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20 WWW.UNWLA.ORG “НАШЕ ЖИТТЯ”, ТРАВЕНЬ 2014 the place where she was staying." "It wasn't a letter. It was a postcard ." "I can take a look to see if the postcard has been returned." "If you would be so kind , sir." "To whom was the card addressed?" "To my daughter." "You have to give me her name and the place where she is staying." The old woman told him, and the clerk opened a thick book in which undelivered and returned let- ters were registered . He moved his finger down the long list of names, and the old woman anx- iously followed every movement of his hand. After a lengthy moment , the clerk paused. "Did you find anything , sir?" "It appears that her place of residence hasn't changed. I'll look for the card right now." He went up to a big cupboard , pulled out a large bundle of mail , and began to sift through it . Ah yes , there it was. "Is this your card?" the clerk asked . "Would you read it to me , please? I don't know how to read and write, but I know what was in it because I told the neighbour's boy what to write ." The clerk hesitated. "Please , if you would be so kind!" the old wom- an pleaded . The clerk began to read: "My dear child! I beg you not to leave your work . You have a job that isn't too bad; they pay you well, and so you can help me a bit too. You know that you're the only one who can help me. I can no longer earn mon- ey, because I 've grown old and sick . I live only on what you send me. So , I beg you , do as I say. I wish you all the best a hundred times over. Your old mother ." "Yes, yes, that's my card. The boy must have written down the wrong address, and so my daughter did not get it ." The clerk read out the address to the old wom- an . It was correct . But next to the address there was a note in someone else's handwriting. "Why didn't they send the card there? Some- thing's wrong!" "It was sent there, my dear woman , but it says that... " The terrible words did not want to pass through the clerk 's lips. "It says here that... the addressee is deceased." He passed the postcard to the old woman, and she reached for it in a daze , staring with bewil- dered eyes at the clerk, who could not hide his agitation . Holding the ill-fated postcard in her hands , she slowly dragged herself to the door. Four words -so short and official -but they had shattered her heart . No, no! This could not be true! It was impossible! Her daughter was her only mainstay in her old age ... Her deare st daughter , her whole world... "Please, sir," she said to a young man who happened to be passing by. "What's written on this card? Here, at the top." The young man took the card and , seeing the trepidation in the wary eyes of the old woman, said sympathetically: "The addressee is de- ceased. " It was only now she believed that the terrible news was true —her only child was no longer alive . She was no longer alive , she had died ... She had died far away from home , among strangers. There had been no one to care for her in her ill- ness, no one to hand her a candle when she was dying, no one to prepare her body for burial... "She's dead. .. dead .. . " her pale lips whispered , and tears streamed from her eyes. Her feet stepped forward mechanically and , be- fore she knew it , she was on the road that led to the place where her child had lived. She had only one thought -to see the place where people had buried her dearest treasure. The sun sank behind the hills , and twilight blanketed the earth, but she walked on and on without stopping . Finally , exhaustion forced her to rest . She sat down by the side of the road and , almost instantly, sleep closed her weary eyelids. The darkness of night descended, autumnal fogs rose above the hayfields , and frozen droplet s of dew coalesced on the yellow leaves of the trees... The sun rose in a flash of glory. It vanquished the fog , and the frozen dew glittered like dia- monds on the withered grass. But this beauty of nature was frigid. It did not delight human hearts, for it foreshadowed the ebbing of life. The old woman lay lifeless in the ditch. The postcard was still in her hands and, in the bright sunlight , four words shimmered under the frozen dew: "The addressee is deceased. " English translation by Roma Franko; edited by Sonia Morris Reprinted with permission from But...The Lord Is Silent: Selected Prose Fiction by Olha Kobylianska and Yevheni- ya Yaroshynska. (Women's Voices in Ukrainian Litera- ture, Vol. IV) Saskatoon, SK, Canada: Language Lanterns Publications, 1999. Pp. 454-6.
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