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Three brittle stalks of wheat in a vase. Light as breeze, the spikes scratchy to my touch. There is a sound, though slight, a hollow rattling that can almost bring me back. This needs to be here, I know, to keep and pass on-however fragile now, the strength is there.
Ninety years ago they stood at the edge of the field, it was September, the work was done for today, and though there would be more tomorrow-always more- it was time to go. There were three brothers, all born here, as was their father and fathers and sons for three hundred years. This was the place that the Filipek's lived and died, until today. There were always problems, things were never easy, but there were no other choices to be made- this farm was here and so were they. The decision to leave was as much to end, as to begin. They could not think today, of what was ahead of them; only the loss of what today was- and yesterday. The crops were doing well this year, there was a healthy flock of geese and a new calf. Things would not be hard for them, the parents and the youngest-a sister. Each of the sons had worked hard to leave something behind. Vaclav planted a small grove of fruit trees for his mother: cherries, apples pears and plums. He built a small bench for the grove, so she could rest. They had laughed at the smallness of the trees, mere twigs now. His mother did not laugh. She reminded them that in time, these trees would grow like her sons. These trees would always be here and that the fruit would bring her joy. Jan carved out a rybny-lake, studied the aeration and drainage, than stocked it with small fish for his father. Every evening he and his father had fished and talked of plans. In his mind he could see his father sitting along the bank of the rybny as he rested after a long day. He knew that his father would boast to the other men that his sons had made this- his son, who now lived in America. Frantisek would not leave with them, would not go as far. He would be an architect or teacher in Tabor- not a farmer in Kolence. This was perhaps harder for his parents to understand. He would return, but would never be a part of this place again. His children would never wake from sleep here, to run through these fields in the sun. Novesedly needed a church, he would build it. His parents would have their own seat in the front, they could look out the windows and see the graves of their past-this he knew would give them peace. The brothers worked throughout the summer to complete their tasks. None would leave without the other. They worked together one last time. So, that evening, after their mother's meal, after the talk and stories of their past, they stood at the edge of the field and listened to the dry hiss of the wheat as the wind brushed through. No one said anything. No one looked any further than this field. In the morning, they would leave. Vaclav would live in Chicago, own a store and would return to visit. Frantisek would become a teacher and his children would live in the city. Jan would never return, he would be a farmer and have six strong and handsome sons. Jan came to Minnesota, where he built a farm of his own. His sons built a church, near a small cemetery, and though his sons would carry on his name, Jan never again would have a home. He sold his farm, then a house in town. House after house they would rent. His children wanted to be back in the country, his children wanted a home, his wife knew, but she could not understand why he would not stay, why he would not farm this rich land with his sons and pass this place to them. These sons grew wild, scattered to the city, came back to the wheat fields to be buried at the small country cemetery. They died old men. The oldest son was Frantisek, they called him Frank. He stayed and built homes for the people of the town. His four sons did the same, though they too, never lived in any of these houses, never, in fact, owned homes to raise their families. In summer, there was always work on the farms around town, and the brothers were always available for hire. They still spoke Bohemian and married Czech descendents, like themselves. They had grown wild, drank and did not care for their wives and children. They remembered their grandfather, Jan, only as being unhappy, that he played the fiddle for drink and lived to be a very old man. He had once been a farmer in the old country, they had heard. My grandfather was one of those sons. I stood there now, at the edge of the wheat field. Old and bent over his cane, he told my mother the story, stopped to wipe away his tears and waited for her to translate the story to me in English. I had to know, he said. It was his grandmother, that youngest sister, who stayed behind at the farm. He and his brothers grew up here. The oldest, he stayed to raise his own sons. He cried as he told of his incarceration as a political prisoner for eight years; of how he could not help his wife; and how his children grew up without him. His wife worked so hard to keep the farm until he would return. The communist police had threatened to kill his sons, they took control of the farm, and they let them stay and live. There is the rybny, still, and the grove of fruit trees gnarled with age. The church, gray and damp, chained shut by communist rule-the bench where the father sat until he died there one Easter Sunday. No one can come here, no one can maintain the structure "by law"- he says. Yet he arranges for us to sit on that bench as a neighbor man plays a perfectly tuned organ for us, the music floods the stained walls, I look out the window at the cemetery. The statues are gone and the altar bare. At the edge of the field, he tells us that for forty years, they have not planted these fields, as his family struggled, went hungry and poor. These fields were not theirs to farm. He was so sorry, he had tried to fight them, but for his family's sake, he had to give up. "This wheat you see comes wild, the rest is weeds, but the wheat is part of the old farm," he says. It makes him happy that it is stubborn, that it grows despite them, wild and strong like his grandsons. "This is Filipek land, this was their home and you are the the first American to return," he says crying, blue eyes, the color of my grandfather's. He smiles suddenly and says, "I always knew they had gone to America!!! Others doubted, but I knew that they were there. We have sacrificed much for your country. You are a great nation today because you have gotten the strongest and smartest of all of us!" After our meal, he toasts to family, says that our futures now are with the children. Before I leave, I return to the field. I take with me all that I can, for I too have children-three- strong, beautiful and like the breeze. I take three stalks of wheat, golden and supple. The weight of this in my hand surprises me. It is a part of me, and now them. It is important that they know the strength is there. Interpretive Note |
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