Next morning the guards look really unhappy. The prisoners think there must have been another escape, but they haven’t heard anything and nobody seems to be missing. Unhappy guards are a common enough thing, but this is a different, hard-to-define unhappiness. For once it doesn’t seem to be connected to the prisoners.
A week later, back in Banff, Taras and his friends return to the bunkhouse after supper. Tymko has found a discarded copy of the local newspaper, the Crag and Canyon, and it has a story about the camp. Reading it, they finally learn what happened the night of Rapustka’s flight. One of the guards, Henri Martin, was posted at the bridge across the Bow River at Johnson Creek to keep an eye out for him. At the same time, a local game warden, W. H. Fyfe, armed himself with a revolver and also set out to look for Rapustka.
“Well, that’s sensible,” Tymko says. “He was probably afraid Rapustka would strangle some game with his bare hands. And eat it. Absolutely against the law.” He thinks for a moment. “Okay. Here’s how I think it went.” The others give him the floor.
“So. Henri Martin sees a shadow moving through the trees along the water. Could be a bear or an elk, but he’s almost sure it’s a man.” Tymko mimes a man skulking through the trees, arms raised like antlers.
“‘Who’s there?’ Martin yells. ‘Halt, or I’ll fire!’
“But the shadow man keeps walking. Who but a fleeing prisoner would do that? So Martin creeps toward him, bayonet fixed. The unknown man draws his gun, yells, ‘Stop!’
“Martin sees the gun raised toward him and a second later a shot echoes across the valley. The shadow man writhes on the ground, holding his wrist. Martin fires a second shot that grazes the man’s shoulder. Martin hurries over. He has Rapustka.
“‘You asshole!’ screams the wounded man. ‘I’m the goddamn game warden! Why’d you shoot?’ The soldier doesn’t say a word.
“‘You got my wrist! I’ll probably be crippled for life!’ The guard tries to offer his hand and the game warden kicks it away. ‘I hope they send you to goddamn jail for this!’”
Taras and his friends applaud. But there’s more to the story in the paper. Myro reads it aloud. “This is the first time one of the guards has shot a man since the internees were stationed at Banff, and it is the irony of fate that a white man should be chosen as the target.”
The first part is strangely comforting. The guards have never before managed to hit anybody with their rifles. Not for lack of trying, of course.
But the men are puzzled by the “white man” part. “What are we, then?” Yuriy asks.
Tymko explains. “To the townspeople, well, most of them, whiteness is what sets them apart from what they consider lesser peoples. Whiteness means intelligence, resourcefulness, hard work, superior organization. We internees are believed to lack these qualities, and so they believe we aren’t white.”
“What?” Ihor says. “That’s crazy.”
“Being white also means speaking good English,” Tymko goes on, “and this is taken as further proof that eastern Europeans belong to some other race – because otherwise they’d have been born speaking English.”
There’s laughter when Tymko jeers at such ignorance, but it still hurts.
“But really,” Yuriy says, “what is a white man, then? We don’t look any different from them.”
“No,” Tymko says, “we don’t. Well, they have better clothes.”
On June 30, all the internees, 312 men, make the move to Castle Mountain. They spend the day putting up tents and settling in. Except there is no settling; everything changes from moment to moment. Within days, twenty-six more prisoners are paroled. On July 4, Wasyl Pujniak and John Kushniruk escape. Two days later, four men are sent away because of illness and four more are sent to the Canmore coal mines. On July 7, nine more leave to work for individual farmers. That leaves 267.
Taras feels angrier each time he sees a group of men moved out of camp. Why these men and not others? How can the government explain why some men who were dangerous before are not dangerous any more? Were these men never as dangerous as the ones who remain? Is he himself more dangerous than he thinks?
Next day, fifty prisoners are paroled to the Canadian Pacific Railway. Tymko feels bad about it: he worked for the CPR years ago, but they didn’t ask for him. “My politics,” he says. But he admits it could be because the men they took worked for the company more recently. Either way, it takes the heart out of them to see so many leaving while they must stay. The 312 men have become 217.
Tymko offers his usual analysis. Once, workers were needed for Canadian industries, so Ukrainians were welcomed. Then there was a depression and fewer workers were needed. Ukrainians became unwelcome. Now many young men are in Europe fighting and Canada needs workers again. Especially for the industries that keep the war going.
This still makes sense, but it doesn’t seem to help – and just when Taras had started to believe the most important thing a man could have was a good analysis.
Since the release of so many internees, Taras and his friends have heard no reports of sudden spates of murder, sabotage or spitting in the streets. No outbreaks of subversion. Of course, they don’t get the newspaper every day. Tymko says that must explain it. In reality, there must be a constant parade of death and carnage.
Taras sits in the tent one night smoking a hand-rolled cigarette Tymko gave him. Smoking still makes him dizzy, but it’s one of the few things you can choose to do in this place. He imagines his father, who never smokes: “So, you want to be dizzy, is that it?” Apparently he does. Yuriy, Tymko, Ihor smoke every evening. Even Myro sometimes puffs away, a distant look on his face, thinking important professor thoughts.
“I see you’ve decided to give up on your story,” Tymko says. The others turn from staring at canvas walls to staring at Taras.
“I never said I was giving up.”
“No. Not in words.” Tymko lights a cigarette, watches Taras through the smoke.
“I didn’t like how it was going.” Taras blows a wobbly smoke ring. “Too miserable.”
“Even more reason to tell it, then. Don’t you think, Myro? It’ll make him feel better.”
“It might. What do you say, Taras? You’ve taken us this far. Why not tell us how you came to be here? I know I’ve been wondering.”
“Me too,” Yuriy says.
“And me,” Ihor adds.
“Oh, all right. Just to keep you quiet.”
He begins the part he couldn’t tell back in the bunkhouse when he could imagine Zmiya in the corner listening. But Zmiya’s not with them now, he’s in a tent near the back of the camp.
“Well,” Taras says, “in spring, 1915, all us workers who were building the school the summer before were still at the brick plant making bricks for the war. Shawcross was even taking on a few more men, including some from Regina. Many of them were what Shawcross called ‘foreigners.’ They’d been in unions before and they wanted to be again. So by June people were talking about it a lot.” He stops for a breath.
“So Moses and Frank Elder went to Moose Jaw one Sunday. They met some union people to learn more about how to organize. And then they talked to every man in the plant about what they’d learned. Everyone but Stover.”
“Because Stover was the boss’s man?” Tymko asks.
“Yeah, and because it was the last thing he’d want. He already had what he wanted. He could bully people because we knew Shawcross wouldn’t stop it. And he had enough money to go the saloon when he wanted. So they never asked him, but I think he knew something was up.
“I admit I was never interested and I just forgot about it. But Frank and Moses made plans for a meeting. By early August, they were ready. One day I was loading bricks into the kiln for firing, and Moses came in. ‘Meeting tonight,’ he said. ‘To talk about a union.’
“I didn’t want to go. I said, ‘I don’t even know what that is.’”
“‘Never mind,’ Moses said. ‘Just come.’”
We all sat
on wooden chairs in a meeting room Frank Elder arranged in the Anglican church. Frank was standing in front of a table at the front, leading the meeting. Moses sat behind it.
“So the guy from Moose Jaw is willing to come down and help us organize,” Frank said. “And I think we’re going to be in a strong bargaining position.”
Angus McLean, red-haired and strong as a blacksmith, stood up. “Why’s that?” he asked. Angus’s job was hauling clay from pits in the hills near the plant. I think it was the only job he’d ever had.
“It’s like Shawcross told us,” Frank said. “The government needs brick for warships. So the money’s there. Shawcross is gonna do just fine out of the war.”
“Profit and patriotism,” Moses added. “He’s got them both.”
“I’m not saying it’ll be easy,” Frank went on. “But if we stick together, if we don’t let Shawcross break us...I think we have a chance.”
“Och, that’s good,” Angus said, “and I hate to even say this, but what if it doesnae work out?” There was a long silence.
Finally Moses stood up. “If it doesn’t work out, they’ll fire whoever they think started it all. I guess that’d be me and Frank.”
“I can’t afford to get fired,” Angus said. “I’m running a few head of cattle in the hills, but I’m not making much.”
Moses agreed. “Nobody can afford to get fired.” He looked around the room. “Taras? Are you in favour of the union?”
I was startled. I’d only come to listen, and because Moses wanted me to. But they all seemed to be waiting, and I took my time, but I stood up too.
“I don’t know,” I said. “In the old country, you can’t have anything like this. But here in Canada... Maybe a union is good.”
Just then the door burst open and three Mounties, led by Reg Statler, came in, moving fast. And they came right for me, and Statler grabbed my arm.
“Taras Kalyna,” he said, “you are under arrest for seditious behaviour under the War Measures Act.” He spoke in a loud voice, but I didn’t think he believed what he was saying.
“And for suspicion of being an Austrian spy,” he added.
I told him, “I’m not a spy! You know I’m not.” I’d been reporting to this Mountie Statler once a month since the last fall. I was sure he’d never suspected me of anything at all.
When I spoke, he hesitated a moment and I thought he looked ashamed.
“Officer, this is a peaceful meeting,” Moses said. “Nothing to do with sedition or spies.”
“This man is an Austrian citizen. He’s spreading seditious propaganda.” Statler said this in a loud voice. I thought he was trying to convince himself.
“Mr. Kalyna was invited to the meeting –” Frank Elder said, but the policemen ignored him. “He came to listen!”
“Take him away,” Statler said. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“No! Wait!” Moses shouted.
“I’m not a spy!” I yelled, but they dragged and shoved me out the door.
“All right,” Tymko says, “I see why you didn’t want to tell us. It’s miserable, all right. Do you feel any better yet?”
“Not that I can notice. I’ll let you know if that changes.”
“That was rotten luck,” Yuriy says. “You weren’t even trying to start a union.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Tymko says. “When the boss wants to get rid of you, he can always come up with something.”
“But why would he want to get rid of me? He liked me at first. He could have been killed or crippled by that horse if I hadn’t helped him.”
“Bosses don’t feel gratitude,” Tymko says.
“He did at first. He gave me a job. Even though Stover didn’t want him to.”
Taras thinks about that day, and the few other times he talked with the boss. The day he asked for time off to look for someone. An odd question from Shawcross.
“One day he noticed the pendant I was wearing. He asked me where I got it. I never thought about it till now, but why would he care?”
“The one you made?” Myro asks.
“That’s right. And I made Halya one just like it.”
“Did he see hers somehow?” Yuriy wonders. “Did he meet Halya somewhere?”
“How could he?” And yet, why would Shawcross ask about the pendant? Why would he get that look on his face like he was hatching something?
A scene unfolds in his mind. Shawcross talking to Reg Statler. Kalyna’s an Austrian, he says. I know, Statler says, he reports to me every month. And Shawcross says, Why hasn’t the fellow been arrested? And Statler says, There’s no reason to. He hasn’t done anything.
Taras imagines the boss thinking: So Taras hasn’t done anything. If he does, though, look out. Shawcross will make sure Statler does his duty. More than his duty. And then he somehow finds out about the union meeting.
He remembers something else. “The day the war broke out, I saw Halya going into the train station with an older lady. An English lady.”
“Going somewhere on the train,” Myro says. “I wonder why.”
Taras remembers Viktor’s gloating face outside the police building. “Viktor said Halya had gone some place I’d never find her. He said she was going to school and she was going to marry an Englishman.”
“Could the English lady be your boss’s mother?” Myro asks. “And Shawcross the Englishman she was supposed to marry?”
“How could they have even met?” Taras asks. It seems too fantastic to be true.
“But why would they send her away to school?” Yuriy wonders. “I know! To make her more English. More white, eh?”
“Where would boss people find an English lady school?” Tymko asks. “That’s what we need to figure out.”
“A school like that would have to be in a big city,” Yuriy says. “I don’t think they have pahna schools in every little town.”
“The most likely places are Winnipeg or Edmonton,” Myro says. “I don’t know Winnipeg, but I’m from Edmonton and there’s a school for young ladies there. Private school. People pay to send their daughters there.”
“Sounds like boss business to me.” Tymko’s eyebrows rise into his thoughtful owl look. “I bet Halya’s in Edmonton.”
“That’s in Alberta, right?” Taras says. “It can’t be so far away.”
“Ten, twelve hours on the train,” Myro says. “They make a lot of stops.”
“I could write her a letter.” Taras feels his heart pounding.
“Would she do well in school, do you think?” Tymko asks.
“Oh yes. Halya loves to read. She’s very smart.”
CHAPTER 26
The People’s Voice
May, 1915
Halya climbs a steep, dark staircase one slow step at time. She’s out of chances, having already failed to get every job in the newspaper advertisements that she could possibly pretend to be qualified for. The people at the top of the stairs haven’t even advertised. But they are the people she’d like to work for. She’s only just realized that. She’d been standing outside, head down, and feeling she’d reached some kind of end. She’d happened to look up and seen a sign on a door she hadn’t noticed was there.
In a moment she’s reached the landing and stands before an office door. On its glass panel, a sign reads: The People’s Voice, Western Canada’s Ukrainian Newspaper. Below, it says, “Nestor Mintenko, Editor. Zenon Andrychuk, Reporter.” Hunger and fear knot her stomach, and she hopes the sponge bath in her room this morning has done its job. She hesitates a moment, then knocks and goes inside.
Two men sit typing. The older one, a stocky guy of about fifty, looks as if he’s seen it all. He must be Nestor Mintenko. The second is a thinner, scholarly looking man in his early thirties: Zenon. Halya sees him looking at her with interest. She’s wearing a plain navy blue dress; yes, one of Louisa’s, but she can’t worry about that now. Her hair is neatly braided around her head. She tries to make her face look both interested and hopeful, but s
he’s afraid they’ll see the desperation underneath.
“Dobre dehn. Ya Halya Dubrovsky.”
Zenon smiles encouragingly.
“I wondered if you had any work.” There, she’s said it.
“Sorry, kid, we can barely pay ourselves,” Nestor says. He looks like a person of natural kindness and compassion who feels he must appear firm, even brusque.
“I can read and write Ukrainian...also English.” I’m one of you, a Ukrainian, she wants to say. How can you just turn away?
“I’m afraid –” Zenon says.
She doesn’t have to search for the words, they come out like rapid gunfire. “I can type sixty-five words a minute, and I’m very accurate. I can write clear, grammatical letters in both languages.” They look unmoved. What else can she tell them? “I’ve studied the poetry of Taras Shevchenko and the novels of Jane Austen.” That’s better. Having mentioned these two touchstones, she feels on firmer ground.
Nestor, unfortunately, looks like he’s trying not to laugh, but Zenon...she thinks he may be intrigued.
“It would be helpful...” he says with a slight smile.
Nestor shakes his head. “We can’t afford –”
There’s no turning back. Miss Greeley’s money’s gone. “I’m very interested in writing.”
“We do all the writing here,” Nestor says.
“I can spell very well... My typing is extremely...” Oh, she’s told them that.
“My handwriting, did I mention? My handwriting is clear and legible. I received a prize in my class for Composition. My essay... about the novels of Charles Dickens...”
The men exchange a look. Shevchenko, Austen and Dickens? they must be thinking. How often does a person with those qualifications walk up their dank stairway? Hope makes her heart race. She sees Nestor’s brief shrug. A real smile breaks over Zenon’s face.
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