WHEN THE BALIUKS arrived home, Kat checked the mail, but found no hate mail. There had been a few pieces of hate mail since that first one, but now everyone knew what to do. As soon as they were opened and their contents revealed, they were dumped into a zip-lock bag and the police were notified. Several good prints had already been found.
While the hate mail was upsetting to Danylo, what upset him even more was the "fan" mail. Twice in the last week, Danylo had received letters from neo-Nazis extending their support. The writers of these "fan" letters mistakenly believed that her grandfather was a Nazi and they idolized him for it.
Kat remembered when the first such letter arrived. She had found her grandfather sitting on the sofa, a letter in hand. His face was almost purple with anger.
"What's the matter, Dido?" she had asked.
"This piece of garbage," he said, holding out the letter for her to see. "A fool is thanking me for my work in the name of Hitler. What kind of a nut would think Hitler was a good guy?"
Thankfully, these letters were few and far between, and in this particular stack, there were none. What was in this stack, however, were letters of support. Some of the letters came from fellow Ukrainian immigrants who, like Danylo, had come from a village that was right on the front, but what warmed Kat's heart the most were the letters from Canadian-born citizens who were simply appalled by a process that could strip citizenship on the basis of unproven evidence.
Kat had her own case of unproven evidence to atone for. Michael had still not returned her phone calls. She felt awful about what had happened, but she couldn't quite understand why he was so angry with her. She had not accused him of doing the graffiti, and she had not called the police. All she had done was witness his arrest. What had he expected her to do?
She picked up the phone and called one last time. This time, Michael picked up.
She was momentarily at a loss for words because she had expected to get an answering machine again. "Hi Michael, it's Kat," she said.
"Hi," he replied in a flat voice.
"Look," said Kat. "I am really sorry for what happened. I wish it didn't happen at all, but I don't know why you're so mad at me about it."
"I'm not, really," said Michael. "I'm sad about it, not mad about it."
"Can you come over, and maybe we can talk?"
"Sure," he said. "Hold on for a minute." Kat could hear the muffled sound of a hand over the speaker of a phone.
"My dad has to drop some papers off at your house after supper tonight. He said he could drive me over at the same time." "That would be great," said Kat. She was very relieved.
When Mr. Vincent came over, he and Kat's mother and grandfather took over the kitchen table with an assortment of files and clippings. Michael stood awkwardly in the living room, looking on.
"I'll just grab a couple of sodas and then we can go downstairs and I'll show you what I was working on," said Kat.
"Okay," said Michael.
Kat was relieved to see a faint smile on his lips.
Kat had brought a spare lawn chair into the basement so Michael would have a place to sit. Since the trial began, she had come downstairs almost every single evening to work on her eggs. She had completed seven already, and there were three more in various stages of completion.
Michael sat down on the lawn chair that faced Kat's working area. "Wow," he said. "You made all of those?"
"Yep," said Kat. She picked up the one she was most proud of: the forty triangle pysanka she had written freehand, and she put it in Michael's hand.
"It's still got the egg guts in it," said Michael. "Is it hard boiled?"
"No," said Kat. "You have to use raw eggs."
"Why?"
"Boiling them would ruin the finish, and the dye wouldn't take properly."
"Then how do you get the egg out once it's all done?" asked Michael.
"You don't have to," said Kat. "Traditionally, you're supposed to leave the egg guts in. They dry on their own. Also, traditionally, to take the guts out is to kill the egg. An egg is a symbol of life and hope and good wishes, so some think it turns the symbol around if you take the insides out of it."
"Hmm," said Michael. "I didn't know that." He set down the forty triangles pysanka and picked up another. This one had an intricate design. "This is beautiful," he said.
"I made it for you," said Kat.
Michael looked up, surprised and a bit embarrassed. "I can't take this," he said. "It is too precious."
"Pysanky are made to be given," said Kat. "It is like a wish or a prayer that you give to someone else."
Michael smiled. "Thank you," he said.
"So," Kat said, grinning back. "Would you like me to teach you how to make your own pysanky?"
His smile broke into a broad grin. "I would love it," he said.