Kaidenberg's Best Sons

by Jason Heit

  “For me?” I blurted. I’d gotten to believing Father had forgotten about me.

  “You’re old enough,” he said. He looked to Mother. “It’s time we go.”

  “Kaspar, we mustn’t rush –”

  “No.” His anger turned red hot and he aimed it at Mother. “I will not waste any more seed on this godforsaken land. This time we go.”

  Mother cried all afternoon. She didn’t say it but I knew she was crying for Anton; there was nothing else to cry for. Father left the house. He had made a habit of leaving the house whenever Mother became grief stricken. I stayed with Magda, Johanna, and Adam, but from the window I watched Father slip away to his little blacksmith shed where he fetched his heavy hammer and a shovel and loaded them onto the wagon. It was late evening when he finally returned to the house; I listened to him and Mother from my bed but they barely made a sound between them. All I could hear was their whispering and then a muffled whimper.

  Things got fixed up on Sunday. It was our tradition then to make a family visit to Anton’s grave. The first thing I noticed when we got there was the wooden cross that Father had planted at the grave had been replaced by a strong iron cross – more than three feet high with all sorts of pretty bends and twists in the metal. Mother buried her head in the collar of Father’s sheepskin coat and he held her close.

  “You did this?” she asked Father once she’d composed herself.

  He nodded.

  “You didn’t tell me.”

  “Some things are best seen rather than talked about.”

  She wiped away her tears. “Isn’t he a good father?” Mother asked the little ones.

  “Yes, Momma,” said Little Johanna and Adam, and they each gave him a kiss on the cheek, and Mother did too.

  It was late June when we left the farm. Father had sold it and his anvil for the money we’d need to make our new start. The land went cheap with all the folks thinking the same way; we were lucky the anvil fetched a good price. I could tell Father was sad to see it go, but he was a practical man and didn’t dwell on it too long, not like other things. We caught the train in Towner, North Dakota. I reckon there were at least a dozen families travelling with us and a few more that came out to see us leave. There were the Gutenbergs, the Dudenhafers, the Gereins, the Zerrs, and the Holtzes. There was also an agent from the land company who could speak both English and German there to make sure we had the right documents and that our passage would take us to North Battleford, Saskatchewan. My father and the other men gathered to make sure there were no folks competing for the same quarter. We’d heard the land where Uncle Sebastian had settled was filling up with our friends and kin, so finding a quarter or two that hadn’t already been claimed was getting to be tricky.

  Later, when Father and I had settled into the freight car – we rode in there with the livestock, our wagon, and everything else we owned, while Mother and the little ones sat up in one of the passenger cars – he told me Mr. Zerr and Mr. Dudenhafer had their eyes on the same quarter.

  “What’d they decide?” I asked.

  “Mr. Dudenhafer said he’d leave it for Mr. Zerr.”

  “But Mr. Dudenhafer has a family, and Mr. Zerr ain’t got one.”

  “That’s why he did it. Because the quarter’s right next to Mr. Zerr’s brother, Nikolaus.”

  “That was good of Mr. Dudenhafer,” I smiled. Father smiled too and waved me over to the loading door. He slid the door open a bit wider so we could watch all the land coming and going. This was still many years before I’d watched my first moving-picture show, but the view from that door held me just the same.

  The train stopped in Portal, Saskatchewan and again in Weyburn. Each time boxcars were loaded and unloaded and people went their different ways, coming and going as they do. It was something to watch.

  In Weyburn, Father decided to take Juniper for a little walk. I stayed behind to watch the milk cows, which I did until a ruckus in the car next to ours caught my attention. Bernhard Holtz and his brother, Christian, were struggling to get their horse out of the freight car. Bernhard, a barrel-shaped man with a patchy beard, was drinking from a jug of moonshine with one hand and pulling the horse with the lead line in the other. But the horse refused to move.

  “Give me the rope,” Christian said. “You’re going to ruin that horse.”

  “It’s already ruined,” Bernhard said. “It can only be fixed now.” Then, to make his point, Bernhard tossed the rope at Christian, climbed the ramp and punched that poor horse on the side of the jaw. The horse lurched back and pulled Christian into the side of the ramp, knocking both the rope and the wind from him. The horse must’ve figured it had had enough of the Holtz brothers, because it bust down the ramp, narrowly missing Bernhard and sending him off balance in such a way that he had to jump from the side of the ramp in order to avoid an ugly fall. Then the horse bolted through the crowd and up along the track.

  “Get the goddamn horse,” Bernhard shouted at his brother. Christian picked himself up and ran, swearing and cursing, after the horse. I watched him chase after it thinking he’d need a miracle to catch that poor beast. When I looked back, Bernhard was taking a pull from his jug, which didn’t seem very brotherly to me. I must’ve been watching him a little too long, because he gave me an awful stare as he wiped his face with his sleeve. “What are you looking at?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Ain’t you Kaspar Feist’s boy?”

  I nodded and took a step back. I figured any man that’d punch a horse was twice as likely to hit another man.

  “Where are you going, boy? I have a question for you.”

  “What sort of question?” I muttered.

  “You scared of me?”

  “No,” I lied.

  “Come here.”

  I stepped toward him, fearing I might be the next thing he punched, but instead of throwing a punch, he thrust the jug of booze into my hands. I might’ve had three or four inches on Bernhard, but he was as wide as any man I’d ever seen. His eyes were wild and bloodshot, like he’d starved them of sleep for days, maybe weeks.

  “Take it,” he said. I took it from him and held it while I considered what to do next. He answered that for me. “Drink it,” he said. “Drink.”

  I took a pull from the jug. It was nasty stuff. Some folks call it potato wine, but it’d burn if you set a match to it. My insides turned in pain. I had a feeling that my stomach might bleed out of my chest. He only stood there and laughed at me as the drink made my eyes roll and my face twist.

  “Your father’s going to get a quarter section, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I coughed. “And I will too.”

  “Well, you can’t do any worse than your father did back there.”

  I was raised to show respect to my elders, so I kept my mouth shut and handed him back his jug, but he wasn’t finished.

  “You know there’s a curse on your father, don’t you?”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I ain’t.”

  I turned to walk away from the man, but he grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me around.

  “Ask him about my cousin, Claudius Volker. He died about the same age as your brother did. Drowned in a well back in the old country, no thanks to your father.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Don’t need to believe me. It’s true.” He paused. “I only hope your father doesn’t leave another dead boy in this country.” Then he let loose his grip on me.

  I should’ve left then. I knew there was something wrong with Bernhard, but I wanted to know about the curse. “What’s your curse?” I asked him.

  A mocking sort of smile flashed across his face. “I reckon I pick the wrong neighbours.”

  “But you farm next to your brothers,” I replied.

  “So, you understand the problem.”

  “
No.”

  “Your father don’t knock you around?”

  “Nothing bad.”

  “Lucky you.” He raised his jug and took a pull, then wiped his chin with his sleeve. “I hear your father plans to set up next to your uncle?”

  I nodded. “Uncle Sebastian says it’s good land.”

  “That so.” He grinned. “And which quarter you going to take?”

  “Father thinks I should get the south quarter. He’s going to take the one to the west.”

  “Ha! Do yourself a favour and get a quarter at least two miles from your nearest kin. Take it from one who knows better.”

  “Jakob!” I heard from behind me. It was Father calling. “Did you milk the cows?”

  “Ha! Speak of the devil,” Bernhard said. “Better go milk those cows, Feist. When you finish up, come get yourself another nip from my jug. It’ll put hair on your chest.”

  “No thank you.”

  “I’d take it as an insult,” he replied and a strange sort of smile took over his face. I know now it was a drunkard’s smile, a mean one at that, but back then I didn’t know those things so well.

  My face tightened. I didn’t want to look at him any longer.

  “Jakob!” my father called again. This time I hurried back to the stock car.

  “What did he want with you?”

  “Wanted me to drink with him.”

  Father shook his head. “He’s a troubled man. Don’t let him poison you like he does himself.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Good. Now get to those cows before we have sour milk on our hands.”

  I didn’t give our conversation much thought after that. I thought I was indulging a loud and careless drunk, but I was wrong.

  The next stop was Regina, Saskatchewan’s capital. It was dusk when we arrived so I didn’t see much of the town except the rail yards and the profiles of some nearby brick buildings, warehouses I was told. The older men organized a card game in one of the stock cars. The game was Juckerspiel, a trick-taking game, like the Kaiser game the Ukrainian settlers played. It was a good turnout. There were more than a dozen card players, enough to have three games. My father partnered with his friend, Johannes Gutenberg, and they took up opposite ends at one of the makeshift tables. They were playing a nickel a game, so I sat back in the hay pile and closed my eyes while Mr. Dudenhafer played his accordion.

  A thumping sound woke me from my dreaming. Bernhard was pounding at the floorboards as he kicked up his foot and tried to climb inside the freight car.

  “Give me a push,” he called to someone behind him and he rolled inside. He picked up his bottle of booze from the floorboards and staggered forward. Behind him, Christian pressed himself up and kicked his legs off the ground and into the freight car with all the strength and grace his brother was lacking.

  “What is it, Bernhard? Still looking for your horse?” Mr. Gutenberg teased.

  “It’s not here,” shouted another voice, and we all laughed.

  “Found the damn horse,” Bernhard said. He swung his arm back toward Christian. “Didn’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Christian said. “And thank you, Mr. Dudenhafer, for your help.”

  Mr. Dudenhafer nodded and kept on playing his accordion.

  Bernhard cast a squirrelly-eyed gaze across the room. “I’m looking for a rat.” He stopped on my father. “Kaspar Feist.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Let’s play a game,” he said, and he waved his half-empty bottle of booze in a sweeping gesture.

  “You’re drunk.” Father tossed his last card onto the table.

  “Play me.” Bernhard leaned in toward my father. “Play me and I’ll make it worth something for you.”

  Father counted the tricks and tossed the cards to the centre. “We made eight. Your deal, Johannes.”

  “I’m talking to you, Feist.”

  “What have you to wager, apart from that runaway horse?”

  “This.” And he reached for his collar with his left hand and fished out a little rope from around his neck. He pulled the rope loose to reveal a patch of fur hide. He held it out like some trophy, but it sure was nothing fancy. It was an ugly old weasel hide – stained with blood and yellowed from dirt and sweat. He slammed the thing down on the table.

  I felt sick to my stomach.

  “You remember it.” He tapped it with his left hand.

  From what I could see, and surely Father had a better view, his hand wasn’t as it should be. His middle finger was cut short at the nail and his ring finger was puffed like a mushroom.

  Father huffed. “You can keep it.”

  “No! You took something of mine. Now I’ll take something of yours.” And without the slightest warning, Bernhard smashed his bottle against the table’s edge. Glass exploded everywhere. Father barely had a chance to cover his eyes, then the room went quiet and we all focused on Bernhard and the jagged bottleneck he gripped in his beaten-up hand – we waited for God, or Bernhard or someone to decide what might happen next. It was Christian who moved first. He grabbed Bernhard around the shoulders and pulled him away from the table. Then my father stood up and grabbed the stool he’d been sitting on and clubbed Bernhard’s hand, sending the bottle flying from his fist.

  “Scheisse!” Bernhard bellowed as he shook the pain from his hand.

  “Get him out of here,” Mr. Gutenberg shouted. Two or three other men went to Christian’s side and carried Bernhard away. Father was quiet but he was boiling under his skin.

  “Seems you have a new friend,” Mr. Gutenberg said. “How did that happen?”

  “I trapped a thief,” Father replied. “A dumb one at that.”

  “Be careful, Kaspar. God only knows what that one might do next.”

  Father spat on the floor. “He’s nothing but a lazy-born drunkard.”

  The next day the train travelled north, and stopped in Saskatoon around mid-morning. The day was warm and sunny, and folks had plenty to talk about as we stepped off of the train. News had spread that a priest had come to offer us Mass, and there were all sorts of stories going around about the card game and Bernhard’s threats to Father. Mother was upset.

  “I think we need to pray,” she said.

  “Absolutely,” Father replied.

  “And ask the priest for penance.”

  “But I did nothing wrong.”

  “You hurt the man.”

  “I defended myself; I didn’t kill him.”

  “You did a violent thing,” Mother said. “And the Lord says, ‘what ye have done to the least of my brethren, ye have done onto me.’”

  Father shook his head. “That’s not how it goes.”

  “Well, it’s the spirit of the scripture.”

  “I’m right with the Lord, and the Lord’s right with me.”

  Mother frowned and looked to the little ones to remind him of his place. “People have been talking,” she said in a hush. “You need to set a good example for the children.”

  He shook his head in frustration. “Let’s go then.”

  The Mass was outside, not far from the rail yard, in the place where the immigrants camped before going off to find their quarter sections and commence building their homesteads. The priest had a tent there to cover him from the sun and rain; inside it was a fine cross painted gold and an old kitchen table, likely abandoned by some passing traveller, which served as his altar. Plenty of people had shown up, mostly German-speaking immigrants like us. The men stood with their hats in their hands, while the young mothers tried to keep their toddlers from running about the place. One little boy kept breaking loose. Twice he made a dash for the priest’s tent, but each time a friendly arm swept him up and returned him to his mother. Bernhard was there, in his own way, sleeping off the drink or giving everyone the impression he was. Whatever he was doin
g, his presence stirred up an anxiousness inside of me that no sacrament could put to rest. If Father saw him he didn’t say a word, and the whole thing passed without the excitement from the night before.

  We loaded up again after the Mass. It was the movement of the train that lulled me back into a sense of ease. The gentle rocking of the freight car, side to side, as it rolled along. Ca-thunk, ca-thunk. I watched the land from the side door as my father read the letter from Uncle Sebastian once again and checked it against the map the land agent had given him. This was a ritual I had watched him perform on each leg of the trip; he was always a little happier for it.

  “It won’t be long now,” I said.

  “Yes, and then the real work begins.”

  “But Uncle says it’s good land.”

  “Thick clay. No more sand.”

  “And the work will go easier with Uncle helping us.”

  Father nodded. “We have to watch out for our family. In the end, that’s all we have.”

  “I wish Anton was here.”

  “He’s with us.”

  “I know,” I said, but there was still something on my mind. Something Bernhard had said that was eating into my thoughts. “Father –”

  “What is it?”

  I felt myself choking on the words. “I overheard some folks talk about a boy from the old country; his name was Claudius Volker. Did you know him?”

  Father was silent for a time. “He was a friend of mine,” he said. “He died playing a silly game.”

  “How?”

  “Claudius always wanted to be the last one found. I figured he was hiding in the well; there was a little ledge…” he spread his thumb and index finger about two inches apart and stared into the space. “But I pretended he went home and we kept playing. Then I started to believe that he really must’ve gone home or he’d have come out.” My father stopped; I could tell he’d said as much as he cared to, maybe more.

  At North Battleford we opened the freight door for the last time. I’ll never forget that view. The land seemed to open up below us, rich with lush prairie grass and fringed with aspen and brush where the two rivers – the mighty Saskatchewan and the meandering Battle – cut through the valley bottom before they joined together, and square between them was the original town of Battleford, the fort, the buildings and the people. Further away, on the western horizon, the land rose up above us and I could only imagine that somewhere not so far away might be the Rocky Mountains and the Pacific Ocean and other places I never imagined knowing or seeing when I had been a child. Life had moved so fast since we left Russia and the Black Sea, so much had happened for us to move halfway across the world, and still more needed to happen before we could make a home.