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FROM THE DIARY OF A UKRAINIAN HOUSEWIFE LIGHTS OUT IN FEOPHONIA BY DMZ We piled out of a van, gasping for fresh air, into a courtyard in front of our hotel in Feophonia. No one said a word but our faces screamed our disappointment. At one time, the five story structure had beautiful iron work on its balconies; now rust tinted rainwater made brown stripes down the white painted walls. Smart, dark gray granite panels framed the entrance door, exemplifying the un tidiness of socialist house painters. A six inch stripe of white paint crossed the top of the granite. Tall grass and low shrubbery obscured the building. As our tour guide went inside to announce our arrival and get our room assignments, the driver unloaded our luggage and drove off. We remained huddled together in the courtyard. And then we saw them. They had been there all the time, a dozen or more children and a few mothers standing around the courtyard. The children were thrilled to see us, eager to look at us, and as their voices reached a crescendo of welcome and glee, the mood changed. By now, our Japanese-made and American bought suitcases on wheels, easy to maneuver on terrazzo floors, were keeling over on the uneven stones of the courtyard. The children rushed to help, the smallest reaching for the largest suitcases. And so this amazing entourage entered the lobby of the hotel. Like "Alice Through the Looking Glass" we entered a place transformed into Wonderland. Facing the main entrance was a double white marble staircase centered by a very large window. To the left of the stairs, in a wood panelled nook, was the reception desk; to the right, the archway to the dining room. A side wall was hung with intricate tapestries and the children, pointing with pride, directed us to the elevator. Our rooms were large, suites really, the woodwork, floors and windows all telling of yesterday's elegance made a bit shabby by today's furnishings. The dining room, where we assembled for dinner, held more mystical charms. It was a circular room, its black painted walls reflecting the Ukrainian gift for art, dramatically exhibiting totems depicting scenes from Ukrainian mythology interspersed with polished, knotted tree trunks. The low lighting added to the illusion of being in a forest. From a giant tree stump, the mythical blossom of the fern bloomed in great profusion. A carving of Dazh-boh with long golden whiskers presided over the table like an honored guest. That night, it was the children who kept us from sleeping. Long past ten, they were out in the courtyard, chattering and laughing. There was a strange familiarity to the sounds, not the kind of familiarity one associates with everyday experiences, but the familiarity of something more remote, something remembered. And as I was drifting off to sleep, I remembered the long ago voices of children, I among them, in the courtyard of a DP camp, playing late into a summer's evening, annoyed at the mothers who tried to chase them to bed. I fell asleep touching my roots. The next afternoon, the children came again. One of the mothers shyly told us they had prepared a surprise for us. That evening the lights went out, but the children would not be deterred. On the second floor landing, one of the teen-aged boys lit a tall candle and the rest of us followed him up the marble staircase, now in the glow of the candlelight, strangely iridescent. We were led to a large room with a piano against one wall. The boy carrying the candle placed it on the piano, negating the darkness. In a theater like hush, we waited, our sense made more acute by the darkness and the candlelight. A girl with long dark hair played Chopin. Then, one by one, the children were introduced and performed. There was a four year old girl singing a folk song, two young fellows as comics, a village sketch by a trio of teenagers, a girls' duet, poetry recitation, and a haunting guitar recital by the candle carrier. The candle flickered on. When the program ended, conversation began. They asked, we answered. All in the light of one candle. We were told later that the electricity had come back on that night, but no one bothered to throw the switch. There was no dinner and none of the promised hot water - nothing to break the spell. The next day the children bid us farewell as they had welcomed us, with chatter and giggles, their jaws now busy with the chewing gum we had distributed. Back in America, the enchantment of Feophania has not receded. The children still roam the courtyard on a warm summer evening. They sing songs and make jokes and recite poems and play tricks; they spin dreams and make magic. The lights may go out in Feophania, but as long as there is one lit candle in the hands of the children, there will not be darkness. 14 ’’НАШЕ ЖИТТЯ”, КВІТЕНЬ 1997 Видання C оюзу Українок A мерики - перевидано в електронному форматі в 2012 році . A рхів C У A - Ню Йорк , Н . Й . C Ш A.
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