by Volodymyr Barahura
Translated from the original Ukrainian by Yuriy Diakunchak
Long pants! The dream of every grade schooler upon graduation. It was my dream too while attending Osyp Makoviy grade school in Yavoriv*. It seemed unattainable, because times were tough. The war between the Ukrainians and the Poles had just ended and obtaining fabric was difficult. Fabric was in shortage and expensive. And my father wasn't earning much, having just been released from war-time internment at the camp near Dombyi, where the Poles had sent him during the war. He was refused his old post as a judicial administrator which he held when western Ukraine was still ruled by the Austrians, because my father refused to swear allegiance to Poland. His search for work to support three school aged children, took him all the way to Lviv.
Somehow mama was able to acquire some fabric. It was navy coloured, of low quality � a melange of wool, cotton and nettle fibers. Long discussions ensued over what use to put it to � a suit for mama, or for one of my sisters, but for which one � the younger or the older?
Finally, after long deliberations and letters to father, the family council decided to make me an outfit with long pants, after all, I was to enter fifth grade after the summer holidays. Being a fifth grader, a secondary student in those days, was no small honour.
The suit took long to make. There was no money for a tailor � mama would do it herself with a friend's help. Mama measured the cloth with her ruler many times a day. She'd place the fabric on the chair, then on the table, analyzed it from all sides. Finally, the paper outline of my future garment was ready. Mama placed it on the fabric and carefully cut it out with a large pair of scissors. She pinned, then basted, then measured it against me. And when all was to her liking, she took to the task of sewing. The sewing machine chattered into the night for a few days. Then mama sewed on the shoulder and chest padding, the liner and the buttons by hand. Ironing was a herculean task, especially the cuffs because the material was naturally rumpled.
When I made my appearance at school in my new outfit, the exclamations of wonder, awe, joy and even jealously were without end. Not everyone was as lucky as I. The boys circled me, jabbed and poked me, ordered me to stand at attention. Oohs and aahs came from all sides. The girls giggled and whispered amongst themselves: "Look how elegant Chipka** looks!" Even the class monitor Zerdnyk, who was the leader in everything, except for behaviour and scholarship, honestly admired me that day and offered his heartfelt congratulations. I reddened with a mixture of embarrassment, joy, pride and arrogance.
Mama warned me to take care of the new clothing, like it were the eyes in my head. Immediately after school let out I was to return home and change into my short pants before starting my homework or chores or going out to play. But one day it happened that the physical education instructor took ill and instead of six hours of school, the director told us to go home early. But Zerdnyk, our leader in mischief, had other plans. He proposed we spend the hour at play in the schoolyard. None of us needed to be asked twice and we scattered about the yard in various groups. My group decided to play "toss-the-ring". Two teams stand in rows facing each other and toss a wooden ring two centimetres thick back and forth. One side rolls the ring along the ground to the other, which attempts to stop it with wooden planks that each player holds in his hands. A team that misses the ring loses a point. The winner is the team who has stolen the most points.
The ring rolled back and forth, striking the planks with a thud each time a save was made. Our team was out in front.
Suddenly, the ring was heading straight for me, when it hit a bump and veered to one side. I tossed my plank at it to stop its progress, but succeed only in deflecting it into a deep ditch that separated the schoolyard from the Graf's*** estate. The ditch was all that remained of an ancient redoubt built around the Yavoriv fortress by King Jan Sobiesky.
I threw myself down the steep embankment in pursuit of the ring. I was going so fast I couldn't stop. I felt myself get caught on something and fell head over heels to the bottom of the ditch. I felt a burning sensation on my left calf and something warm dribbled down my leg. I heard the sharp rip of tearing fabric...
I leapt to my feet... horrors! The right pant leg was torn to shreds below the knee. A length of barbed wire, perhaps left over from the war, lay across the path I had fallen.
The pain, fear and pity were too much for me, I found myself bawling. My friends came running, with fearful looks on their faces. Hands stretched out to help me. Even the rascal Zerdnyk tried to console me.
The commotion around me caught the attention of Liskevycheva, the director's wife. She washed my leg, disinfected the wounds with iodine, wiped away the tears. She tried to mend the pants, but to no avail. There wasn't much she could do with the shreds.
Disoriented, I went home. What will I tell mama? She'll never forgive me for this.
Mama was ironing when I entered the living room. For some reason she didn't even ask why I was late in coming home from school. She sensed something was not right.
"What's with you? You're so quiet, don't you want to know when dinner is served?"
"I... ," nothing came out. I still hoped to hide the my leg behind the ironing board.
"What are you doing with that leg? Does it hurt? Show me!"
There was no hope. I blurted out the truth and waited for the punishment.
"Take them off!" mama commanded tersely.
"There'll be a whuppin'," flashed through my mind. But better to get a few whacks, than to listen to my mama's pontificating, or to sit locked up in the root cellar under the stairs.
But I was to be disappointed. Mama didn't beat me that day, didn't lock me up, didn't even stick me in the corner. Without uttering a word, she took the pants, placed the right pant leg on the table and... snip! � chopped the remains off at knee-length with her big scissors. The left leg followed suit. Then, still without a word, she hemmed up both legs.
When I came to school the next day, the whole class drew a breath. Only Zerdnyk couldn't hold himself back and cracked a smile, for which he almost got clocked by Severko, who always stood up for the downtrodden. He was the biggest and strongest in the class, but his heart always felt the pain of others.
Hazel-eyed Fun'ka with her stringy hair braided into two "mouse tails" (the boys were always tugging on them) whispered into my ear: "Short pants really suit your face Chipka."
This cheered me, but I wasn't to have another pair of long pants until the next year.
Notes:
* a town located in Western Ukraine which was under Polish administration between the two world wars
**the author's boyhood nickname
***equivalent to a Count
(C) Copyright 1982, 1998 by Volodymyr Barahura Translation copyright 1998 by Yuriy Diakunchak