? Low estimate was five million people. I felt sick and chilled to the bone. Yana! No wonder the stove burned in the middle of summer!

Yana Tsarenko paused her pantomimed narrative, patted my hand and pushed my notebook toward me questioningly. You? Shakily, I drew breath and taking up a pen, quickly and roughly sketched my parents, eight siblings, and myself, in descending order. Three. I held up my fingers, pointing at the depiction of a girl, third in birth order with wild hair. Yana smiled slightly, nodded. I covered my father's hasty representation and shook my head. Then, even as she had done, sadly placed index fingers on the photo, covering two siblings. Yana raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips, sighing. Taking my left hand, she held it where a ring would have been. Married? Shaking my head, I walked my fingers across the table. Yana grunted, held up her index finger: Wait! The smallest doll, the Ivanovich, she placed inside her own representation closed it and handed it to me with another photograph: 1940, Grigory Grigorivich, Yana Tsarenko, Sashenko, age 0. A youthful, pregnant Yana smiled, flanked by a somewhat serious looking Grigory, Grand Hotel in the backdrop, hotel insignia on both their jackets. Pointing at Grigory, I held Yana's left hand, Married? Yana walked her fingers across the table in like fashion. Simultaneously, we burst out laughing and shrugged. What can you do, after all? Plaster walls seemed to tip forward as if listening to the uncommon sound. Coals from the stove flared suddenly, crackling. Unburdened laughter after so much heaviness felt good. Shared laughter in common sisterhood was restorative.

Just as suddenly, as if a heavy curtain had fallen, Yana became still, expectantly waiting as if her mother's heart knew there was - more. Reluctant, my hands were heavy; fingers as cumbersome as lead fishing weights tied to a line leader. Yana had given me the sacred gift of trust in sharing her experiences. How could I deny her like respect? How could I refuse her such a gift? I could not. But how my mind reeled and rebelled at the prospect! Heart pounding, I produced from my Moleskin's pocket two photographs: twenty-year old me, smiling, brown-haired toddler in my lap, and thirty-six year old me flanked by a dashing lad with the Pacific Ocean as our backdrop, both of us laughing and festooned in seaweed. Both images reflected an intelligent, sensitive boy with old-souled eyes. Hands trembling, I covered the young man's image with my finger, and nearly imperceptibly, shook my head. The photographs stung my eyes and I looked away, staring at my tea, trying to drink and unable to swallow. Responding, eyelashes glistening, Yana laid her last photo alongside mine. It was of a young lady of approximately the same age as my son. She was holding a bouquet and wearing a flowered scarf about her neck, the very same, now faded scarf Yana wore daily. Taken on the cusp of spring and the edge of youthful promise, the undated inscription quietly read: Sashenka.

Neither of my photos were inscribed. I didn't have the heart to write on them. Doing so felt too much like saying goodbye. Now, sitting at Yana's table, I took up my pen, hesitated, and wrote: Cindy. Marques. Yana gratefully squeezed my hand. She matter of factly reassembled her photos, tucking them carefully into the envelope, but rather than returning them to the suitcase, she rolled them inside her own doll likeness with the smaller Shashenka doll safely inside. The last remaining matryoshka doll, mother Olga, was returned to the case and the entire case went into the stove's fire. This was not an act of morbidity but one of release, of healing and making peace. Yana closed the iron grate with finality and then, turning swiftly now, even abruptly, she drew me from the table. Wrapping the faded flowered scarf around my neck, she thrust her matryoshka likeness into the crook of my arm like an infant along with my notebook and shoved me out the door. Bent as she was, she placed her hand on my heart with difficulty and uttered aloud her first and only word in the entirety of our exchange: Shashenka, she whispered. Mama, I answered, catching her single tear with my finger. The door snapped shut with the sound of a turning lock.

Transfixed, I lingered for a time in the honeyed glow of the westering sun. The shifting light caught the edges of the aged, blistering paint, turning them silver white as bees wings in swarm. Curling poster with its greying hues moved in concert, but seemed to progress in the opposite direction of the solar path. Pinion shadows lengthened, rotated and were lifted, disappearing in an exhalation of light.