The Trunk THE TRUNK A short story THE TRUNK Bohdan Yuri Bohdan Yuri An Ovi Magazine Books Publication 2021 Ovi Project Publication - All material is copyright of the Ovi magazine & the writer C Ovi books are available in Ovi magazine pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: submissions@ovimagazine.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book. The Trunk Bohdan Yuri A short story The Trunk T here were earlier signs. Like the time Taissa refused to talk to her science teacher for almost the full school year be- cause, during a discussion about the big bang theory, he’d made the class laugh at her expense. “So then, class,” Mr. Martin had basked as he sought a joke or two, “according to Miss Yaremko’s theory, life, our universe, was started by simple imagination. Could it be that we are all just a dream, a figment of someone’s imagination, maybe even Miss Yaremko’s own private nightmare. Well, I’m afraid that that theory, The Yaremko Theory, is not in my textbook so that answer is incorrect. But, with an imagina- tion like that, Miss Yaremko,” as he aimed his shot, “your head then must be so large that, you, Miss Yaremko, can perhaps create another universe just by imagining it.” Mr. Martin had waited for his audience to catch up to his sarcastic play. “Is that so, Miss Yaremko, do you in fact have such a big head?” And that sealed it. Bohdan Yuri Taissa had felt too exposed. She had already spent a year’s worth of mirror measurements, cataloging each passage of change. At that par- ticular time, yes, her head, and her nose, were well ahead of schedule on her growth chart. She never answered Mr. Martin. Yet, despite her actions she’d still passed the course with an “A”, a Textbook “A”. And then, on the last day of class, she finally replied, “My Gramps told me that before any spark, or bang, could occur, there had to be the thought, the imagination to do it. And I believe him, and you and your textbook still couldn’t prove him wrong.” Then having cre- ated her own parting retort, she’d added, “And no, Mr. Martin, I don’t have a big head anymore, but maybe I do have a bigger mind than you, if you can’ imagine that God can imagine.” And with that, she walked out of jr. high feeling that the best of times were still ahead. But the true age of revolution started when Taissa was fourteen, a freshman in high school. It was a heady time for her, anxious to expand her trust in her own maturity, her spirit. All of her friends were getting one; it was the thing to do. So when Taissa had asked her parents if it was all right for her to get a tattoo of a heart over her real one, she was surprised when they’d said no; and piercing was also out, except for one on each earlobe, a relic from another fashion. Her parents, a product of their own distant revolution, had sudden- ly grown old. “...Be a good girl, do the right thing and your parents will be understanding...” Just another myth destroyed and many more to follow in her teen temptations. So from that moment on she constantly rebelled against her parents’ authority. Clearly, as all young minds see the path ahead, she chose the road of resistance. They’d say yes, she’d say no, and so on. But, guiding and soothing her on that rocky road was a partner, Gramps, her dad’s father. The Trunk It wasn’t always what Gramps had said, so much as how he’d say it; often times relating his own life stories into a mosaic that challenged the listener to unravel its importance. And yet, she was also awed by how he’d always managed to make it all so simple at the end. The tattoo, “...A great lady does not display a false heart to show people where her real one is. Besides, people will see it better if they have to find it them- selves.” All this from a story about his own mother’s beauty. For Taissa, those stories always seemed to transcend any real quali- ties and were thus transmitted on a wave of wisdom that filled her soul. And he’d always seemed to understand her side of it, even when she’d have to give in. She missed that. Also, when Gramps was around, her parents didn’t always win. Bohdan Yuri I t was late August, two months since Gramps had died in his sleep, heart failure. He was 84. But he was at least there to see Taissa graduate with high honors, ‘ ...and with such scholarships,” he’d proudly proclaimed, then addling his own asterisk. “... Such a shame that Gramma couldn’t be here too.” She’d passed away twelve years earlier. That’s also when her dad had asked Gramps to live with them. “Family, Dad,” Taissa can still remember her father’s words. “We are all part of the same soul. Come and live with us so we can feel each other’s heart and help it to live and grow. Besides, we can still use a babysitter.” She remembered, too, the loving look that Gramps had giv- en her just before agreeing. Along with the last tear in her heart, as she gave Gramps one last kiss on his forehead, she’d also left her last report card in his coffin. And the scholarship, college seemed less than necessary now. The Trunk Instead it was a time to find her soul, let it grow, and to go on. She didn’t know where, or how, or even why, but what she was looking for could not be found in any textbooks, and it certainly wasn’t here at home But, finding it was half the growth, Gramps had once told her, in a story about how he’d searched for a lost lamb. The other half was in knowing what you’ve actually found. The only thing Taissa did know was when; this Saturday, Vera, Tim, and Josh, a former steady, were heading west. There was a spot for her, and she’d planned to use it. Her parents were obviously displeased with her decision to not go to college. They’d found all the obvious reasons except the one that mattered, the one that Gramps would have found. So, with the money she’d earned from summer’s work, she and her friends were planning a cross-country odyssey. On the night before she was to leave, still packing the final layers into her duffel bag, her father knocked on her door and allowed himself in. Taissa braced for the next and hopefully the last round of implorations. Instead, Dad walked up to her, an envelope in his hand. “Gramps wrote this letter,” he told her, holding out the message. “I think it may have been meant for you.” Taissa’s eyes locked on to the light blue extension, and to the gift of thoughts in words enclosed with the past, and awaiting to be revealed. She reached out her hand, connected and took hold. She noticed that it was unsealed and folded in. “Did you read this?” she asked her father. “Yes, I did,” as he sheepishly admitted his heart into the room. “And I want you to know that whatever you want to do, well, we... we love you and will help you in any way...” Choked by his own emotions, he wrapped his right arm around Taissa’s shoulder and gave her a fatherly grip of affection. “It’s your life and if we can help...” Bohdan Yuri “I know, Dad,” Taissa replied, still scarred from the heat of that sum- mer’s discontent. She accepted the gesture but hastened her intent to read the letter herself. “I know,” she repeated and thanked him with a return hug as he left the room. Her dad closed the door behind him as Taissa sat on her bed to read Gramps’ thoughts, blending his voice into each sentence. The Trunk “ M y Dearest,” he wrote. “Soon you will be embarking on a journey that will take you to the farthest reaches of your abilities. What can I say that you don’t already know? In many ways our children are always smarter than we are, even when they can’t seem to find a way to solve simple problems. I was once faced with such a problem that taxed the sinews of my own heart until I could not resolve a solution. I had failed, and my heart cried knowing that I had to face my enemies once more, my fears. It all began when my teacher had recommended to my parents that I should take the exam to attend Gymnasia in Pereemysl. I was thirteen. I took the exam and scored extremely high, I felt so proud. Only my parents felt prouder, that a simple farmer’s son would be afforded the opportunity to better himself; although, it took an even greater effort for Mr. Oryniak to convince the Polish authorities to allow a peasant Ukrainian to enter their exclusive halls. While our village in Ukraine was under Polish occupation not one lad from our region was ever ad- mitted. So, I do thank Mr. Oryniak again as I convey this story. Bohdan Yuri Anyway, the day came for me to go to school. My mother and fa- ther, along with my younger brothers, we were all excited --- God how I wished I could have seen them one more time before the Na- zis killed them, or my brothers before the Russians executed them for their efforts on behalf of Ukrainian independence...” Taissa looked for his tearstains that would have dried were they to have dropped. She felt hers wanting to..., she continued. “...Yes it was a great day. Mother packed my clothes into Father’s old steamer trunk, (although, I doubt if he’d ever been more than a 100 kilometers from our farm. Peremysl was only 80 kilometers west, but they rarely traveled there except for official business, but that’s another story). So we loaded up the cart, tied the baggage, one last loving farewell from Mother. Then with Father, Yaroslav, the next oldest, and me on board, we urged ‘Black Lady’, our mare, to cart us away. We reached Peremysl late afternoon. It was a sight, my first time in what was then for me a big city. Everyone spoke Polish. I was in a different world, still excited but now leery as well. When we reached the school a custodian pointed the way to the headmaster’s office, Yaroslav stayed with the cart. Inside, Headmaster Gumma laid out the rules and regulations. I felt as if I was entering a prison. I’d wanted to tell Father that I’d changed my mind. But I didn’t, I could still measure the pride that he held for me. When we returned to the cart and prepared to carry my goods into the dormitory, Father reached into his pocket and pulled out his fold- ing knife and handed it to me, saying, “You can either use this to de- fend yourself or to build with it, choose wisely. Its mark will be lasting as will be your education.” That made me even more scared ---knife fights? Did he know something that I didn’t, I wondered. I’d hoped that that farewell would never end, but it did, as they had to return before dark. And I, I faced my own darkness, and newer fears; knowing that I would probably not return home until early spring at the earliest. The Trunk That night as I was introduced to the student body and faculty, I knew what Father had already known: that a Ukrainian peasant could not survive in a Polish school without having to prove himself physi- cally as well as intellectually. There was at least one fight each day, some lost, some won. Luckily, none were with knives, although some times I was ready to pull it out if only to end the beating quicker. The teachers, they found me to be the butt end of every slanderous joke known, and the students repeated them as well. ‘Stupid Horseface’ was one of their favorite names. I was ready to leave. This was hell inside of hell. The fourth week I’d had enough. I’d received a test score on a true/ false exam that defied even my logic. My answers were all correct but the spelling of my own name was incorrect. It wasn’t the Polish version as was required. I’d received an “F”. What was the use, I thought, to bring more shame to my family, to be a failure? I wrote home, asking my parents to take me away from here, that I’d just wanted to ..., to go home. As I waited for their reply, I gazed eastward, out my dorm window, hoping to feel them coming closer. Instead, I felt the cold drafts of mountain winds as the seasons whispered their parades. Two weeks passed, then a few days more and a letter finally arrived. It was from my parents. They both felt my pain and wished that they could erase it, but Father had repeated, “...an education is a lasting leg- acy. Find the strength to have the courage to know wisdom.” Then he’d added, probably at Mother’s urging, “...But, if you feel that danger is about you then come home. However, come home with no less than what you left with from here; only it will be up to you to find the way home, at least that education will be lasting as well.” I was free, I was finally free to go home. I couldn’t wait to pack up. And there was the rub. Once packed I looked at this trunk, a gigantic Bohdan Yuri monster that required the strength of at least my father to carry it for even a short distance, but 80 kilometers; at that rate it would have tak- en me a year to get home. I wanted to, but I couldn’t just leave it here, my father’s trunk, how could I explain? So, I went about trying to find a way to take it with me. I asked everyone for a hand. Hire somebody, they all told me --- easy enough if coins were fa- miliar tenants inside your pockets. Mine only knew my knife. Sell it, I couldn’t. Steal a horse and cart, or just a horse? Yeah, and return a criminal... My options were being tossed into a deep black hole de- vouring any hope. Finally, I gave up. But from that day on I at least found a reason to have to stay in school, I wasn’t smart enough yet. Then came Christmas, at which time students were allowed to visit family for holiday break. And that trunk, which was the shadow of my reason, finally traveled with me, carrying gifts, and to show Father that I could have. But we didn’t stay, my com- panion and I. Upon completion of holiday, we returned to school to not only endure but to accomplish. You see, by that time, I’d also learned where I needed to be to fulfill obligations, and not to my parents, but to myself. I’d learned to sur- vive not by running away from my fears, but to live within them and eventually see them all as nasty impostors. Life is an adventure towards wisdom. And the hazing, well that didn’t end completely, but there was also more respect and less name-calling. I even made friends with some Poles and was invited into their homes. That first year, once frost set- tled into each morning, one friend’s father even gave me a job during the school year, milking his cow each morning before classes. That’s how I’d managed to get home for Christmas. I bet you were wondering about that..... (If only I could have thanked my parents for the gifts of love that they’d given to me... just one last time.) The Trunk So, My Dearest, I leave you with what had started my journey as you will begin yours, with this grand old trunk. I can only add that when you no longer have the urge to carry it to your next stop, then it may mean that you have already found the place to stay and look no further towards the highway. Its legacy will be lasting. And with all my heart, I wish you love...” Taissa looked at the signature, “...Ivan”. She’d almost forgotten that Gramps had had a real name. She wiped her watery eyes, holding on to a memory. Bohdan Yuri S he knew the story by heart: War refugee, started out as a jan- itor in this country (one with a college engineering degree), then free rent as a building superintendent while still jani- toring at night, nine years later a master’s degree from Ford- ham, along with a lower level engineering position at Macro Tech Inc., another four years and a PhD from NYU and the first promotion that eventually ended with a vice-presidency in the company, then, with retirement, a professorship at Columbia, and still... When her soul felt drier, Taissa walked into the family room where her parents were listening to the evening news, Mom crocheting an- other afghan. The Trunk Taissa looked carefully at the trunk against the back wall. Just an- other piece of furniture, she’d always thought, the one in which her mother had kept her yarn. “Is that Gramps’ trunk?” she asked. “Yes it is,” replied her father. “It’s yours now. Mother has already emptied it so you can use it.” Taissa had always liked the trunk, with its brass corner braces se- curing aged heavy pine walls, reinforced by steel and hardwood straps, dotted with brass buttons; a squeaky brass lock plate and latch that many time Taissa’d opened pretending that when she’d raised the bowed top there would be a pirate’s treasure inside, strings of colored jewels, cleverly hidden under the fitted tray. But, she knew the truth. It was too big; nearly 3’ x 2’ and the wood might as well have been lead. Her friends would never approve taking that monstrosity with them. No, no, and no, their plan was to travel as light as possible. She searched to balance the scales: maybe she could leave it for now and come back for it later? But, she knew that this trip was planned to be a lasting one, who knows when she’d be back again to finally retrieve it. Ship it --- to where? And she also knew that that’s not what Gramps had meant. Yes, she knew as she headed back to her room, to unpack, and to call Vera... Taissa’s father looked at his wife, he already knew the question, “and are you ever going to tell her that Gramps had originally written that letter to you and not her” she asked. “She’ll find out herself to whom it was written,” he replied. The end Bohdan Yuri An Ovi Magazine Books Publication 2021 Ovi Project Publication - All material is copyright of the Ovi magazine & the writer C Ovi books are available in Ovi magazine pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: submissions@ovimagazine.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book. The Trunk Bohdan Yuri A short story The Trunk The Trunk 1st edition: January 2007 2nd edition: May 2021 Bohdan Yuri Ovi magazine Design: Thanos Bohdan Yuri THE TRUNK THE TRUNK Bohdan Yuri “My Dearest,” he wrote. “Soon you will be em- barking on a journey that will take you to the farthest reaches of your abilities.”