Homecoming

[GingeOrCringe]

Despite all the scars of the past century—poisoned water, unmarked mass graves, Chernobyl—the land had a sense of familiarity, like a relative she hadn’t seen in ages.

“My father should be buried here,” said Olena. The bristly evergreens stood like an honor guard as the train cut through the Carpathians.

“He could have been,” Pavlo mumbled between gulps of gin. He had already drained two glasses that evening and was three fingers through the third. Olena tried not to look at him. His heavy eyelids and the blunt angles of his jaw were cut no differently from his grandfather’s stoic face. Somehow, it made him even more of a disappointment.

Olena had never expected to return home. For forty years, give or take a decade, she’d maintained her devout disinterest in succession. It was Pavlo who had wanted... this. When he was still a child, he often pointed up at the moon and stars and insisted they visit one day. This present journey seemed no more practical than those boyish notions.

The ice made a clinking noise against the glass as he swirled the contents of his drink. “We’ll be to Lviv soon.”

“Yes,” nodded Galina. She was draped across a recamier, one hand absentmindedly playing with the pearls on her necklace, the other holding a dwindling cigarette. Her parents had been refugees as well. They had left her heirloom linguistic knowledge of Surzhyk, as well as a dusty bank account—an inheritance about as useful as she was. “Navolska will be there to greet us, won’t he darling?” Her voice was airy and trance-like in a way only Xanax and alcohol can produce.

Olena shook her head. “He can wait until tomorrow to talk with me. I would like to leave for the hotel as soon as we arrive.”

“It’s only 4 o’clock,” said Pavlo. “He is the one who paid for all of this, remember.” He motioned around at the private car.

Sometimes speaking with her son felt more like shouting into the wind.

“It will be maybe an hour, an hour and a half. That’s all he wants.”

Olena felt her granddaughter take her soft but wrinkled hand in her own. She cupped it as gently as she would a little prayer book. The young woman was normally such a chatterbox but hadn’t said anything since they’d crossed the border. The last rays of sunshine seemed to form a nimbus around her as she marveled at the land from which the Skoropadsky family had originally sprung. The awe written across her face was no different from that of any Christian kneeling before icons in veneration.

Pavlo and Galina prattled on, but Olena decided to tune them out. “Are you enjoying yourself, Vasylyna?”

“It’s so beautiful, Babusia. Like when you first took me to the ocean.”

The elderly woman nodded, a sliver of a smile crossed her lips. “More than beautiful, my dear. Mountains, forests, it’s all very useful to those who live here—and very hindersome to those who don’t. There’s a reason it took so much blood for the Soviets to wrench independence from Galicia.”

Vasylyna frowned. She was quiet for a reflective moment as the train rumbled on. Olena had been sure to educate her on the upheaval and violence that had occurred in young Ukraine. “It’s hard to imagine anything bad ever happening here.”

“Well, for now it’s at peace. Let’s hope that with the end of the USSR and some stability from the Yushchenko administration it’s allowed to remain that way.” She gave her granddaughter’s hand a squeeze. “I haven’t seen you use your camera since we crossed the border, dearie, are you out of film already?”

Vasylyna glanced down at the graduation gift resting in her lap, she’d kept it close all summer. “We’re moving too fast, I don’t think the photos would turn out well.”

Olena nodded in understanding. They’d always been able to interpret what the other really meant. It seemed almost sacrilegious to attempt to jam the vast landscape onto film.

The train continued to coast through the mountains. For the last miles of the journey the elderly woman found herself softly humming songs which her father’s men had once bellowed proudly off key at parties. Melodies Danylo used to strum on the bandura in the shade of their garden. It wouldn't be long now.

 

[GingeOrCringe]

A huddle of plumped-up pigeons rested on the cobblestone at Lviv-Holovnyi Station, fattened off the generosity of tourists. As Vasylyna struggled with the right camera focus, heavy boots fell into frame, startling the birds away.

"Pavlo Skoropadsky," said the lead man, holding out his arms as he approached. His dark hair was shaved like a Kozak’s, though he had an aura about him that didn’t quite seem to fit that of a military man. "It is good to see you on our native soil."

"Artem Navolsky, it has been too long," Pavlo responded, sharing a brotherly embrace with the man before attention was turned towards the rest of the family. Pavlo would introduce each of them—Galina, still dreamy from her Xanax and gin; Vasylyna offering a small, nervous smile as she shrank back a half step. Navolsky’s eyes were primarily drawn to Olena.

"Hetmannitsya Skoropadsky, I’m honored to meet you." Towering over her, he had to bend at the waist in order to take her hand--which she had not offered--and bring it to his lips. "It is so wonderful you have finally returned home."

Hetmannitsya? The petite elderly woman stared up at this stranger, feeling like a trout dangling on a line. The title, contorted into a feminine form, brought back a rush of memories. It was like smelling her mother’s perfume again—peonies, honey, and cinnamon. She thought of her father, the last true Hetman of Ukraine.

"My friends will take your luggage to your rooms. You must all be famished after such a long journey," Said Navolsky before Olena could utter any sort of response. He took her arm, again without asking, and led the family to an awaiting car.

Having enlisted a chauffeur, Navolsky was able to act more as a tour guide as they flowed with the rush hour traffic of Ukraine’s culture capital. He gave passionate histories on the many Cathedrals, the academic buildings, even the maze-like streets themselves. “You’ll have to come back in the spring, it’s a beautiful city.” He would go silent as they passed a strange statue, a man tumbling beneath three hammers.

“What’s that?” Pavlo nodded.

“The Memorial to Victims of Communist Crimes,” his tone was flat, solomn. It was a new addition to Lviv, but as hallowed as its ancient churches. The car engine hummed as they drove on. In a couple of minutes, Navolsky would clear his throat. “I know it’s been years since the tragedy, but I would like to express my condolences, Hetmannitsya. Danylo was a great man with great promise for Ukraine.”

Olena nodded slowly. “Yes. He was a good man.” Beyond that undeniable fact she refused to discuss her brother’s death with a stranger. She turned her head, pretending to be enthralled by a line of baroque townhouses. “Things are very different now.”

“Yes, things have changed,” Navolsky reconfirmed with a vigorous nod. “Ukraine’s communists are all imprisoned or in hiding. Our Nation is independent--patriotism swells as it did in the days of the Hetmanate and UPA, only now our love of country can be freely expressed in every oblast.”

“Ukraine is finally becoming what it should be,” said Pavlo.

Olena shook her head, gazing out the frost covered window as the car made one disorienting turn after another. The Ukrainian-Insurgent brand of nationalism was as healthy as a splash of arsenic. All she could think of was the blood, the reports her father had frowned at all night in his study, the country fracturing like a shattered femur.

“Maty,” Pavlo continued, “I think it is time we move back to Ukraine. All of us.”

“Excuse me?”

The driver stomped on his breaks as another car cut them off. Everyone lurched forward, Olena’s seatbelt squeezing some of the breath out of her. “Suka blyat, watch where you’re going!” Shouted the chauffeur before profusely apologizing to his passengers.

Navolsky would confirm everyone was alright before quickly returning to the topic at hand. “We’ve talked it over. You have Ukrainian citizenship, because of that it will be easy for the rest of your family to obtain their own. We have plans for the next parliamentary election that we need you here for.”

Olena shook her head. Talked it over with whom? Not her. Just a few years ago Symonenko had launched a coup to reinstate the Soviet regime. With Russia entering an economic downturn, she questioned whether this visit was safe. “No. I’m sorry, I do not think we should stay here long.”

“We’re this nation’s most prestigious family, and you’d force us to continue living as gypsies?” Pavlo’s fists were clenched, trying unsuccessfully to hold on to that stoic image he so wanted to portray.

She had been saying it since he was a child--moving was what kept them safe. Why didn’t he understand? “If this is about Geneva, I already said I’m sorry. It’s dangerous for us to stay put.”

Navolsky tried to interject but Pavlo’s voice dominated the conversation. “You’re not listening. Switzerland, England, Canada we don’t belong any of those places! We belong here.”

Her father and Danylo had said the same. In the end, the last Hetman and his son were lowered into holes in foreign soil. “How much longer until we arrive at the hotel?” Olena asked as she fixed her pale blue eyes on Navolsky. “I’m tired.”

“My daughter deserves a home, doesn’t she? And my wife shouldn’t have to keep all of her most precious possessions in a suitcase.”

Olena frowned and turned her gaze to Vasylyna, her only grandchild. It was good that she had grown up traveling the world, wasn’t it? A young woman should be cultured. What’s more, homeschooling had allowed her to focus on her own interests. Of course it was a challenge for her to make friends, and keeping them was an entirely different story, but that had allowed grandmother and granddaughter to grow closer than they otherwise might have. That was good, right?

Vasylyna stared at the interior carpet, wringing her hands and trying not to look at either of her relatives.

“This is an important choice,” said Navolsky as the car slowed to a halt. “No need to make snap decisions. For now why don’t we all relax? We’ll take you to the hotel, of course, but first we’d like to give you a proper reception...”

Pavlo’s friends had planned a welcome dinner for them. The gathering was hosted in the private, upstairs room of a nice restaurant. There were about twenty people total, all self identified members of Right Sector or Svoboda--just like Navolsky. A handful of Army officers and members of the Militsiya were present as well, looking gallant in service dress. They liberally poured Horlivka into crystal cut glasses throughout the night. “We are welcoming home the Skoropadsky, after all,” Navolsky justified the opening of bottle after bottle.

Olena watched her son at the opposite end of the table, it felt like an incredible distance. All the attendees were eager to speak with him. They laughed too loudly at his jokes and nodded too quickly in agreement whenever he gave a drunken opinion. It was an obscene attempt to emulate what her father’s banquets had been like in the earlier part of the century. That’s what this was all about, wasn’t it? They wanted to play pretend, to call her son the Hetman, just like that boy in Canada liked to pretend. And herself, it seemed she was just an ancient ornament to give them legitimacy.

“Navolsky says you’ll be joining us during the next election,” said a man to her right--some member of the Lviv Oblast Rada or the Lviv City Council, she couldn’t remember and, quite frankly, didn’t care.

“I’m not quite sure. I have matters to attend to in Bayern.” The election nonsense was two years away, she’d make sure she was busy. Right now, her attention was on Vasylyna. Although her granddaughter was seated only a few chairs away, it was still too far for Olena’s liking. A dashing, blue-eyed Captain was showing excessive interest in the girl, though he had to be about ten years her senior. Olena recognized that leer. A few stupid men had stared at her sisters that way--like a dazzling chain of office just within reach or a contract for a general’s commission ready to be signed.

“How do you like Ukraine?” Asked the Captain. The tag on his uniform gave the last name of Navolsky, he introduced himself as Artem’s nephew and insisted Vasylyna take the liberty of calling him by his given name, Maksym.

“What I’ve seen so far has been beautiful,” she said, taking a small sip of her water and avoiding eye contact. Her family had always been selective about who she associated with—boys her own age had seldom made the cut. Having the attention of a handsome young officer was like accidentally stumbling on stage in the middle of someone else’s performance.

He nodded and gave a small smile, “you fit right in then.”

Vasylyna’s pale face was turning as pink as a peach. Belonging somewhere, anywhere, had been a perpetual daydream of hers.

The grumbling of her stomach interrupted her thoughts, causing her cheeks to ripen to an even deeper shade of red as she willed it to be quiet. She had been too overwhelmed to eat during the last leg of the train ride to Lviv, and hadn’t realized just how hungry she was until now. As appetizing as the vereniki on her plate were, each dumpling seemed to cling to her throat on the way down. All these people were staring in some kind of silent evaluation that made her shirt collar feel tight and her hands shaky.

“You’ll be staying in Lviv?” Maksym’s voice startled her a bit.

“For a few days,” she nodded, trying to mirror his smile. “Then we’re visiting Trostyanets, where my Great Grandfather grew up.” And after a week there it would be time to say goodbye to Ukraine...

He chuckled good naturedly. “No, I mean you plan on living here now that the Soviets have fallen out of power, don’t you?”

Why was he asking? Of course she’d imagined it before--practically built a little house in her head. Having a solid home to return to after a long winter train ride. A tiny corner of the world that would remain constant. A room of one’s own. “I don’t think my grandmother… we don’t really settle down anywhere.”

Maksym nodded slowly. “What are you, twenty one? Twenty two?”

“Almost nineteen,” she mumbled with some embarrassment.

“An adult by most people’s standards--and you seem mature for your age, aren’t you? You’re old enough to make your own decisions, I can tell.”

“Of course,” Vasylyna nodded quickly, not wanting him to think she was childish.

“You’re very independent. It’s in your eyes,” he pointed to his own, they were a hypnotic dark blue that put the Dnipro to shame. They would show up wonderfully in a photograph, she was sure. “I can’t imagine how exhausted you must feel, wandering from one foreign land to the next. Ukraine is your home. You come from a long line of noble blood, from people who brought glory and dignity to this country in its infancy. Svoboda would take care of you if you stay. And, if you’d like,” He pushed a tress of fair hair away from her face, “we could get better acquainted.”

As she tried to stammer a response, the door flung open. A wide-eyed man scurried straight to Artem Navolsky and whispered something in his ear.

“Oh?” Navolsky could be heard across the room. He sounded as if he’d just been told someone had ticketed him for parking or some other inconvenience. His chair squeaked against the floor as he stood up. Resting his hands on the table, he’d waited for everyone to quiet down--it didn’t take long. “President Yushchenko has been shot.”

It was difficult for the escort to lead the Skoropadsky family to their rooms at the Bank Hotel. Pavlo had drained at least two bottles of pepper vodka on his own, the news of the shooting was a damper on his good fun.

“Why’d he have to go and get himself shot?” He slurred during the elevator ascent, one of the militsiya officers was under his arm providing physical support. “If I got shot, I’d keep speeching. Pansy ass bastard.”

Olena fixed her eyes on the one glowing elevator button. Her eyelids were heavy. She put up with his rambling as the elevator doors opened, as they were led down the hallway to the Presidential Suite. He kept going on about all the things that couldn’t kill him.

“And if anyone tried to poison me,” a hiccup interrupted. “I wouldn’t drown in my own vomit.”

Olena let out a shaky breath and asked their escort to leave. At once. The moment the main door closed, the arguing would begin. It was an avalanche of painful statements accumulating in severity as they shouted back and forth, a verbal fencing clash. It wasn’t until late in the night that Pavlo would finally slink into the south bedroom and drop into bed beside Galina. Since marrying him, she had learned to be a heavy sleeper.

Vasylyna was laying in the second bed, staring out the window at the Christmas-lit city. She would wait until she heard snoring before she stood and slipped barefoot into the common area.

“Baba…” she said softly.

“Not now, Lyuba.”

Vasylyna stepped quietly towards the couch where her grandmother sat. The room was dark, but she knew her father often made her cry. “He’s just drunk again, he didn’t mean any of it.”

Olena let out a humor-dry laugh. “It’s not what he says, it’s what he does, Vasylyna. He brought us here and he insists we stay, but it’s simply not safe.”

Communists had shot the President as easily as they had shot her cousins, executed her father’s friends, and poisoned her brother. The Soviets had soured the soil in Ukraine. No matter how long the seeds of their ideology stayed dormant, they’d always pose a danger of cropping back up like hogweed.

The young woman would shift her weight from one foot to the other, arms crossed against the cold in her sweatshirt and fuzzy pajama pants. She’d already heard enough arguing for the night, it would be best to keep her mouth shut. “Don’t you think it would be nice to have a garden?” The words tumbled off her tongue like a spilt drink flowing off a table. She could hear her grandmother breathe in and exhale.

“Yes, Vasylyna. That is one of the things I miss most.”