The Silence of Trees Read Online Free PDF

Slavic faces: thick eyebrows, full lips, black hair. Calloused hands, nails caked with dirt. Smell of sweat and manure worn into their skin. Faces like Tato’s. Like Stephan’s.
    Mixed up words in the Russian tongue: "Punish traitors . . . abandoned Motherland . . . liberate . . . dog hiding under table . . . worthless . . . traitor . . . good dog . . . broken but useful."
    Then a whirl of fists and blood. Stephan thrown around the room, his face battered, his body beaten.
    There is a story that some men have inside them a beast that comes out in rage or on nights of the full moon to eat human flesh, to terrorize villagers. I remember watching the soldiers’ straight postures transform into those of bears and wolves as they pounded Stephan’s face again and again. They grunted and growled, hitting Stephan in the chest, the belly, the back. And when he fell to the ground in pain, all three soldiers—snarling and spitting—continued to kick him.
    Then the soldier with the crooked mouth slithered toward me. His breath was foul: alcohol and garlic. His lips were caked with food, spit, and dirt.
    "Pretty little bird . . . hold her tight . . . good hips . . . firm breasts . . . fine stock . . . hold her . . . that’s a good girl . . . open your eyes . . . such nice skin . . . I’ll be back for you."
    I watched from the doorway as the soldiers dragged Stephan down the path. The hair over his left ear was matted with blood, which trickled down his neck and soaked through his shirt collar like sloppy embroidery.
    The last to leave was the commander, who turned and smiled at me. "We’ll be back for you, little bird." Then he slammed the old wooden door behind him. I stepped up to open it, but Jan reached across me and bolted it shut.
    In shock, I stood for a moment looking at the wood grain. There were faces and animals. I could see an entire story hidden in the tree that became the door of this old couple’s home. I wondered if either of them had ever seen the characters in the wood.
    "Come, girl." Bozka put her arm around my waist and nudged me gently to the table. "Poor girl. Come sit down, and I will brew you some fresh kava."
    As I walked, I cradled Stephan’s overcoat. It was all I had left of him.
    Jan sat down at the table and turned to his wife.
    "Let her be," he said, shaking his head. "They take her husband out to be killed, and you serve her coffee?"
    Not my husband, I thought. I had used Stephan’s name so they wouldn’t separate us. I decided then to never again use my father’s name. I wanted no harm to befall my family if they somehow survived. The Russians would not connect them with a daughter who had run away with a German policeman. Even if that police officer was later taken away by Soviet patriots in a remote Slovak village. How could they know?
    I allowed myself to be led to the table by the old woman and sat down in the same spot as before. Before the soldiers came. Before they took Stephan away.
    Bozka glared at her husband. I looked at Jan, who had seemed to shrivel as the soldiers exited. His shoulders slumped, his head sunk down and his hands trembled even more as he pulled out his pipe.
    "You do not know that they will kill him," Bozka hissed while preparing the coffee. "They talked of digging ditches."
    Jan began to refill his pipe. "Don’t talk fairy tales, wife. You know what it means. We’ve seen the graves. You’ve seen them." He looked at me. "You should know what happens. So you don’t wonder. Forget about hope."
    I felt a chill. The icy wind still circled even though the door was shut.
    "First, they tell the men to dig deep ditches. Next, they order them to strip—"
    "Jan! This is not the time—"
    Time. I had no more time. Soldiers took that and everything else away from me. And always excuses to cover the graves. First, the Russians killed Dido and Uncle Ivan. Not starvation, they said. Collectivization. A plan. Always a plan. What excuses for the Germans who murdered Mama, Tato,