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21 НАШЕ ЖИТТЯ • Грудень 2022 Marta Zielyk is a second-generation Soyuzianka, and a regular contributor to Our Life , as is her mother, Larysa Zielyk, whose recollections of Rizdvo (in Ukrainian) immediate - ly precede this story. our list. The big iron door gave way only when we all pushed it open, and we entered a dark, narrow hallway. I wanted to check the apartment number of the person on our list, but the names on the mailboxes had worn off and were unreadable. Before I could stop them, the girls ran up the stairs and knocked on the first door they saw. It took a few seconds, but the door final - ly opened, just a bit, and a shaky voice in accented English asked: “Who ees dere?” The girls ig - nored the fact that the question was in English and shouted in Ukrainian “Колядники! Можна зайти?” (Carolers, can we come in?). Instead of an answer, the door opened further, and we en - tered. The woman who stood before us answered our greetings in Ukrainian, but hesitantly, as if she couldn’t quite understand what was going on. She leaned heavi - ly on a small table, head bowed, her gray hair combed into one long braid that almost reached her waist. While the girls caroled with their usual enthusiasm, I looked around. The room seemed large but maybe because it was so sparsely furnished. There was a single bed in one corner, neat - ly made up with a threadbare blanket. Several pairs of worn shoes peeked out from under the bed. The small table on which the woman leaned held a pair of glasses with one cracked lens, a newspaper, and a chipped mug. The room, weakly lit, seemed dank and airless. It clearly reflect - ed the reduced circumstances of this elderly woman who was watching us intently. We finished our carol and wished her “Христос Раждається” (Christ is born). There was a long silence. Then speaking so soft - ly that we all leaned forward to hear her, she said: “It has been so long since anyone came to visit me at Christmas. I am so grateful for your carol. Thank you.” Her eyes filled with tears as she nerv - ously rolled a handkerchief into a tight little ball. Not quite sure what to do, the novachky head - ed for the door, but she stopped them. She went to a low wooden chest and pulled something out from under a pile of yellowed tablecloths. It was a small pep - per tin, which she upended on the table. Out fell coins: pennies, nickels, a few dimes. “I want to give this to you for your koliada ,” she said. “I know it’s not much, but it’s all I have. Your singing was so beautiful, and I haven’t heard it in so long.” She scooped the coins back into the box and thrust it into the hands of one very surprised novachka . There was so much I wanted to say to the woman, but I didn’t trust my own voice. I knew it would betray my emotions. Back out on the street, my girls counted the coins from the pep - per box: 99 cents. Their faces registered childish disappoint - ment: “Not even a whole dol - lar,” they said. I chided them gently and tried to explain what had just happened. This woman probably collected the coins for months, one at a time, tucking them away where they would be safe. Perhaps for an emergency need? Or a small treat? I knew the girls didn’t realize what a gift they had just given her and what a gift they had received in return. But I knew, and every Christmas when I sing “Boh Predvichnyi” around our family table on Sviat Vechir , I flash back to the gift of 99 cents, the most generous gift I have ever witnessed.
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