Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

Sofia Andrukhovych

a Ukrainian coffin maker!” But Petro never accompanies her, and how could I let her go all by herself? Petro is not a coffin maker. He makes statues for headstones. And all these young ladies shed cascades of tears till their noses turn blue when they see at the cemetery Petro’s mournful angels or marble maidens with flowing unbraided hair who have grown forever cold. Petro works in Casimir Bebnowicz’s workshop in Sapiezynska St., across from the steeply rising Lutheran church. Just where a poplar alley leads to the cemetery. But now he is completing marbleworks inourcathedral: in the main nave the marble is dark green, in the side naves, cream-colored. He says the iconostasis has already been painted and gilded. That they

will put in gas lighting. I bring him lunches there daily: blood sausage with kasha, smoked corned beef, beans, liver dumplings, potato pancakes, pea croquettes. They have done a poor job clearing the streets from snow, and the droshky can get stuck in snowdrifts easily. It starts getting dark soon after three o’clock, but the lamplighter is in no rush to light the street lamps. At every step there are crowds of young guys warmed by booze. Our city liquor monopoly made them an unheard-of holiday present: a liter costs only 66 cents. This amount of money won’t get you enough to eat, but you can get so much to drink that not only will you forget hunger—you also won’t be able to recall your own name. And then they don’t know

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