Christmas Stories from Ukraine

Christmas stories, written by Ukrainian writers. They will take you to the wolves-infested forest through which little Vasylko gallops, trying to deliver a fir tree to the rich family and earn money to redeem his mother's boots from the shoemaker; to the snowed up fields which little Marusya braves wearing her mother torn boots stuffed with straw, hurrying to the town to pawn her deceased father clothing and buy medicine for her mother on the Christmas eve; to the rich living room to listen to stories told after the Christmas supper.
With happy endings, and sad, these stories perfectly capture the spirit of Ukrainian Christmas and its traditions.

"Fir tree" by Mykhailo Kotsiubynsky; "A teardrop" by Marko Cheremshyna; "Christmas evening" by Hnat Khotkevych, "Holy Evening!" by Lesya Ukrainka; "Peasant angel", "Witch", "In the blizzard" by Stepan Vasylchenko; "Morozenko" by Panas Myrny; "Supper" by Stepan Vasylchenko.

"Frightened, without a hat, covered in snow, Vasylko sped along the road towards the cold wind. Two wolves fled after him, arching their grey spines... And the blizzard howled, snowed and covered their tracks."
"So you will repent... So I will make your life even worse servitude and I will laugh at each of your tear," and pulling me forcibly to himself, kissed my lips."
"Somewhere in the world there is a little church old, rotten, looking as if it was built from the shadows of the moon. In the church there is a vestibule, sad, dark, and in it, between the broken cross and the old banner, there hangs an icon of the holy angel, covered in dust, faded.
...And lived in these parts a poor widow in a clay house, a woman true, in the fear of God observing, and she had a son called Ivashko. Ivashko was obedient and respectful, but he loved honey very much, because he was still young. And he so waited, so waited for that Christmas."
"I can not look at them!..Their smell is disgusting to me, revolting... She bred, weakling, and died herself, leaving it for me to fuss over them, these stinks... Why? For what? Am I a hireling of hers?.. I'll be popping my own soon."

"The little young devil, who was let out for the holidays to play pranks, fell straight into the snowdrift from sheer happiness, buried himself in it wholly, and did such a dance with his legs that the snow dust rose up and one could not see a thing; then he jumped up and began to run around the field."

Dettagli