The Gift of The Ring

The Gift Of The Ring

      The newly annexed western Ukraine during World War 2 was literally a collaboration with Germany meant only to save millions of people from certain death under the soviet regime according to some surviving citizens.

      Independance was impossible. Accusations ran rampant causing Russia to evoke political upheavals and mass executions. It was thought that Germany was the lesser of two evils as a matter of choice. No other choices were available.

      Being a fourteen year old girl in a divided country was not the best way to spend a childhood. Very often I would walk by  German soldiers  on patrol who were looking for any cause to apprehend and destroy remnants of German dissidence.

      Fortunately, Germany needed workers. I was assigned to a woman's factory, sewing military uniforms. A safe occupation that left me untouched in a sea of hate. On this day of days, a rare day off, spring is in the air causing me to yearn for a bike ride through the countryside. I was not worried about being stopped along the way. I am not a threat.

      Rising in the morn with this mission in mind, I put together a sparse picnic basket so I could sit in a secluded field where butterflies flutter freely, sipping away tea, munching dry biscuits, whiling away the time of day.

     A simple day, meant to help me forget hardships, today will be that day.

     Biking through hill and dale trails excitedly, I accelerate feeling the breeze on my face rushing past. Certain fragrances whiff past conjuring up fantasies of blueberry pies and such. There is nothing like the feeling of freewill to rejuvenate you.  A train track lines the trail I am on, separated by a fence in places and not so in many other places. A testament to what is now important for the country and what isn`t.

      Transfixed on my task, concentrating, I look to the right and then to the left as I am whizzing by finally seeing my destination ahead. Undistracted, I veer my bike off path, trampling down the grass, tunnel-visioned, anxious to arrive at my journey's end. All of a sudden the bike erupts, flipping me up and over the handlebars, entwining me amongst an unseen rail fence.

       Dazed, not knowing where I am, my brain is having trouble catching up to my predicament. Am I hurt? I feel around me, patting myself down, looking for injury. Finding none, I attempt to extricate my entwined self from the wreckage. As I slowly recover, getting my bearings, a shiny object appears before me reflecting off the sun. Squinting, after a time, my focus returns to normal which allows me to take a closer look. Reaching down, my fingers encompass what appears to be a circular metal object. Upon closer examination, a beautiful thick golden ring with the initials “KM“ on the inside is inscribed. Pocketing it, I resolve to tell no one, it will be my little keepsake. Maybe one day I will sell it if I need to eat.

        We reside halfway up a hill on a meandering road that circumvents our town with little vehicle traffic. Really, just wide enough for a horse and buggy. Lately, we see only half-starved migrants who are either returning from the warfront or fleeing the country.

       As related to me later by my mom, she was out sweeping the pathway to the house one day when a raggedy man, wounded, appeared, limping slowly past. As luck would have it, my mom, the ever compassionate woman, took pity on the poor soul, inviting him to sit down and have nourishment while she cleaned his wounds. Looking down at his feet, mom recoiled, never seeing feet in such poor condition. How could this man walk?

      “Here, let me have a look at those feet sir.“ The man shied, pulling his feet back, not wanting to admit he was really in bad shape.

      Mom takes one of his feet, gently sliding it in a wash bowl, applying soap, dabbing the wounds with an overused sponge. As she progresses, the man, in a whispered pained breath, says that he is poor. Thankful for the food and foot care, he tells my mom he has nothing to give her in return for her unbridled generosity.

      Mom shyly lifts  her head up from the task at hand saying there is no need to repay her.

      The man thinks on it, deciding on how he could repay this kind, caring, giving woman. After a time he says: “I will tell your fortune.“

     “I think not sir, but if you will, could you tell me the fortune of my daughter?“

      “I will tell you three things that I know will happen in your daughter's future.

The first:

          She will leave Ukraine soon on a boat and travel overseas to Canada.

The second:

         She will get married at a young age.

The third:

        Her two Aunts who already live in Canada will be horribly dead set against this marriage, but the marriage will go on as planned and will be long lasting.“

       With that, the man went on his way, bowing his head, thanking my mom over and over for her kindness towards him, never to be seen again.

       Working in a factory with 40 women sewing uniforms can be tough, especially since these particular women where I work are older than me. Very few of us in our village have survived the cruelty of war and are able to work. Contributing to the war effort, albeit on the German side is the only way we can get food rations to survive?

       One day further along, unbeknownst to the Germans, some local men enter the factory announcing that ten women will be chosen, two from each of the four factories in the area, to migrate to Canada, and will be smuggled out of the country. Canada needs migrants to support the war effort against the German machine we are told.

       Volunteers are called upon to come forward the next day, women only. “Mom, what am I going to do?“

       “You are to go my child, you are to go.“

        The next day the men came back to the factory, under cover. All forty sets of hands went up causing a dilemma of whom to choose. Names were taken and told a lottery will be held that night in secret to see who would be accepted.

        Today I am on pins and needles hoping I will be picked. The lottery was held with results appearing today. Am I the one to be chosen or not?

        I am one of the two.

        Entering Canada, I quickly assimilated, since I already had a rudimentary working knowledge of English. My skills are quickly analyzed by the government and I am assigned to work on an assembly line for the war effort against Germany.

       There is a man about my age ogling me, trying to remain unnoticed. I will have none of it, since I have to concentrate on making as much money as I can to send home to Mama. I have no time for hanky panky. Dismissing him, I continue my hard work, six days a week. Only time for church on Sundays.

        The same man, Ken, asks me to go out one Saturday evening to meetup with some mutual friends. It was noticed that I did not have a life. Work, work, work. Arriving at the theatre, that same man is there. Coming over he asks me if after the film I would like to go for drinks.

       “I do not drink.”

       “Do you drink coffee?” I could not say no.

       Ken is smitten by me, I can tell. He should cool it, I have work to do with no distractions. I should stay away from social life.

        It turned out to be a nice evening after all, drinking coffee with him. He is tall and charming. Before I know it is ten PM. I should go.

        “Can I see you again?”  Expectations in his eyes are waiting.

         Weeks go by, he tries to see me again, I want to work. Only that. No time for hanky panky. My friends tell me I should see him again, he is a nice man. “Okay. Okay. Another movie this weekend, that is all!”

        I accept.

        On my way to the movie house to meet with Ken, I step off the curb to cross the street and don’t see the car until it is too late. I am side-swiped in the rain and fall to my knees. Hands are reaching out while I sit stunned. Someone pulled me into a restaurant nearby and offered water to me and an ambulance. “I’m okay”, I said, I was just shook up. I will miss the movie.

        Ken was supposed to meet his date on a certain corner tonight, but she didn't show up. She is late. 

“I wonder if she stood me up? She doesn’t like me.”

An hour goes by. Ken heads home dejected. When he arrives his brother asks him why he is home so early?

         “She never showed up. She doesn't like me.”

          The phone rings, it is for Ken. Listening, he drops the phone running out. His brother looks on, mouth agape, wondering what just happened?

           Upon arriving at the accident area scene, Ken walks into the restaurant and kneels down beside me. Cradling me in his arms, lovingly, he is the man for me.

          We marry, nine months later to the dismay of my two Aunts who vehemently oppose my decision, citing that duty is to my family in the Ukraine and not to this man.

        I don’t care, I still work six days a week and still go to church, with a little love in between.

        Twelve years pass quickly. I decide to clean out some old boxes stuffed with junk this afternoon while waiting for Ken to come home from work. I come across a box labelled “before marriage” and start to pick through it. In between letters and trinkets is an envelope titled “ring.” I open it seeing the gold ring I found that day a long time ago in the field when I had a bike accident. I never told Ken about it.

       Pulling out the ring, turning it over in my hand, I see initials engraved in it “KM” Suddenly it registers, “Ken Manuel.”

      But how can that be, it was many years before I even met him that I found this ring?

     I will give the ring to Ken tonight, the ring has found a home to celebrate.