Where Cherries Grow (Ukrainian Anecdote)

Where Cherries Grow (Ukrainian anecdote)

 In the days of the childhood, I was often left to spend a month or two of summer time in the house of my grandparents. They lived in a sleepy Ukrainian town on the cherry covered shore of the river that cuts the country on two on its grand way to the sea. Those long evenings under the cherries smelled candies, the glowing bugs flew overhead and among looking them up, illuminated by the glow faces of the kids there was mine and of my two brothers too. Next to our house was a park that everyone called “sadok”, the Ukrainian for a garden, - a verdant place with goats tied to the tree trunks. We kids fed them with the fresh leaves and later drunk their hot milk from the aluminum mugs held for us by the worn-out hands of war widows that owned the goats. The cherry trees in sadok were of all sorts and gave the fruits of all sizes, colors and tastes. Their friendly branches invited to climb and were so comfortable that we slept up there often, safe and cozy on their polished by our elbows and knees wide boughs.

On the other side of sadok was the bakery. Rows of the cooling down, just baked loafs of bread seemed to be only a stretch of a hand away from the fence as we stayed on the other side of it and breathed in their hot and sweet flavor. Farther down, behind the bushes, was the factory hostel where women workers had their lodgings. Hiding in those bushes from the hostile party of other boys we saw the women running up and down the stairs of the entrance and that view was as common and uninteresting as the passage of the clouds in the sky. A few other characters, as well as cats and dogs with names were the regular passersby through sadok. There was a man, an invalid of war or of some accident, we didn’t know. Walking heavily, he’d stop to watch us for a while before tottering farther by the swaying, concave path with high grass on both sides.

One especially long evening, too tired to play anymore, as the bunch of dropped ripe cherries we were lying on the grass under the trees and watched the stars, when in the silence we heard the sounds of the heavy breathing that was coming from the bushes. Curiously were approached. At one of the holes in fence there stayed the old man. His looking up with widely open mouth face was lit by the light that came from the windows of the hostel’s second floor where behind the curtains could be seen the silhouettes of people. The man hungrily watched their moves and, his hands, deep between his legs, rhythmically shook. The oldest of us, the neighboring boy, to whose presence in sadok our grandma always frowned, picked up the stone and threw at the man. The breathing stopped, but then began again. The boy picked up another stone and this time we joined him. I barely understood what was happening. Under the hail of stones, quietly sobbing, the old man picked up his sack and hobbled through the bushes away…

My heart was yet booming as the big orchestral drum when we returned home. The grandma immediately sensed the unusual and, having the extraordinary intuition, an “investigative talent” as grandpa was putting it, knew everything at once. We were sent to beds but couldn’t sleep and for a long time heard behind the wall the hum of the intense conversation between grandparents.

Morning greeted us not only by the bright sun but by the delicious smell of the pastry coming from the kitchen. Soft and sleepy, we pushed each other to get in there first. Grandma stood on our way – it is not for you. Then came grandpa. He was wearing a suit with war medals pinned to its lapels. He studied our faces it seemed for eternity, and then said: “We are going to have a trip” … “And no sadok for three days.”

After the breakfast grandma went away and came back wearing striy (Ukrainian women’s dress) of black and red. Shining brown noses of the laced boots were sticking from under the long skirt and on her head was her best hustka (shawl). “Let’s go” they said and so we went, in a procession, grandfather in suit, grandma with pastry swathed in the snow-white cloth, and behind them solemn us, me and my brothers - six green from antiseptic knees. When we walked the hot sun reflected from grandpa’s medals right into our eyes every time when he turned to look at us. It dimly played on grandma’s boots. People greeted us for everyone knew everyone. Then the big black car, the only vehicle in town, that belonged to the secretary of the Party Committee passed us and stopped softly ahead. The rear window rolled down just as we reached the car.

“Good health, Volodymyr Efroiymovitch!”, the voice came from the invisible man inside.

“Good health, Petro Ivanovitch!”, answered grandpa.

“Having a stroll?”

“Yes, Petro Ivanovitch, having a stroll, it is a beautiful day.” We were all sweating. For a few moments no one said a word.

“But say, Elizaveta Hurievna,” the voice eventually broke the silence, “do you still have that bottle of cherry vodka, that you promised to keep just for me?”

After slightly too long a pause grandma said in a cheerful manner: “O, Petro Ivanovitch, now when you opened our secret, I don’t know if it will last till your next visit…” and she comically glanced at grandpa.

The voice turned to cough, that apparently meant laugh. Then it stopped. “Good day”, blankly came from inside and the window rolled up. We stood for a while watching the car slowly moving away…

 As we resumed our walk, grandma leaned on her husband and he tenderly covered her shoulder with his big palm.

The houses ended and the potato fields began. There, in a cabin at the edge of the woods the old man from sadok lived. As we approached it, grandma pulled a black subject from the pocket in her skirt, yarmulke, and placed it on the grandpa’s head. He carefully adjusted it and reassuringly smiled to us, let’s go.

The dog on the chain threw a bark, loud enough for the owner to hear. The door of the cabin cracked opened. The old man came out, squinting at us against the bright sun. He recognized the grandpa and grandma and then looked pass them, at us. Still holding the handle of the door as if willing to close it at once, he lowered his eyes and gravely stared at the ground in front of him.

“Good health, Yosip Yosipovitch!” was a friendly voice of grandpa.

“Good health…” He looked up intensely and then lifted his free hand to cover his eyes.

“Yosip Yosipovitch, don’t you want to try my pirozhki, I was said they taste good, right boys?” said grandma with a little bow.

“We didn’t eat them yet”, grimly said Vovka, my stepbrother.

The old man advanced and took the parcel from her hands without looking at her. Grandpa cleared his throat and said:

“Yosip Yosipovitch, I’d like to have a word with you…”

They went inside, and we, grandma, us and dog remained motionless outside. We heard the voice of grandpa, strict, then less, a stifled crying of the old man. It lasted pretty long, then the door opened and they went out. The old man’s face was red. He was still holding to the parcel, never let it go. Grandpa and grandma exchanged a quick look mixed with the smile.

Granma said: “Look, Yosip Yosipovitch, we live in one town but you never visit us. Please come! You and my husband must share so much memories as you were almost in the same unit…”

“We were on the different fronts!” yelled grandpa, pretended to be hurt by such gross estimation. The old man smiled to this exchange and said quietly:

“I will, thank you…”

“Forgive us” suddenly said Vovka, and grandma placed her hand on his head… “Forgive us...” I echoed.

We went home the way we came, in a procession, but there was no heavy load on any of us anymore. Grandpa carried his head high as if yarmulke, that grandma hid again, was still on it, and we were marching behind, kicking each other and playing ball with the rotten plums, accustomed to the fact that the next three days we’ll have to spend in the company of the puppies that our dog Pingo had just given birth to.

In three days, we were allowed to go to sadok again. Apprehensively we stepped under the nearest row of cherries and played there the whole day. But when the evening came, we went deeper and found ourselves near the fence of the hostel. Behind the curtains of the lit windows there could be seen the figures of women. I looked at my brothers. They watched them too.

                                                                                           VR