THE THINGS WE DO...: The final journey (11/10/02)

THE THINGS WE DO...

by Orysia Paszczak Tracz

The final journey

The bus was passing through some of the most beautiful country this side of heaven. We were in the upper foothills of the Karpaty, the Carpathian Mountains of so many stories, legends and songs. In the distance were the green, blue and grey mountains, with broad stripes of golden and yellow-green cultivated fields in the foreground. These were dotted with curlicue-topped haystacks. The village houses were not just along the road; some were sitting on gentle hills some distance away. All were surrounded by lush vegetable gardens, brilliant flowers, farm buildings, truly free-range fowl of all kinds and well-tended farm animals.

Our reverie was broken as the bus slowed, then barely inched along. Just in front of us, there were very many people walking on the road, following a large truck with a platform. More people were walking in front of the truck, carrying wreaths and crosses of pine branches. It was a funeral. On the platform was the open coffin, surrounded by pine boughs and wreaths, as well as flowers. Draped over the back of the cab, down to the coffin, was a large tapestry, with words embroidered or woven inside a floral border.

The procession moved very slowly, especially because it stopped in front of certain houses. The priest and faithful crossed themselves, prayed and sang as they faced the distant house. After a few minutes, they continued down the road, then stopped again. All the traffic from the opposite direction halted, with the driver and passengers leaving their cars, or motorcycles, and standing with hats removed and heads bowed, until the procession passed them by. Our guide mused that this must be an older, well-respected person who had died, because there were so many people in the procession. The reason for stopping at certain houses was that the deceased either had relatives or friends there, and had visited the home. This was an additional way of saying good-bye.

I read out loud the words from the tapestry, and translated them for our group. We all had tears in our eyes from the simplicity and pathos of the verse: "Proschai moya rodyno, proschai ostannii raz. Z tsiyeyi dorohy nikoly vzhe ne vernus' do Vas." (Farewell, my family, farewell for the last time. From this journey, I will never return to you).

There was no way anyone would pass a funeral procession. But this stretch of road would take forever. Realizing this, someone from the procession approached our bus driver and, saying that the march still had a few kilometers to go before reaching the cemetery, gave instructions on how to detour via side village roads. Saying our last farewell to the deceased, we left the funeral behind. For quite a while, no one on the bus spoke.

A few days later we saw another funeral procession some distance away. This time, the profusion of black-and-red, as well as blue-and-yellow flags and ribbons told us that the deceased had been a member of the Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists (OUN) and a povstanets' (soldier of the Ukrainian Insurgent Army). The singing confirmed this, because good old povstanski pisni accompanied the march.

The cemeteries in Ukraine, especially in the countryside, are full of metal and stone or concrete crosses often painted a bright blue - truly bright and lively places (pardon the expression). Fresh and artificial flowers decorate the crosses and tombs, and in the winter, even yalynky (Christmas trees) are placed at the graves. Well, just as at Easter, the departed are not forgotten, and celebrate the holy days along with the living. And the deceased are truly remembered. At the historic Lychakiv Cemetery in Lviv, after a while I was not surprised to find fresh flowers in jam jars at graves where the year of death was 1859, 1898 or 1912.

Sometimes, the really old sections of rural cemeteries are neglected and overgrown. If you have never experienced kropyva (stinging nettle), go through an old cemetery searching for a tombstone while not wearing long slacks and a long-sleeved shirt. From harsh personal experience, I think it should be called "burning" nettle.

Seeing the funerals in Ukraine only re-emphasized to me that Ukrainian belief that the family is truly made up of the "zhyvi, mertvi, i nenarodzheni" (the living, the dead, and those not yet born), as Shevchenko wrote in his "Poslaniye" (Epistle). We still hold to this belief in our Christmas and other traditions throughout the year.

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