Christmas reminiscence in a foreign land
Today, on the eve of Epiphany, I am presenting an abbreviated version of a story by the journalist Anatol Kurdydyk, entitled “I’m Going for a Christmas Tree,” which glows with inextinguishable love for his distant Fatherland. Some words about the author, a well-known Ukrainian journalist in the Western Diaspora, are in order.
The history of the 20th century doomed Anatol Kurdydyk, like millions of other Ukrainians, to a difficult life — persecution by the Bolshevik government, Gestapo prisons, forced labor in German mines, and the fate of a perpetual emigrant. Despite all these harsh conditions he managed to issue Ukrainian publications and was active in the Ukrainian press.
Kurdydyk began his career in journalism in pre-war Lviv, which he continued in various countries outside his Fatherland. Despite everything, “Ukraine was always the sphere of my father’s journalistic activity,” says Kurdydyk’s son Lev. Through the efforts of the Canada-based Taras Shevchenko Foundation, some of Kurdydyk’s articles were published as a book entitled Notes from Daily Life. These articles, mostly written in the 1970s, were published in the Winnipeg newspaper Ukrainsky Holos (Ukrainian Voice) during the author’s life. Kurdydyk died five years ago.
“There is still no Christmas tree in my house. I want to go out specially to get it. For my Christmas tree grows in a country that has no equal in the world. On Christmas Eve the stars seem to descend to the ground in this country, and the snow becomes as white as a goose wing. In that country where I am going, the frost is not a frost but a painter. Children will wake up in the morning, and it will have painted such flowers, web-footed branches, and bands on the windowpanes that you can hardly see outside. And the carolers will come to the windows in the evening, and from the warm, ancient glorification of the Son of God the windowpanes will become transparent, and you can see the reddened noses and glimmering eyes, and above them — the large, wonderful, and multicolored Caroling Star.”
“I am going to this distant country for my Christmas tree. For years it was brought like a great lady on a sleigh, its floor covered with aromatic hay and harnessed with horses. I am going to this far-away land, where the Christmas tree was taken from the sleigh like a princess and brought through another entrance (“Children, go away, because you’ll catch cold!” mother cried). It was carried through father’s office to the living room. We were put to bed, and the next miracle in this country took place during the night: in the morning the Christmas tree stood in the dining room so grand, so big, so nice, that our mouths and eyes opened wide, and we moved around it in a small procession, not knowing where to cast our glances. Words fled to our little hearts, and above us father’s happy smile shone with the aura of Christmas Eve.”
“Soon father said to place the didukh made of aromatic, silken hay. The sheaf stood — strong, full of ears, tightly girded with a straw rope. It still seems to me that the sheaf was my father, and the fir tree in the next room was our mother, wealthy and enchanting; you could hardly tear yourself away from the picture! We had no appetite; we ate so as not to make father and mother angry, and all the while we felt the closeness of the Christmas tree.”
“Later, a kind of ceremony began. Every house in Pokropyvnia sent “the supper” — its finest kalach [decorated bread] — to their priest (my father). Warmly dressed boys and frightened little girls came to the house and said “Christ is born!” and uttered their simple greetings, handing over a handkerchief with the kalach. My sister Hania took them, and mother would guess whose kalach it was. Afterwards, the little ones, wearing mainly their father’s huge boots, were brought to the doors of the living room, where the Christmas tree stood. My Lord! What a Christmas tree! With glimmering chains, nuts made of real gold, with apples and colored candles — has anyone ever seen the like? And mother bent down to each of the little guests and asked: “Would you like to have something from the Christmas tree?” Seeing their eyes glowing with supreme happiness and a nod because of the lack of words, she removed the object that the little finger pointed at. The children did not know where to hide the gift. Meanwhile, Hania wrapped some honey cakes into the kerchief (mother baked a good hundred of them!) and father gave a shiny coin to the “gift-givers.” This went on until midnight.”
“Meanwhile, through the window you could see the elder brothers switching on the lights in the church, and before midnight Deacon Petro rang the bells to announce the good news that the Savior was born to us!”
“This is the country where I am going for my Christmas tree. I want to stand near it the way I used to when my little friends and playmates approached it. I want to see how they point at what they want to have from the fir tree, to see how mother takes the indicated objects down, adding something for those who had stayed at home (“This is for Mariika, this is for Stefko, and this is for Fedko. Do you understand?” Mother knew all the children in the village, many of whom were her godchildren). From some magical boxes she kept hanging toys, candies, honey cakes, and golden nuts on the tree to replace the things that had been removed, and there was something angelic about her face, something you will never forget.”
“I don’t know, but I won’t swear to it: perhaps in the guise of a tiny caroler the Christ Child Himself came with a kalach to that Christmas tree in Pokropyvnia? Maybe that was the reason why my father had such a smile on his face and mother had such tenderness in her eyes? Who can say?”
“...Until I die every year I will go to my Christmas tree in my Land, where on Christmas Eve the stars peep through the windows of village houses.”
