Genya tolerated the clothing mess, but she had put her foot down when it came to partly finished art projects strewn on the floor, thumb nailed to the wall, and perched precariously on various flat surfaces. After a few sharp exchanges, Kat had been forced to banish her projects to the basement. She wouldn't have minded so much if Genya had at least let her keep the sculpture that had caused her all the trouble at St. Paul's in their now-shared room. But Genya hated that sculpture most of all.
Kat opened the curtains and peered outside. Her mother's car hadn't pulled up yet. Her father would be home in less than hour. Kat would have a bit of time to gather her thoughts in the solitude of the basement, surrounded by her art before it was time for supper.
CHAPTER 4
THERE WAS A bathroom on the main floor of the house that Danylo shared with his daughter and son-in-law. Danylo stepped inside for a quick shower to wash off the garden dirt and sweat from his afternoon outside. Once he finished, he tied the belt of his terry cloth robe around his waist, then walked out of the bathroom and into the bedroom that had become his temporary refuge.
It wasn't much, but he felt safe here. A dark wood Ikea bookshelf that covered one wall was filled with Genya's old books and videos and cassette tapes. She had moved her current ones into Kataryna's bedroom. Danylo's daughter Orysia had also taken the family photo albums from the bookshelf in the living room and stored them on the shelves in here, rightly assuming that flipping through them would bring her father a measure of comfort. Orysia had also brought in their small collection of Ukrainian books — some novels, but mostly history.
Danylo had initially left most of his own mementoes at the house he had shared for decades with Nadiya, but as the pain of her death was gradually replaced with warm memories of their life together, he began to retrieve mementoes, one by one.
He opened up the top drawer of his dresser and pulled out a yellowed and faded envelope. Inside were the three photographs he had been able to bring from the old country. The oldest was a formal studio portrait taken of his family just before the war. He and his sister, Kataryna, were dressed in their finest dance costumes. In this picture, Danylo was 16 years old, and his sister was 15. The photographer had asked them to smile, but Kataryna had not wanted to. Instead, they both sat solemnly on wooden chairs, staring directly into the eyes of the photographer. Behind them stood their parents, who also gazed solemnly ahead. Danylo's mother wore a white Edwardian blouse, a long strand of amber beads, and a straight dark skirt. His father wore a black suit over a richly embroidered Ukrainian blouse.
As Danylo saw again the fierceness in his sister's gaze, he smiled inwardly. That fighting spirit had caused his sister so much sorrow, yet it was also what made her the heroine that she had become. Perhaps that was one of the reasons that his granddaughter Kataryna was so very special to him: she too had her namesake's fierceness.
The second photo was a rare one of Kataryna during the war. Someone in the Displaced Person's camp had given it to Danylo when they realized he was her brother. This photo brought a sob to Danylo's throat. It showed Kataryna, eyes determined as always, dressed in military gear, weapon in hand. She was the middle of several similarly dressed women, eyeing an unseen commander.
The last photo was the one that was the hardest to look at, yet it brought Danylo bittersweet joy. It had been taken on the day he married Nadiya. In the background, the rough prison-like structures of the Displaced Persons camp were clearly visible. Their fellow DPs had done their utmost to give the occasion a festive appearance. Nadiya wore a simple dress made of white parachute silk. There had been several weddings at the camp and the material had made the rounds. Nadiya's time as a slave labourer in Germany had left her frail and small, and so the light material hung straight to the ground, no curves to catch it. Every bleak aspect of the photo was negated by the radiant smile that shone from Nadiya's face. The look of hope and anticipation of a happy future was so real that he could almost touch it.
Danylo held the photo to his chest.
A light rap on his door brought Danylo back to the present. "Tato, supper will be on the table in five minutes."
His daughter, Orysia, was home.
CHAPTER 5
AS SHE WALKED down the wooden basement steps, Kat could feel the earthen coolness of the room envelop her. She looked at the area she had set up for herself on an old TV tray between the utility sink and the washing machine. It wasn't fancy, but it gave her the solitude that she craved. There was some light streaming in from the four small windows that were just below the ceiling, but the sunlight did nothing to make the room warmer, which on a warm day like today was a bonus. For extra light, she had brought down a floor-standing trilight from the living room, and she used an old wooden folding chair to sit upon.
Her mother had suggested that she set up a place in the summer kitchen, but Kat knew that she would just have to move her stuff whenever canning or dehydrating was being done. Besides, the summer kitchen was as private as a street intersection.
Propped up against the basement wall was an oil painting Kat had done while still in elementary school, a basic head and shoulders portrait of her grade 5 teacher. A series of sketches was scotch-taped to the wall nearby, and showed — mostly — people Kat had sketched as they walked by her as she sat on the lawn in front of her house. Others replicated as accurately as Kat could the inside of a nearly empty margarine dish. All of the works were stunningly accurate, but looking at them now, Kat cringed in embarrassment. She now recognized them as workmanlike — almost photographically accurate — but with no artistic interpretation.
Kat's later works gave her more pride. Ironically, it was the work she was most proud of that had got her kicked out of St. Paul's. It sat on her father's workbench now, tightly wrapped in a baby blanket, as if even in this dim basement it should not be seen. Kat walked over to it and removed the blanket. As she caressed the contours of her prized work, she remembered how it had all started.
The choice to go to St. Paul's in the first place had been a compromise decision. Kat had gone to St. Sofia's, the Ukrainian Catholic elementary school run through the Catholic school board. There were not enough Orthodox Ukrainians to have their own school, but the Orthodox students who attended St. Sofia's felt very much a part of the school. Aside from the fact that her own mother was the kindergarten teacher, Kat had enjoyed being included in the small close-knit community of less than a hundred students.
She put her foot down however, when her parents had wanted to enrol her in a private Ukrainian high school. Even her perfect older sister Genya had refused to do that. Art was not an option at that school, and Kat couldn't imagine going to a school where she couldn't take art.
One problem with St. Paul's was that Genya was already there, and everyone loved her sister and knew her sister. Kat would have preferred a bit of distance from Genya. It was bad enough that Genya had moved into her bedroom, but spending each and every school day under her sister's glorious shadow was a bit much.
Kat didn't have any other option, though. Her parents wouldn't consider a public high school, and since several of Kat's friends were going to St. Paul's too, she reluctantly agreed to their choice. At least she could take art.