Dearest Baba, are you enjoying the same sun in Shuparka?
While she welcomed the sun, the rain had at least given her a little reprieve. It had prevented the men from leaving and had given her time to weave a few baskets and practise her reading and writing. Soon she would be able to write to Baba, she thought, coming to a sudden stop beside the garden.
The rain had also made the sunflowers and cabbage sprout! Lesia grinned. The tiny seedlings marched in rows, along with beets and hemp and something called kale. A hearty green, Paul had called it when he’d given them the seed. Soon they would be eating their own food. Mama would be so pleased!
Scrambling down the bank to the shallow creek, she took a breath and waded into the icy water. The rain had made the water level rise; it was deeper than usual. She grappled for the trap, found it and pulled. Nothing! With a grimace of disgust, she reset it and tossed it back into the water. The water was good for bathing and drinking, she thought as she filled the tin can she had brought from the dugout, but not so good for fishing. Maybe Ivan was right. Maybe their neighbour was trapping all the fish for himself.
The rabbit trap was empty too, sprung by another coyote that had left bits of fur and dried blood behind. If only Mama could manage to eat gopher, Lesia thought as she headed for the south field, the grass rustling against her knees as she brushed against it. If only they had more potatoes. Or some flour.
In the distance was the farm she had admired the day they’d first arrived. She could see a man—their neighbour—checking his cows. A baby calf. He looked up. She waved her arm and yelled out a greeting.
He turned away.
He hadn’t seen her, Lesia decided as she picked up her axe. Perhaps he didn’t want to see her?
There are many Michals in the world, and they would like us to liue beneath them. Baba’s words floated through her mind. But Baba had also said that all people are equal in the eyes of God.
Canada would give Lesia a chance to prove that and more.
The rain had left the ground moist and heavy, and with each stroke of the axe, grass and soil and flower petals rained into the air, a colorful blend of purple violets and orange lilies and white lupins.
On and on she worked, hacking and chopping, separating rock from soil, until the sun was high in the sky. By then, she was dripping with sweat and her muscles, well rested after days of inactivity, were tightly knotted. She reached for the tin of water she’d taken from the creek. It was all she could do not to empty the can completely.
Her stomach growled with hunger. Bozhe, to sit in the shade of the dugout and eat a real meal instead of watery soup! Instead, she sat by her rock pile, dipped two fingers into the tin of water and dabbed her cheeks … the nape of her neck. Aaaaaahhh. Warm but refreshing.
There was a rustle from behind. Lesia froze.
It was an animal. Was it a skunk?
Putting the tin down, she pulled herself to a crouch and slowly turned. Her body was stiff; she was ready to run. There was another rustle. Then a flash of brown-gold. It was a prairie chicken.
Mama loved fowl! Maybe, just maybe, if she was fast, she could kill it. Lesia grabbed a large rock and aimed.
Feathers flew. A howl of protest sounded from the innocent bird. Stunned, it thrashed about and attempted flight.
Grabbing her axe, Lesia lifted it over her head and lunged forward. She struck out once, twice, unsure if she was hitting the ground, the bird or both. But she would not let it get away The prairie chicken flapped and screeched. Bile rose and lodged in Lesia’s throat. She had never killed anything in her life. The closest she’d come was plucking feathers from the old hens in Shuparka.
Finally, the creature was still. Dead.
Tossing the axe aside, she forced her feet to move forward, to look at what she’d done. Her blows had severed the chicken’s neck. She had decapitated it. But her other blows must have hit the ground because the body was in one piece.
It was a good size. More than enough to feed five.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she bent down. The nearby grass was splattered with droplets of blood. More blood pooled on the ground under the bird’s neck, and blood trickled through the feathers of the bird’s wing like beet juice staining a piece of bread.
Lesia reached out. The bird twitched and flopped. Horrified, she jumped back. Of course it was moving. That happened after birds were slaughtered. Frowning at her foolishness, she forced her hand forward. There was its head, off to the side. And its eyes watching her. Don’t look.
She lifted it by its feet. They were slick. Warm. More blood drained to the ground. Lesia swayed. She would not be sick. She took a deep, steadying breath. You must do this.
Anxious to show the others her catch, she began to run. The chicken flapped and splattered blood on her apron, but Lesia’s squeamishness was gone. Tonight they would eat a prairie chicken. It was going to taste wonderful roasted over the fire!
“Look,” she yelled when the dugout was in sight. “Look.”
Sonia saw her first. Her scream of delight alerted Mama and Papa.
“What have we here?” Papa beamed.
Lesia lowered the chicken and allowed Sonia to touch the feathers that were clean. “Dinner,” she said proudly.
Mama looked incredulous. “You killed that yourself?”
She grinned. “There was no one else to kill it for me, Mama.” She looked around the clearing. “Where’s Ivan?”
Papa pointed.
She followed the direction of Papa’s finger. Ivan was standing behind the dugout, where the root cellar was going to be. And he wasn’t alone.
“We have company,” Papa said.
Chapter Six
“His name is Wasyl Goetz and he’s looking for work,” Papa explained. “He needs money.”
Didn’t they all? She studied the man. He was taller than Ivan, with broad shoulders, sandy brown hair and a thin stubble of beard.
Ivan glanced over, saw the prairie chicken and grinned. Wasyl Goetz turned. His eyes widened. She recognized the desperate yearning in his eyes: hunger.
The two of them walked towards her, and Lesia tried not to stare. His sheepskin coat was worn, his pants were torn at the knees, his shoes were held together with string. He carried a faded red blanket tied into a bundle, and a rifle over his shoulder. What she could do with a rifle!
“Well done,” Ivan said. “We’ll eat plenty tonight.”
An embarrassed silence fell and Wasyl Goetz stared at the ground.
“You’ll stay, of course,” Mama said to him.
“Thank you.” He looked up, smiled shyly. “I have a few potatoes in my bag. You would like to cook those to go with the bird, yes?”
Extra potatoes! Lesia could scarcely stop herself from laughing out loud. Mama could make pyrohy.
“You keep them,” Mama said generously. “Let us feed you.”
Mama did make pyrohy—out of the last of their own potatoes. Lesia refused to think about what they would eat tomorrow. Instead, after the bird was strung up over the fire, she listened to Wasyl tell Ivan and Papa about his experiences searching for work.
There was little left on the railroad, and it was tough in the city, too. Thousands of Ukrainians had marched in Winnipeg demanding jobs. “They yell over and over again—work or bread, work or bread.” He shook his head. “There is so litde work that men are organizing in protest. And things are just as bad in the homeland.” Wasyl shook his head. “It’s not a pretty picture.”
“How so?” Ivan asked.
“Word is the army is mobilizing on the border between Russia and Galicia,” he said. “Talk of war is at an all-time high.”
“If there is a war, what will that mean?” Lesia asked.
Papa reached over and adjusted the spit that held the chicken. “War is never good.” His eyes had a sad, faraway look. He’d watched his father march off to fight in the Austro-Prussian War. It had been the last time he’d seen the man alive.
“War
may not be good, but it always brings opportunity.” Ivan’s blue eyes darkened with excitement. “And that can be a good thing.”
“Absolutely” Wasyl nodded vigorously. “War means Ukrainians can fight to regain their homeland. And maybe the Canadian men will join up—that’ll mean more work for those left behind.” He and Ivan shared a grin.
Though she sat in the warmth of the fire, a cold chill crept down Lesia’s back. This talk of war was frightening her.
“Enough!” Papa said firmly. “Canada is a peaceful country. There will be plenty of opportunity without war.
“There’s no opportunity in the city,” Wasyl said again. “That’s why I’m walking to Teulon. A farmer there is looking for two men to till and plant his field.”
Papa and Ivan exchanged looks. “Just two?” Papa asked.
Wasyl nodded. “An Icelandic fellow who has a half section and enough money to take on two men for a month. Met him in Winnipeg.”
“How do you know the position will still be open when you get there?” Ivan asked.
“He’s holding it for me.” Wasyl flexed one arm and chuckled. “I have a reputation as a horse! I work harder than two men together. I was doing pretty well until my last job. That boss was harsh. He worked me fourteen hours a day and fed me just once. At least I was in the barn with the cows. After he went to bed, I’d fill up on milk.”
The three men laughed.
“How much did you make?” Lesia asked.
The laughter ended abruptly. Papa frowned. Ivan looked disgusted. “That’s none of your business,” her brother said.
“I don’t mean to pry.” She appealed directly to Wasyl. “But if I could go out and make some money, I’d like to know how much to ask for.”
“It depends what you do.” Wasyl glanced at her small shoulders. She could feel herself flushing as he studied her skinny arms. “I worked the fields. But as a woman …” he hesitated, “you could maybe find work plastering ovens.”
Lesia felt slighted. She wasn’t as fast as Papa or Ivan, but she was just as capable. “I work our field every day. And I killed tonight’s chicken.” Without a rifle, she added silently.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Papa said firmly.
She ignored him. “How much for working the fields?”
“Lesia!” Papa’s voice climbed in warning.
Wasyl didn’t seem to mind. “A few dollars a day, less by the month. But women aren’t usually hired to work the fields. Try plastering. You could make fifty cents a day.”
“I can work the field as well as any man.” She kicked angrily at the ground. What she could do with two dollars a day! Pay a little to Master Stryk. Buy food. Save some for chickens. Or a cow
“It doesn’t matter, Lesia, because you’ll be staying here with Mama and Sonia.”
“You never minded me working in Shuparka.” She crossed her arms defiantly.
Papa’s eyebrows stretched across his forehead. “This isn’t Shuparka.”
True enough. Canada was nothing at all like the homeland.
By the end of the first week in June, the men were ready to leave.
“Take good care of yourself, litde one. And of Mama and Sonia.” Papa smiled down at her.
Nodding, she tugged nervously on the corner of her apron. “Of course.”
Mama helped Ivan tie his few belongings into a square of white muslin. Wasyl Goetz played with Sonia. Lesia and Papa were alone.
“The root cellar is finished. We have an oven now. The garden is starting to grow. And thanks to Wasyl, you have a little fresh meat to keep you going.”
“Yes.” She nodded. Wasyl Goetz was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because he worked so hard. But a curse for the same reason. In the week he’d stayed with them, he’d helped Papa finish the root cellar, lent a hand plastering the oven and helped Ivan clear another acre of land. Then yesterday he’d killed another prairie chicken, two rabbits and a gopher. But with the work done and freshly killed meat on hand, Papa had gained a false sense of security. Now he thought it was fine to leave.
“How soon will you be back?” she asked. “We still have eight acres left to clear.”
“If I can, I’ll be back in a few weeks with some food,” Papa promised. “Or I’ll send money. But you heard Wasyl. Work is getting harder to find. We must make some money before winter. Be strong, Lesia. For Mama and for Sonia.”
Instead of encouraging her, Papa’s words reminded her of the enormous responsibility ahead. Clearing the rest of the land. Preparing the fields. Caring for the others. Especially for Mama, who was really slowing down. If Baba were here to help her, she wouldn’t feel so alone. Or so afraid.
“Let me go with Ivan and Wasyl,” she pleaded again. “Between Ivan and me, we could make enough to see us through the winter. And you could stay here with Mama and Sonia. “The thought of Papa leaving truly frightened her. “Please, Papa. Please?”
“Where is that faith you’re always talking about?” Papa grinned and gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “You can do this, Lesia. Mama can’t help with the heavy work, but there are plenty of things she can do. She can cook, she can weave baskets from willow. And you’re reading Geedo’s Bible now. That will bring you comfort during the lonely nights. Be strong, daughter. Strong and brave. The rewards will be sweet.”
She turned away. She didn’t want Papa to see her cry. But she couldn’t hide her misery from Ivan when he and Mama joined them a few minutes later.
“Everything will work out,” Ivan said softly.
She said nothing. Instead she watched as Wasyl walked slowly towards them, with Sonia perched happily on his shoulders.
The blessing and the curse.
Wasyl had promised Papa that he’d recommend him to the Icelandic farmer who needed a second hand. Surely, he’d said, the Icelandic farmer would know someone who could use Ivan’s help. Those were good things. But he’d also spent many hours talking with Ivan about the injustices faced by the immigrants. Not only were some of the English-speaking Canadians calling the immigrants nasty names just because they were different, but some newspapers even referred to them as disease-ridden people with a low standard of living. It was enough to put the old spark in Ivan’s eyes. The spark that had been there when he’d tried to organize the men in Shuparka.
“Don’t do anything silly, Ivan,” she demanded. “Promise me!”
Ivan looked indignant. “Silly? What do you mean, silly? I’m going out to make money. To pay off our debts and buy provisions.”
Sonia and Mama were hugging Papa. All three were fighting back tears. Lesia couldn’t look.
“You know what I mean,” she hissed. “Don’t get involved in politics. Put your energy where we need it most. In making money”
Ivan cocked an eyebrow and gave her a mock salute. “Any other marching orders?”
“Bring home a cow.” She grinned slightly. “A fat, brown one. And don’t be gone long. We have land to clear.”
Chapter Seven
June 15,1914
The Magus homestead
Wasyl Goetz was the first visitor to the Magus homestead, but not the last. After the men left, the weather warmed and the peddlers arrived. First there was a heavily bearded man carrying an overstuffed backpack. While Mama gave him a drink of water, Sonia and Lesia drooled over pocket knives, bandanas and bolts of brightly coloured cotton. When the next man came, Lesia was ready. She pulled out several of her willow baskets and bartered them for a needle and a few eggs. That gave her an idea.
“I’m going to see our English neighbour,” Lesia said one afternoon when Mama and Sonia were setding for a nap. “Maybe I can trade him for some milk and butter.” She tucked two of her best baskets under her arm and headed for the creek, determined to follow it to the adjoining farm. Ivan had warned her that prejudice was rampant, but surely neighbours could get along.
Though Lesia had been very careful with the meat Wasyl had killed, they only had a little potted rabbit and
a few strips of dried prairie chicken left. And while the seedlings were up in the garden and she was using some of them in soup, she had to let most of the plants grow so they’d have enough for winter.
In spite of the fact that Mama’s belly bulged with the baby, she was painfully thin and weak. Sonia constantly complained of hunger. Lesia herself was often ravenous, no doubt because of all the heavy work she was doing. She was determined to clear another acre before Papa returned. But she needed more food to keep up her strength.
It was blessedly cool in the shade of the towering elms. A small bird flitted from one branch to the next. Dearest Baba had loved the birds … and the bees. If only Baba were here to give her a hug. Instead, she had Geedo’s Bible to hug and Baba’s promise to remember. Let the effort be true, and the rewards will be sweet.
The sight of the dam drove the words from her mind.
Ivan had been right! Shocked, Lesia stared at the crudely constructed barrier of branches and planks and rocks that stretched the width of the stream. Craning her neck, she could see a couple of fish swimming lazily in the clear water on the other side. On her neighbour’s property.
With an uneasy feeling in her stomach, she clutched the baskets to her chest, climbed the bank, gave the dam a wide berth and hurried on. A man who prevented the fish from swimming downstream to their homestead might not be all that happy to see her.
When his house was in sight, she left the protection of the trees and walked purposefully across the field, feeling hot and vulnerable in the midday sun. She was almost to his barn when a yell stopped her.
Whirling around, Lesia dropped one of her baskets. By the time she had retrieved it, he was in front of her, a barrel-chested man with a sharp, weasellike face.
He yelled and gestured angrily with his arms, practically spitting out words she had come to recognize.
Bohunk. Dirty peasant.
She pretended not to understand. Instead she ignored the flush of heat crawling up the back of her neck, held out her baskets and said, “You buy … for milk.”
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