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НАШЕ ЖИТТЯ • Травень-Червень 2025 25 that my mother and I had embroidered back home, and wore whenever there was a Ukrainian event. Would I have had the courage to do the same? The highlight of our tour, of course, was meeting those rela - tives who had remained in Ukraine after World War II. At the designated time arranged by Intourist, the lobby of our hotel in Lviv overflowed with jabbering family members claiming their American visitors. Almost as quickly as they had arrived, every - one dispersed, leaving me in the lobby alone and crushed. My family had not come for me, and I didn’t know why or what to do next. All I had was the address for my Teta Marijka, who lived outside Lviv. I was not allowed to go there on my own, as it was forbidden to go outside the city limits. I didn’t want to go through official channels — what if my relatives were afraid of the Western connection? I took a walk outside the hotel and eventually sat in a park. A non-descript, sad-looking lady wearing the faded floral that was common saw my distress, and soon I explained my situa - tion. She looked at the address, and with some hesitation, she said her son could get a car and take me, it wasn’t far at all. Immediately I wondered whether she was a clever undercover agent trying to trap me — could I trust her? I told her that I didn’t have much money to pay her; she looked at me wistfully and asked, when I got home, could I send her some embroi - dery threads? I was taken aback. “Nytky”? She asked for any colors, but especially, if possible, “holubi — yak nebo” — blue, like the sky. I decided to take the risk — no agent would have made such a request. We made the arrangement, her son drove me to my aunt’s home, and I had the most extraordinary experience of meeting my many relatives. They had simply never received my letter. They examined me as if I were an alien from outer space, with my shag haircut and miniskirt. My family asked me endless questions about life in the U.S. — the hippies, drugs, race riots, the Vietnam war. They couldn’t understand how we could live in the midst of such lawlessness — holota! But I saw the panic in Teta Marijka’s eyes when my cousin Myron jokingly asked me in the govern - ment “Dollar Store” whether I wanted a portrait of Lenin to take home. Teta Marijka literally dragged him outside for two streets before she stopped to berate him for jeopardizing his family in a government store, of all places, with his stupid joke. I returned home to New York, and my adventures in Ukraine were quickly superseded by the adventures of starting sopho - more year. I had learned that, although my heart and soul were Ukrainian in spirit, the very American concepts of freedom and independence were as deeply imbued in me as breathing. I could not survive in the Ukraine of that era. I am embarrassed to admit that I forgot about my promise to send the wistful lady embroidery threads until I casually men - tioned her request to my mother. She immediately stopped what she was doing to question me about the details of our encounter. My mother, who was much wiser than her foolish daughter, knew how very important those threads must have been to this woman for her to have risked her safety, and her son’s, to help me. Those threads might mean some additional income, or maybe she could barter them for goods or med - ical care. Or perhaps she would have kept the sky-blue threads for her own embroidery, finding solace or joy in her embroidery while living in a very difficult world. My mother bought enough threads to embroider a wall, and we sent them to this lady in small batches. We never heard from her, but we hope that the threads, from our house to hers, made a difference. Something as commonplace as thin embroidery threads formed an unbreakable link between the women in this story, and with Ukrainian women far beyond, those who have been and who will be. Irena Sawchyn Doll during her university years.
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