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16 WWW.UNWLA.ORG “НАШЕ ЖИТТЯ”, БЕРЕЗЕНЬ 2018 Mama’s Flowers by Maria Hordynskyj Holian Translated from Ukrainian by Lubomyra Smolyj Bakopoulos 1943. Halychyna (Western Ukraine) was under German occupation. My mother, Vasylyna Kryzhaniwska Hordynskyj, was working at the post office in Ivano-Franskivsk. My grandmother (Babtsia) Maria Kryzhanivska lived in the village of Horodenka. While working in the field, her thoughts always centered on her daughter, her beloved Vasylynka. Whenever, she could, she would sell her produce in the city mar- ket. It was there that a young man transporting produce from the village to the city approached my Babtsia and told her he was going to Ivano-Frankivsk. Babtsia’s heart was overjoyed at the chance that this young man might be able to deliver her favorite flowers from her well-tended garden to Vasylynka at the post office. Babtsia asked for the favor. The young man graciously agreed and delivered them. Soon after, the news came that the Russians were fast approaching, and the Germans were retreat- ing. Mama got the message that she must flee, just as many others were doing. The emigration began. Mama took her precious gift, her flowers, with her—they were her last contact with her dear Mother and her beloved village. Holding the flowers in her hands while traveling in an uncovered and crowded wagon, weary and soon falling asleep, Mama saw her mother in a dream, and suddenly awoke, catching herself at the very edge of the wagon. Protected from a fall by her mother, she survived the displaced person’s camp in Ger- many and eventually came to America with her husband, Roman Hordynskyj. Mama brought her treasured flowers with her to America, always keeping them close to her. One day, she told me the story of how she had received a big bouquet of flowers from Babtsia. My child’s eyes envisioned a huge, colorful bouquet of flowers, the kind I had seen in a florist’s shop. “Let me see!” I excitedly asked. Mama brought out the flowers: dried, tiny, and fragile. I grew up. Mama passed away. I kept the flowers close to me, dear to me, just as Mama had. Even- tually, the chance came to travel to where this story began—the village of Horodenka. I met my family there—a long awaited dream. They told me that we would go to Batsia’s grave. “What should I bring to Babtsia’s grave?” I thought. “I will bring the flowers that she gave to Mama.” I filled an envelope with a few of the flowers and kept the rest for myself. Showing them to my family, I asked, “What kind of flowers are these?” “These are field flowers,” they told me, “romashky.” I came to the realization that Babtsia had picked flowers from the field. She loved the land, and every flower was precious to her. My relatives took me to visit Babtsia’s grave, and I laid the flowers there. I still keep the remaining flowers and look at them often, remembering their history of love, of separation, of endurance. These romashky now hang in a frame on my wall. Gazing at them, I feel the presence of Babtsia, of Mama, of Ukraine, of God the Father, and of Jesus, who walked upon the earth and preached. “Look at the flowers of the field, how they grow: They neither weave nor spin. So do not trouble yourselves. Your heavenly Father knows what you need. Search first for the Kingdom of God and His jus- tice.” (Matthew 6:28-33) The author is president of UNWLA Branch 81, Detroit. The kiss of the sun for pardon, The song of the birds for mirth. One is nearer God’s heart in a garden Than anywhere else on earth. - Dorothy Gurney, 1913
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