Hope's War

by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch

  She could hear her sister in the regular kitchen clanking pots and pans, but Kat didn't go in. Instead she walked back outside. It was such a lovely day that Kat knew her grandfather would be in the garden. She found him on his hands and knees amidst the potatoes, trowel in one hand, and basket close by. He looked up when he saw her approach.

  Kat peeked into the basket and saw that it was almost full. She marvelled at how productive this small city garden had been. A year ago, this had all been lawn.

  "It looks like you've got plenty for dinner tonight. Let me help you to your feet."

  She extended her hand and grasped Danylo's outstretched one.

  "Oy," he groaned. "My knees want to stay where they are." He stretched slowly to a standing position and regarded his younger granddaughter with affection.

  Kat bent down and picked up the basket with one hand and then looped her other arm around her grandfather's waist. "Let's go in and I'll tell you about the new school," she said.

  Kat's nose was greeted with the wonderful aroma of chicken cooking in garlic as they walked into the kitchen. Genya had just finished tearing a head of romaine into a bowl and was mixing up an oil and lemon dressing in a mason jar. Kat's stomach grumbled with hunger.

  "You finish up, okay?" said Genya to her younger sister. "I want to get changed." She dried her hands on a tea towel and hurried out of the room.

  As she washed and sliced the potatoes, Kat told her grandfather about Cawthra. Danylo's eyes sparkled with interest. "This sounds like the very best place for you, zolota zhabka."

  "I just hope I don't mess up like last year," said Kat.

  "You didn't mess up, zolota zhabka," replied Danylo. "St. Paul's wasn't the right school for you."

  While Kat appreciated her grandfather's words of support, she couldn't help but feel a small twinge of anxiety. Had she really tried to fit in, after all?

  Kat tossed the potato slices with a bit of vegetable oil and then laid them out flat on a cookie sheet and popped them in the oven. "You wash up, and I'll get changed," said Kat, giving her grandfather an affectionate kiss on the cheek as she dashed out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

  The door to the bedroom that Kat now shared with her sister was open and the curtains on the bedroom window were pulled back, letting the bright sunlight stream in. Genya had already hung up her grey uniform pants and thrown her white shirt into the laundry hamper. She had changed into her favourite lazing around outfit: a faded pair of plaid boxer shorts and a T-shirt. She was propped up on her bed, doing homework.

  "I can't believe you're doing homework already," said Kat in disgust. "Who does homework on the first day, anyway?"

  "That's why you struggle and I don't," replied Genya. "If you get everything done as soon as it's assigned, nothing piles up and you get good marks."

  Kat felt like gagging. One hour after the first day of the school year, and her sister was already worried about marks? What a warped sense of priorities!

  Kat pulled the curtains shut so she could get changed. She took off her pants and top and dumped them on the floor, then pulled on a pair of denim cut-offs and a cotton shirt from another pile on the floor.

  "You are a slob," said Genya, gazing at her sister over the edge of her textbook.

  Kat frowned at her sister, and then looked around the room that they now shared. Yep, she was a slob. No doubt about it. You could almost draw a line between Genya's half and her half of the room.

  When Genya moved in, Kat's bunk beds had to be unstacked and placed side by side, leaving little room for anything else. Even so, Genya's side consisted of a neatly organized chest of drawers and a night stand. No stray papers, books or clothing were visible. Everything had a place and was in its place.

  Kat's side of the room looked like a hurricane had swept through. Even though there was a perfectly good laundry hamper set in a neutral zone between the two sides, Kat preferred the pile method. One pile on the floor was for dirty clothes, and another pile was for clothing that was worn, but not yet dirty. Her clean clothing sat in a laundry basket, wrinkled and unsorted, at the foot of her bed. More often than not, Kat just got to the bottom of the clean clothes basket and then piled all the dirty stuff into the basket, washed it, and the whole process started again. It might not look great, but the method worked for her.

  Genya tolerated the clothing mess, but she had put her foot down when it came to partly finished art projects strewn on the floor, thumb nailed to the wall, and perched precariously on various flat surfaces. After a few sharp exchanges, Kat had been forced to banish her projects to the basement. She wouldn't have minded so much if Genya had at least let her keep the sculpture that had caused her all the trouble at St. Paul's in their now-shared room. But Genya hated that sculpture most of all.

  Kat opened the curtains and peered outside. Her mother's car hadn't pulled up yet. Her father would be home in less than hour. Kat would have a bit of time to gather her thoughts in the solitude of the basement, surrounded by her art before it was time for supper.

  CHAPTER 4

  THERE WAS A bathroom on the main floor of the house that Danylo shared with his daughter and son-in-law. Danylo stepped inside for a quick shower to wash off the garden dirt and sweat from his afternoon outside. Once he finished, he tied the belt of his terry cloth robe around his waist, then walked out of the bathroom and into the bedroom that had become his temporary refuge.

  It wasn't much, but he felt safe here. A dark wood Ikea bookshelf that covered one wall was filled with Genya's old books and videos and cassette tapes. She had moved her current ones into Kataryna's bedroom. Danylo's daughter Orysia had also taken the family photo albums from the bookshelf in the living room and stored them on the shelves in here, rightly assuming that flipping through them would bring her father a measure of comfort. Orysia had also brought in their small collection of Ukrainian books — some novels, but mostly history.

  Danylo had initially left most of his own mementoes at the house he had shared for decades with Nadiya, but as the pain of her death was gradually replaced with warm memories of their life together, he began to retrieve mementoes, one by one.

  He opened up the top drawer of his dresser and pulled out a yellowed and faded envelope. Inside were the three photographs he had been able to bring from the old country. The oldest was a formal studio portrait taken of his family just before the war. He and his sister, Kataryna, were dressed in their finest dance costumes. In this picture, Danylo was 16 years old, and his sister was 15. The photographer had asked them to smile, but Kataryna had not wanted to. Instead, they both sat solemnly on wooden chairs, staring directly into the eyes of the photographer. Behind them stood their parents, who also gazed solemnly ahead. Danylo's mother wore a white Edwardian blouse, a long strand of amber beads, and a straight dark skirt. His father wore a black suit over a richly embroidered Ukrainian blouse.

  As Danylo saw again the fierceness in his sister's gaze, he smiled inwardly. That fighting spirit had caused his sister so much sorrow, yet it was also what made her the heroine that she had become. Perhaps that was one of the reasons that his granddaughter Kataryna was so very special to him: she too had her namesake's fierceness.

  The second photo was a rare one of Kataryna during the war. Someone in the Displaced Person's camp had given it to Danylo when they realized he was her brother. This photo brought a sob to Danylo's throat. It showed Kataryna, eyes determined as always, dressed in military gear, weapon in hand. She was the middle of several similarly dressed women, eyeing an unseen commander.

  The last photo was the one that was the hardest to look at, yet it brought Danylo bittersweet joy. It had been taken on the day he married Nadiya. In the background, the rough prison-like structures of the Displaced Persons camp were clearly visible. Their fellow DPs had done their utmost to give the occasion a festive appearance. Nadiya wore a simple dress made of white parachute silk. There had been several weddings at the camp and the material had made the rounds. Nadiya's time
as a slave labourer in Germany had left her frail and small, and so the light material hung straight to the ground, no curves to catch it. Every bleak aspect of the photo was negated by the radiant smile that shone from Nadiya's face. The look of hope and anticipation of a happy future was so real that he could almost touch it.

  Danylo held the photo to his chest.

  A light rap on his door brought Danylo back to the present. "Tato, supper will be on the table in five minutes."

  His daughter, Orysia, was home.

  CHAPTER 5

  AS SHE WALKED down the wooden basement steps, Kat could feel the earthen coolness of the room envelop her. She looked at the area she had set up for herself on an old TV tray between the utility sink and the washing machine. It wasn't fancy, but it gave her the solitude that she craved. There was some light streaming in from the four small windows that were just below the ceiling, but the sunlight did nothing to make the room warmer, which on a warm day like today was a bonus. For extra light, she had brought down a floor-standing trilight from the living room, and she used an old wooden folding chair to sit upon.

  Her mother had suggested that she set up a place in the summer kitchen, but Kat knew that she would just have to move her stuff whenever canning or dehydrating was being done. Besides, the summer kitchen was as private as a street intersection.

  Propped up against the basement wall was an oil painting Kat had done while still in elementary school, a basic head and shoulders portrait of her grade 5 teacher. A series of sketches was scotch-taped to the wall nearby, and showed — mostly — people Kat had sketched as they walked by her as she sat on the lawn in front of her house. Others replicated as accurately as Kat could the inside of a nearly empty margarine dish. All of the works were stunningly accurate, but looking at them now, Kat cringed in embarrassment. She now recognized them as workmanlike — almost photographically accurate — but with no artistic interpretation.

  Kat's later works gave her more pride. Ironically, it was the work she was most proud of that had got her kicked out of St. Paul's. It sat on her father's workbench now, tightly wrapped in a baby blanket, as if even in this dim basement it should not be seen. Kat walked over to it and removed the blanket. As she caressed the contours of her prized work, she remembered how it had all started.

  The choice to go to St. Paul's in the first place had been a compromise decision. Kat had gone to St. Sofia's, the Ukrainian Catholic elementary school run through the Catholic school board. There were not enough Orthodox Ukrainians to have their own school, but the Orthodox students who attended St. Sofia's felt very much a part of the school. Aside from the fact that her own mother was the kindergarten teacher, Kat had enjoyed being included in the small close-knit community of less than a hundred students.

  She put her foot down however, when her parents had wanted to enrol her in a private Ukrainian high school. Even her perfect older sister Genya had refused to do that. Art was not an option at that school, and Kat couldn't imagine going to a school where she couldn't take art.

  One problem with St. Paul's was that Genya was already there, and everyone loved her sister and knew her sister. Kat would have preferred a bit of distance from Genya. It was bad enough that Genya had moved into her bedroom, but spending each and every school day under her sister's glorious shadow was a bit much.

  Kat didn't have any other option, though. Her parents wouldn't consider a public high school, and since several of Kat's friends were going to St. Paul's too, she reluctantly agreed to their choice. At least she could take art.

  Aside from art, Religion was mandatory, as were the six other subjects. It had been quite a jolt for her when she started there. Even though she'd been raised Ukrainian Orthodox and was quite familiar with Ukrainian Catholicism because of St. Sofia's, the Roman Catholic tradition was even more different from the religion she was familiar with. She kept on saying things that made the teachers look at her in an odd way — like the day she mentioned in Religion class that she babysat the priest's children.

  "Your priest has children?"Mrs. Reynaud had asked, her brown eyes peering over half moon tortoiseshell eyeglasses. "He was widowed and then became a priest?"

  "No," responded Kat in confusion, "His wife is alive. She works in accounting at the Ford plant."

  "You shouldn't lie," said Mrs. Reynaud sternly. "And it's an especially bad sign when one lies in Religion class. About a priest, no less."

  Her face flushed hot as she remembered the giggles that rippled through the class.

  The next day, Mrs. Reynaud asked her to stay after the bell rang and apologized to her. "I didn't know that Ukrainian Orthodox priests could marry," she explained.

  Kat rolled her eyes in disbelief. Even Ukrainian Catholic priests could marry. Did this woman live in a cave? And it didn't sit well with her that Mrs. Reynaud had jumped to the conclusion that she had lied. As her grandfather, or Dido, always said, a thief always suspects others of stealing.

  That first incident was still fresh in her mind when the second happened. The major Religion assignment of the year was worth 50% of the term mark. Mrs. Reynaud explained that they could use any medium that they wanted.

  "A mural, a newspaper that you've written and designed yourself," she said. "Use your imagination. The theme is the crucifixion and resurrection."

  Kat decided to do a papier mâché sculpture.

  As the project evolved in her mind, Kat got more and more excited. Kat knew that she and Mrs. Reynaud had got off to a bad start and she wanted to prove to the woman how brilliant she was. Mrs. Reynaud had told them to use their imagination, and imagination was something that Kat had in spades.

  Kat pored over the scriptural accounts of the crucifixion, and the image that burned in her mind was of the Virgin Mary at the foot of the Cross, mourning the loss of her son, and feeling the pain of her son. Kat knew how her own mother flinched in pain every time she saw one of her daughters hurt. She remembered how greatly Dido had suffered from the cancer that had killed Baba. Was seeing a loved one in pain worse than experiencing the pain itself? What must it have been like for the mother of God to witness her own child nailed to a cross?

  As Kat bent and twisted the wires into shape and then mounted them onto the wooden stand, she felt love and pain and passion tingle through her fingertips and fashion the wire into unexpected shapes. She mixed the paste and tore the paper into thin strips, and as she applied the paper to the wire frame, the form that evolved surprised even her.

  Once the rough image was formed, Kat left it to dry for a few days, and then she lovingly shaped it and smoothed it with a fine grit sandpaper, then painted the flesh tones, the blood, and the sky blue of the robe.

  Her mother drove her into school on the day it was due because it was too awkward to take on the bus. Kat had the base nestled securely in a box, and the sculpture itself was carefully wrapped in a soft baby blanket.

  "Don't I even get to see it before you hand it in?" asked her mother.

  "You can see it when I bring it home," said Kat.

  It was too unwieldy to fit in her locker, so Kat took it with her to French class and then to art class.

  Mr. Patrick, her art teacher, was very curious at what she had been up to. She had already handed in a remarkably realistic clay sculpture, and an excellent pen and ink still life, so he looked forward to seeing her new works. She let him feel the shape through the blanket. "I can feel the head and the shoulders and a flowing robe ..." He looked up at her and winked. "Grade nine Religion is supposed to be the Crucifixion, not the Virgin."

  Kat just smiled.

  Religion came right after art, and when Kat walked into class, she noticed all sorts of projects sitting on students' desks. Maria had pulled together a last-minute newspaper that looked suspiciously parent-inspired. Another four students had worked together to make an impressively detailed mural showing the seven days leading up to the Resurrection. It was so big that it took up half the length of one wall. Other people had stuck to the
tried and true: essays.

  Mrs. Reynaud came over to Kat's desk and peered over her tortoise-shell half moons at the covered mound in front of her. "What do we have here?"

  Kat could feel her heart beat with anticipation as she unfastened the duct tape that held the baby blanket around her precious creation. As the blanket fell from the sculpture, Kat caressed the back of it lovingly — a flowing blue robe covering the head, shoulders and back of a woman whose arms were outstretched beseechingly.

  The outline of the papier maché sculpture resembled a classic standing, robed saint, but instead of the hands being held together in prayer, they were outstretched wide. A closer look revealed that the sculpture was actually two people, not one.

  In the foreground was Christ nailed to a crucifix, but the crucifix itself was the Virgin Mary — an outstretched figure directly behind Christ. The nails in her son's hands pierced her own. Mary's head was held straight and high in the background, and her son's head was cradled in the crook of her neck, the thorns from his crown piercing the skin of her arm. His bare feet were nailed onto hers, and the wound that pierced his heart pierced right through her chest behind him. Christ wore a ragged loincloth, but Mary was naked with only her son to cover her.

  "What have you done?" shrilled Mrs. Reynaud. "This is blasphemous." All eyes turned in Kat's direction. There were a few gasps of surprise, then chuckles of laughter, as some of the students realized what the sculpture was. The teacher quickly grabbed the baby blanket from Kat's hands and roughly threw it over the sculpture before more students could see.

  "You're coming with me, young Miss. And bring that thing with you."