section7mfu | The Twelve Days, Day 6 for the 12 Days of Christmas

Day 1
Day 2
Day 3
Day 4
Day 5
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Day 6

The settlement turned out to be a little village on the outskirts of Sydney. The population of that city had roots in many different countries of the world, one of which suited the purposes of the UNCLE men perfectly.

It was just about daybreak when they had walked into the center of what appeared to be a little neighborhood; full of modest homes set around a commons, the first thing that struck the three hungry men was the aroma wafting from what must have been a bakery.

“Do you smell that?”

“I’m so hungry I might faint.”

“Neither of you will faint, but I assure you that I am going to have some of that cake.”

Napoleon looked at his partner quizzically. How did he know it was cake?

“Illya, you seem to have the advantage. What is it we’re smelling?”

The sun was glinting off of a few shop windows that faced the east. Barely discernible on one of them was written пекарня.

“Pekarnya. It is a Ukrainian bakery. And that aroma is Poppy Seed Cake.”

Illya was almost giddy from the discovery. Here, at least, he would find people who might help them. More importantly, they would probably feed them.

~~~~~:

After a pleasant night’s sleep in the home of a sympathetic countryman, Illya was confident that this day would be much the same as the one previous. Their great good fortune of walking into a Ukrainian community on the outskirts of Sydney had been very welcome to the cold and weary men; the food was plentiful and their hosts very agreeable.

Napoleon’s communication with headquarters had netted them a ride home later today. A helicopter would pick them up at noon, after which they could catch a plane back to New York from the airport in Halifax.

Jerry Jenks, their pilot and traveling companion, had been enchanted by a young woman who worked in the bakery, which left Illya and Napoleon to spend the rest of the day speculating about their recent adventure, cross checking information with headquarters and each other.

The only thing they had at the end of their day had been a lack of answers and a recurring appetite. Illya immersed himself in the Ukrainian atmosphere, and swore he hadn’t eaten so well since leaving Paris. Napoleon decided it was probably true.

Now, today, as they waited for their ride, Illya was conversing with the owner of a charming little store. They were talking so fast that Napoleon had no chance of catching any of it, but when the woman behind the counter handed Illya an unusual item, it caught the American’s eye immediately.

He sauntered over to where his friend was standing, intrigued by what he now held in his hand.

“What is that Illya? It looks like an egg.”

Illya held it up for Napoleon to see, cradling the brightly painted egg in his hand. The expression on the Russian’s face was childlike; it was as though what he held was magical.

“This is a pysanka. This is a Ukrainian art form, something I have not seen since … since I was a child.”

The smile seemed to fade a little as he spoke the words. Illya’s expression softened into something wistful. Napoleon had to wonder what this was bringing up for his friend; how many memories, both good and bad, were attached to this pysanka.

The woman continued on, in English for Napoleon’s sake, and told of the history of this particular egg. Many of the actual Ukrainian pysanka were destroyed, first by the Soviets and then during the war. Since the pysanka were part of the Easter tradition, they had become subject to the government’s continuing efforts to remove all traces of religion. The art form continued however, sometimes in secret. Once immigrants arrived here, in Nova Scotia, they resumed the practice of the pysanka, which accounted for the abundance here in this little community.

“I should very much like to buy some of these. I believe that when our transportation arrives, the pilot will have some cash for me…”

The woman touched Illya’s cheek, said something to him in a soft voice; something that Napoleon didn’t understand. Whatever it was prompted Illya to take that same hand and kiss it, covering it with his own and whispering into her ear.

Napoleon felt like an intruder. The woman was old enough to be Illya’s mother, so… Oh. Of course. He felt himself choke up, just a little.

An hour later their helicopter arrived and landed just on the outskirts of the little settlement. The three men who had started out together on the UNCLE jet boarded their ferry to the airport. They had thanked the gracious couple in whose home they had spent the night, whose food they had devoured thankfully. Jerry had an address and a pleasant memory, and Napoleon was thinking ahead to their meeting with Mr. Waverly.

When Illya sat down, he held a package.

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