…And One To Give Away

He watches her arrange the eggs in a cozy nest of shredded purple saran wrap. The eggs are as artificial as the basket grass: oversized, plastic and pastel-colored, they unscrew like the caps on bottles of cheap wine. Into each one, Sarah pops a surprise for her nieces and nephews: assorted jelly beans, a small chocolate bunny, a spongy marshmallow chick.

"I'll bet you had those fabulous painted eggs when you were a kid back in Russia," she says sounding vaguely wistful, as if an Easter basket with contents courtesy of Woolworth's could not possibly measure up.

Pysanky: he thinks of the proper word automatically. "The eggs aren't actually painted," he informs her gently. "The designs are made with dyes and layered beeswax."

"Oh really? I saw a couple in the museum, once. They were gorgeous."

He doesn't have the heart to tell her that's mostly where he's seen them, too. That this folk art is Ukrainian, not Russian, and carries religious meaning, and for that reason, it's long been outlawed by the Soviet government. But she's right: he did receive two lovely eggs when he was very, very young, a gift from his Great-aunt Akalena. Making pysanky was the task of the women of a household, and the more daughters and aunts you had, the more decorated eggs appeared at Velykden.

Of the two she gave him, he still can remember that one was red and one was blue, with intricately etched designs of some animal — a deer or horse, he can't be sure. Happiness and long life to you, she said with a kiss, placing an egg into each of his cupped hands. Here is one to keep, and one to give away.

But he did neither. One was soon lost, left behind in a rush, and the other, crushed under the heel of a soldier's boot. To trample a pysanka is a great sin, and as a child, he took comfort knowing that the nameless soldier would probably suffer a horrible death.

But now, here he is in the present, a long way from his homeland, his innocence, and those eggs. Still, Sarah's words and the memories they prompted have made him nostalgic. So, on the way back to his apartment, he makes a detour to the Ukrainian bakery on Second Avenue in search of traditional paska.

And there, by the cash register, is a basket of brightly-colored, newly-made pysanky. Obviously, someone's grandmother has been busy. They are expensive, even overpriced, but he picks out a blue one with a delicate eight-sided star, and then, on impulse, an orange and yellow one with rays like a radiant sun.

How ironic, he thinks, as he pays the plump babushka behind the counter, that he's had to travel to America, of all places, some seven thousand kilometers from home, to find them, along with friendship and a sense of purpose.

He tucks one into each side pocket of his jacket, feeling content and accomplished. One to keep and one to give away — he can still hear the husky cadence of Great-aunt Akalena's voice. To have someone to share good fortune with is a blessing.

It is, indeed, Illya agrees as he heads west, toward dinner and the pleasure of seeing the bemused expression on Napoleon's face.