Читать книгу Yaroslaw's Treasure - Myroslav Petriw - Страница 11

Part I

VANCOUVER, CANADA

August 2002

YAROSLAW HELD the tiller in his right hand while tensioning the mainsheet with his left. Heeling to starboard, the sailboat seemed to come alive. Releasing his grip on the main, Yaroslaw switched hands and turned to tilt the outboard motor out of the water. Astern, the boat’s wake painted a smooth ribbon on the water. To port, low hills were interspersed with buildings and trees. To starboard, a forested peninsula jutted into the wide bay against a backdrop of more distant mountains. The sloop rocked as it broke across some waves, a forgotten wake reflected off a stony beach. Yarko returned his attention to matters of sailing. Reducing his pull on the tiller, he pointed the boat more sharply into the wind. Instantly the boat heeled even more and picked up another knot of speed against the splashing of salty foam.

“I see your seamanship has improved,” said Yarko’s father, Mirko, as he quickly hardened the starboard jib sheet to match the new heading. “You’re learning fast.”

“The world is for the young, Dad,” said Yarko with his wry smile, “and you’re getting a bit old for this.”

Mirko raised his eyebrows at his son’s remark and cuffed him affectionately on the head. Despite their teasing of each other, father and son were close. Mirko was also proud of his son. At twenty years old, Yarko had turned into quite a good-looking young man. He wasn’t tall, but his broad shoulders spoke of many a late hour in the gym. He had finished his third year of university and had been accepted into medical school. This caused his mother no end of joy, although Yarko himself was not looking forward to the long nights of study.

Such thoughts were on everyone’s mind as the family enjoyed their last cruise of the summer. The Vancouver sun still shone warmly, but gone was the mid-summer heat wave of early August.

“I smell a hint of fall in the air,” said Luba, Yarko’s mom, as she climbed from the cabin to join the men on deck. She had been resting below while Yarko and Mirko were busy on deck. She had waited until the sails were raised, the motor silenced, the fenders put away, the docking lines coiled and hung below, and a steady northwest course set. When this chaos of a dozen tasks on deck calmed down, Luba left the cabin to enjoy the warmth of the sun and the scenery of the Pacific coast. Her chestnut-brown hair was flecked with bronze and gold. Dark eyes sparkled from under her bangs as she stretched her legs in search of that last chance for a tan. She looked more like Yarko’s older sister than his mother.

“Less than two weeks to go before school,” she added with a hint of satisfaction well understood by all mothers. “Then I’ll finally have some rest.”

From the darkness of the cabin a voice protested this ominous forecast. Mark, Yarko’s eighteen-year-old brother, climbed out of the cabin’s opening, his mouth still bearing the reddish evidence of a feast of barbecue chips.

“You look like a clown,” teased Yarko, with a sarcasm that was sure to elicit a response.

“And you’re an asshole,” came the predictable response. “I’ll kick your ass in the water.”

Mark always had the last word. Although younger, he was taller and no less muscled, so this was no empty threat. But Yarko ignored Mark’s challenge. There would be no crisis, as the brothers loved each other in a way only brothers can.

* * *

The sailboat was called Tryzub, Ukrainian for trident, the heraldic symbol of the Ukrainian coat of arms. A blue-and-yellow flag fluttered on the starboard shroud. In this way, Yarko’s father maintained the memory of a country he had actually never seen. It was August 24, 2002 – the eleventh anniversary of the proclamation of Ukrainian independence. The trip was the family’s way of celebrating.

The Tryzub sailed past anchored freighters, tacking twice before finally aligning her course with the evergreen shores of the Sunshine Coast. The metropolis of Greater Vancouver, with a population of nearly two million, lay but a few miles behind, but the steep pine-covered shore of Bowen Island off the starboard bow betrayed no sign of mankind’s presence at this distance. That was the remarkable nature of this place. Despite its growing population, Vancouver had not scarred the primordial beauty of its surroundings. The rugged shorelines were covered in evergreen forest. Distant peaks glistened white against the azure sky. The Georgia Strait, which divides Vancouver Island from the mainland of British Columbia, provided sheltered waters for small craft to explore its various islands. Setting a course northward, Yarko had the westerly wind on his port beam.

The Tryzub held this comfortable course all day, until the setting sun threatened to slip behind the mountains of Vancouver Island. Deprived of its energy source, the wind died to a whisper. For a brief moment, the orange sun to port scattered a path of fiery flecks on the waters leading towards distant Schooner Cove on Vancouver Island. Yarko squinted, scanning for other watercraft, or the barges and log booms that were a constant hazard in these waters. None could be seen. Before them rose the dark mass of Lemberg Point on South Thormanby Island. Yarko knew, from countless lessons in Ukrainian history, that Lemberg was the Austrian name for the Ukrainian city Lviv, the City of Lions. Yarko’s grandparents had emigrated from Lviv during the Second World War.

The boat’s destination was a bay just to the west of Lemberg Point. Mirko dropped the leg of the outboard back into the water and started the motor. Yarko now steered a westerly course while his dad busied himself lowering the sails. Mark went below to find a jacket. It was getting chilly.

* * *

“Could I go to Europe, Dad?” Yarko asked. He was dreaming of the beaches of the French Riviera, the limitless autobahns of Germany, and the vestiges of imperial splendour in Vienna. “Not now, I mean, like, next year. Next summer. I can make enough money to cover both school and the trip.”

His father thought for a moment before answering, casting a long glance at the shoreline. “I understand. I think I just might agree to that. You’re certainly at that age when you need to explore the world, to spread your wings. However, you should also go to Ukraine, for at least a week.”

“Damn it, Dad! I don’t want to go to Ukraine. There’s nothing there for me. And my Ukrainian isn’t all that good. I’d rather go to Austria, then to Germany or France.”

“Not quite true, Yarko. There is a reason for you to go. For one, by going there you’ll improve your Ukrainian.” After a long pause, he continued. “Just go to Lviv, where our family comes from. You’ll love it there.”

“How’s that going to be fun? Damn it, Dad, it’s like going for a full week of fucking Ukrainian school right after finishing my semester.” Yarko was boiling over from all the subtle pressure a young Ukrainian feels all his life. Learn the language, sing the songs, read the books, find a Ukrainian girl, and so on. He could find no room for Ukraine in his fantasy vacation. He was sensing that his father would try to bargain with him. That unsubtle pressure was likely to last to the next summer.

Mirko rose to the bait. “Watch your language, Yarko.” Then he stopped. There’s no room for argument on a small sailing craft.

Behind another tree-covered point of land was the entrance to a narrow bay. The sun had set and dark shadows already hid the details of the shore as they entered the bay. Mark had the task of dropping the anchor off the bow. Yarko revved the motor in reverse to set the anchor. The bow swung around to point at the spot where the anchor had found grip. The boat stopped. Yarko shut off the outboard, then walked forward to check the anchor line. Dark grey clouds, outlined in purple and pink, covered the western sky. Mark dropped through the cabin opening to join his mother below decks. Luba had set about cooking a warm meal on the alcohol stove. Yarko and his dad stayed on deck, hanging fenders and rechecking the anchor to ensure that it held secure and that the boat was not drifting.

“Dinner is served,” Luba called.

“Coming,” Yarko replied as he walked back to the cockpit. He followed his father through the opening and down the two steps to the cabin. Chopped-up sausages in pasta with sauce with shredded cheese tasted like a gourmet meal after a day of sailing.

“Mom,” Yarko began after taking a gulp of pop, “I was telling Dad that I plan to go to Europe next summer – you know, Germany, Austria, maybe France.”

“Sounds nice,” said Luba. “Are you sure you’ll be able to afford it?”

“No problem. I’ll have enough. It’s not that bad if one buys the Eurorail pass.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“But Dad wants me to visit Ukraine.” Yarko knew exactly where to look for an ally.

“No way!” exclaimed Luba. “What for? It’s way too dangerous. They are killing reporters and politicians all the time. No way. I’m not going to spend sleepless nights worrying about you.”

“Come on,” said Mirko. “You’re overreacting. It’s nowhere near that bad. And what’s more, Yarko is not a politician or reporter.”

“So they’ll rob him and leave him naked in the street like they did to what’s-his-name.”

“Sounds like a helluva way to meet girls …” Mirko grumbled to himself, fully realizing that he was already outvoted and outgunned, and all further arguments would be futile.

Yarko was stuffing his face with more pasta and sausages, knowing that he wouldn’t need to add anything more to the discussion. He did not participate very much in further dinner conversation. The subject matter had been changed to the scenery and experiences of the day’s sailing. A day of sun and wind had taken a lot out of them, so the family crawled into their sleeping bags quite early.

But Yarko couldn’t sleep. He stepped out on deck. His mind was a hive of conflicting thoughts and feelings. He needed to be alone. He stood by the mast and watched as clouds alternately covered and uncovered the moon. He stood there feeling waves of anger and guilt. He was still angered by memories of the force-feeding of Ukrainian school, Ukrainian soccer, Ukrainian boy scouts, and Ukrainian church. He had resented taking language courses, which earned him no credits, and being subtly pressured to find himself a Ukrainian girl. Hell, how do you go about doing that in Vancouver?

These feelings of anger and resentment were gradually replaced by something else. It was a physical pain in his gut. It was the feeling of guilt. He felt guilty for rejecting his Ukrainian upbringing. He could see no real use for it in his life here on the west coast of Canada. And yet all those stories of heroic battles, the stories of struggles amid the deprivation suffered by direct members of his family – they somehow demanded similar achievements from him personally. Nobody actually said this to him. It was just the legacy of growing up ethnic. And every day that he shirked this undefined obligation only added to the guilt that he now felt.

A warm hand touched his shoulder.

“Crazy, this business of being Ukrainian,” said his father. “There once was this homeland that you couldn’t live in. Within the span of one generation, the city of Lviv was ruled by …” He paused to ensure he got the order right. “… Austrians, Ukrainians, Poles, Russians, Germans, and then Russians again. The poet Taras Shevchenko lived most of his life exiled outside of Ukraine.” Mirko was speaking of the Ukrainian equivalent of Robbie Burns. “He was in Russia when he wrote the poem titled ‘To the Dead, To the Living, To the Yet Unborn,’ which defined better than anything written before or since, that four-dimensional concept of a nation.”

This was exactly the reason why Yarko was feeling that guilty pain deep in his gut.

“‘Study, my brothers, Think and read. And study foreign things, But do not reject your own, for he who rejects his mother is shunned by all’,” his father quoted from the poem, adding acid to that ulcer in Yarko’s gut.

“It’s not easy, son,” his father added. “It just seems to be the price all Ukrainians pay. Here, hang on to this. I was going to read it. But heck, I’ve read it before. It’s The Kobzar, the collection of Shevchenko’s poetry.” Mirko squeezed a hardcover book into Yarko’s hands. “This one belonged to my father; although I guess it must have been my grandmother who brought it from Ukraine. The darn thing has to be over seventy years old.”

Thankfully, Mirko left without adding any further to Yarko’s turmoil. Yarko felt the boat rock slightly as his father stepped down the ladder to the cabin. Unconsciously, he squeezed the book in his hand. Again he was alone on the deck.

Yarko stood leaning against the mast for a long time. The moon slipped out from behind the clouds and momentarily lit the waters with a thousand sparks. Yarko’s spirits brightened for that moment. The shoreline that had been wrapped in black now revealed a wet tangle of roots, driftwood, and rocks. The tide was rising, and so the shore seemed different and farther away than it had been just an hour before. Yarko looked around to reassure himself that the anchor was still holding. But then a thick black cloud covered the moon. The cramp in Yarko’s gut returned. The stars that had been peeking from between these clouds winked out one by one. The night turned to solid blackness. The horizon that had still been recognizable far beyond the entrance to the cove disappeared into equal blackness above and below. Yarko could no longer tell where the sea ended and the sky began. He felt dizzy for a moment. He glanced down at the fibreglass deck of the boat to regain his balance as he grabbed at the shrouds for support. The slight movement of the boat on the incoming tide caused the anchor line to silently slice the surface of the sea, stirring a wake of yellow-green phosphorescence where it entered the water just off the port bow.

The cramp in Yarko’s gut gradually eased and he felt well enough to make his way back to the cockpit. A single white anchor light, as required by boating regulations, shone on a pole affixed to the transom. He sat down and leaned against the railing.

He looked at the tattered book. It spoke of its own rough history. There must be as many stories on the cover as inside it, he thought. He knew exactly why his dad had dug this relic up from the bottom of an old hat box. His dad’s uncle had passed away that summer. Since Yarko’s grandfather had died many decades ago, that left Yarko’s father as the oldest surviving member of the family. The living links with the family’s past had been severed. That was the reason that this ragged Kobzar was again seeing the light of day.

The white vessel-at-anchor lamp threw just enough light that Yarko could leaf through the book. He had no intention of reading it just now, but about two-thirds of the way through he found a makeshift place marker. Yarko looked at it closely. It was a very old, yellowed envelope. The front of it had a purplish stamp cancelled with a smudged imprint. The words read “80 Groschen, Generalgouvernement,” and a small swastika could still be made out on the stamp. The return address clearly read “19 Koronska, Lemberg, Distrikt Galizien, Generalgouvernement.”

The envelope was addressed in German and Yarko couldn’t make out the cursive writing well enough to read it. He looked inside and pulled out a small, carefully folded letter, written on what seemed like tissue paper. Yarko began deciphering the script.

April 24, 1944

Dearest Slavko,

I hope you are well. It’s hard to wish you a Happy Birthday in these circumstances. I’m sure you already know that Father died on March 29. It was not possible for any of us to attend the funeral. I don’t think we will ever learn exactly where he is buried. Fortunately the rest of the family is staying healthy. We supplement what foodstuffs we can buy with preserves from last year. This supply has almost run out. But that no longer matters.

The front lines are near Brody. We can hear the artillery every night. Pidzamche station has been bombed. Ours is the only house on the street that does not have cracked windows. The situation is such that we have decided to leave home and seek safety in the West. Mother and grandmother will be working in the Zeisswerke factory in Jena near Leipzig. Can you believe it? They will both be Ostarbeiters. But I don’t think I can work in a city. The green forest is much more to my liking.

The Gestapo has come around searching again. I think they like our house too much. Dyzio has come to visit, so he will help with the packing. I know how much you worry about it but I have managed to keep your ancient treasure well protected. Unfortunately, it is much too cumbersome to take along with us and too precious to risk getting destroyed. There are many papers and things that we must also leave behind. We can only take what we can wear or carry in our hands. Mother is packaging all these family heirlooms along with yours. Tomorrow, with Dyzio’s help, we will bury them in that place by the coal furnace in the basement. Mother doesn’t think we will ever see Lviv again. The Nimci are kaput. She says it will be our children or grandchildren that will eventually find what we are hiding. God willing.

Mother will write you from Jena. Keep healthy and safe

Take care

Koko

Yarko was not wearing a sweater, so he was shivering in the chilly air of the night. In his hands was a letter to Yarko’s late grandfather, from the youngest of his two brothers. It was written as the family was preparing to leave the country that they had so loved. Yarko could pick out one of the code words. He knew that the reference to green forest meant that Koko intended to join the Ukrainian underground, the UPA. This letter was, in fact, Koko’s last contact with his oldest brother. Koko was to disappear shortly after that. He would have no contact with any of his family until after he returned to Ukraine from the Siberian Gulag in the 1970s.

But what intrigued Yarko most was the reference in the letter to his grandfather’s precious ancient treasure. He had no idea what it could be. He had never been told of any such family treasure, yet now he sat holding the key to it in his hands. His restless brain began to dream of treasures far beyond anything that could be logically gleaned from the letter. A fantasy about treasure-hunting adventures was already playing in his mind. A side trip to Ukraine during next year’s vacation was starting to look a lot more interesting.

After quietly committing himself to actually making this trip to Ukraine, he found that those conflicting feelings of anger, resentment, and guilt that he had felt but an hour before were receding. Mixed with the developing excitement about the prospect of a visit to Ukraine was a sense of anxiety, trepidation, and foreboding. Yarko knew well that the Ukraine of President Leonid Kuchma was no Disneyland.