by Jason Heit
Yet, when we got off that train, a giddy sense of celebration and accomplishment had set in, and while there was still work to do – stock cars to unload and rivers to cross – there was not one person without a smile on their face. It was like a dream. At the river crossing, which was marked by a pair of stone cairns on each bank, Mr. Dudenhafer played a waltz on his accordion as the women and children boarded the ferry to Battleford, and he kept playing as the first few wagons crossed the river. The North Saskatchewan was an impressive river – broad and with well-treed banks and thick sandbars blotting its flow. There was little in the way of trouble. The oxen were stubborn and needed some encouragement to get into the water, and Mr. Zerr lost a fry pan and a sack of old potatoes from the side of his wagon; otherwise, the river crossing was a success.
From there we rode to the Mounted Police fort and the barracks where they put us immigrants until our papers cleared and we had our land patents in hand. The music played and there was more than a little dancing. I think we made an impression on our new Canadian friends because a few brave officers joined in our merriment and even played some of their songs for us.
Over supper, Father told us his plans for tomorrow. “Magda, you’ll milk the cows in the morning, while Jakob and I get our land.”
“Yes, Father,” Magda replied.
“And help Mother with the children.”
“I will.”
“Can we trust the people in this place not to steal our things from the wagon?” Mother asked.
“Do you mean Bernhard?” I said.
“There are all sorts of people in these camps. Many of them far more desperate than our drunken friend.” Father took a drink of tea from his cup. “Best I sleep in the wagon tonight,” he continued. “And tomorrow while we’re away, Magda, you’ll keep an eye on it. If something happens, tell Mother or someone you know. These people don’t all speak our language.”
“You won’t be too long? Will you, Father?” Magda asked.
“Not too long dear, but don’t worry, thieves are fearful types, they won’t do anything if there are people around.”
“Have you seen Bernhard?” Mother asked.
Father shook his head. “He’s probably sleeping under a wagon, or gone to find himself a bottle of something.”
“I feel sorry for that man.” Magda crossed herself.
“Don’t waste your prayers on Bernhard,” Father said. “If you want to pray for someone, pray for his brother, Christian. He’s the one stuck cleaning up Bernhard’s messes.”
I have to confess that, all these years later, I often wish we’d been more like Magda. A little compassion could’ve spared our families so much unnecessary pain. Such is the wisdom of hindsight.
-
Father woke me sometime after dawn. “Come along,” he said. “Something’s not right.”
I jumped down from the bunk and followed him out of the camp. We hustled toward the big hill in the southwest, the one I had admired earlier from the rail yard. We’d heard the land titles building was atop it. We crossed a small wooden bridge over the Battle River.
“What’s wrong, Father?” I asked.
“I don’t trust the man.”
“Bernhard?”
“I thought he’d try to steal from our wagon during the night, but he didn’t show. I spoke with Christian and he doesn’t know where he is either.”
“I don’t think he wants to farm with his brothers,” I said.
Father shot me another worried look. “Why do you say that?”
“He said something about it when their horse ran off.”
“What else did he say?”
“I don’t remember; he just gives me a bad feeling.”
“If he’s up there, Jakob, we can stop guessing what his plans are. He’s going for our land.”
I got an awful guilty feeling in my gut. Ashamed, I hadn’t told my father everything Bernhard had said to me earlier. If Bernhard took our land, we might end up farming something just as lousy as we had before. I’d like to tell you I raced up that hill but, honestly, I didn’t want to see who I figured might be up there, so I kept pace with Father and prayed to God that Bernhard was elsewhere. Once we’d come within a stone’s throw of those red-brick walls, I knew my prayers were too late – Bernhard was sitting cross-legged at the foot of the door. When he saw us, he smiled and raised his jug of moonshine. Father clenched his jaw and marched towards Bernhard, and I followed on his heels.
“What are you doing here, Holtz?”
Bernhard picked himself up off the ground. “I figured I’d get the first pick of the day.”
“You know we all got an agreement not to go after another’s claim.”
“Who’s we? You and Gutenberg?”
“Your brother, Christian, and Mr. Zerr, Mr. Dudenhafer –”
“Ha! I ain’t made no agreement.”
I’d say Father was doing his best to stay civil with Bernhard, but I could see he was heating up around the collar. “Tell me, why are you wasting good land by trying to farm it?”
“I could ask you the same thing, Feist. What kind of farmer can’t feed his own family?”
Well, that did it. Father turned as red-hot as a cattle brand. He charged Bernhard and slammed him into the wall of the land office. It was a powerful hit that knocked the wind right out of Bernhard. He choked to get his breath back but Father punched him square in the jaw before he’d the chance. Bernhard’s eyes rolled and Father hit him again. Blood poured from Bernhard’s lip, and my father showed no sign of letting up. I figured he was about to give Bernhard the beating of his life. I don’t know if I was more worried he might kill him or someone might see us, but I grabbed Father by the shoulders and tried to pull him away. Bernhard used the moment to his advantage and punched Father low in the gut. Father dropped to the ground nearly taking me with him. He landed on all fours and didn’t get up. He just moaned and swore whatever he could think to say. I was worried that Bernhard might try to get him while he was down, so I got between them. I was tall, taller than Bernhard, but I wasn’t very broad. I certainly wasn’t a threat to him, but I was ready to make whatever stand I could.
“Get out of my way,” he said.
I clenched my fists. “No.”
He laughed at me, but the laughing seemed to hurt him some. So, I pushed him in the chest and waited for him to hit me. I didn’t care. I wanted to hurt. I wanted my outsides to feel like my insides. But he didn’t bother hitting me; he just turned to fetch his jug.
My father wasn’t looking so good – his eyelids were pulled shut and his face was all twisted in knots. He wasn’t fit to fight any more; he’d enough just bearing the hurt. So I helped him to his feet. We stood there – Bernhard with his bottle and his sore jaw, and Father holding his pain in stillness – I couldn’t say how long. Not too long, I suppose, because there were more men approaching. I could tell from the sound of them they weren’t from our group – they were speaking English. Not to mention, they looked too pretty to be farmers. These three fellas were wearing bowler hats and white collared shirts and carrying their coat jackets over their shoulders by the hook of their fingers. I’d say they figured themselves big shots. And, by the way they looked at us, they must’ve thought we were animals in our dirty, old clothes and our eyes seeing red. And they’d have been right to think so in that moment.
Their presence put our little war on the back of the stove. Father and I gathered a little closer to the door, a little closer to Bernhard. I put myself between them, if only to dull the glares. I didn’t feel good being stuck between them with the Englishmen there and knowing our plans had gone up the spout. A sick feeling came over me. My guts tightened and my body lurched. I tried pretending I’d only meant to spit, but I saw one of those Englishman shake his head at me like I was some leper or something. I didn’t look to see how Bernhard looked at me.
Thankfully, it was around that time that more of our kind began to show: Mr. Gutenberg, Mr. Dudenhafer, and others. Mr. Gutenberg stepped aside from the Englishmen, meaning to chat with us without crossing their place in the line. He looked to Bernhard and my father. “Did you two scrap again?”
Father kept quiet.
“They did,” I said.
“Yes, and Jakob, here, has been playing the role of protector, even for his new friend, Bernhard.”
“What else would you have him do?” Mr. Gutenberg asked.
“Know his place.”
I was the one who kept quiet now. I knew too well Father’s habit of lashing out at others when he was under attack and I didn’t want to be next. I checked the line behind us. It had grown to 20 men or more and nearly all of them had shed their jackets in the heavy heat. Some of them were watching us, others were talking among themselves, and some of them just kicked the dirt, anxious to get moving. I noticed another one of our group approaching. It was Christian. I watched him take his place at the end of the line; he looked distracted, but when he spotted Bernhard he straightened up and came around to have a word. “I’ve been looking for you all morning,” he told Bernhard. “I’d given up, figured you passed out under some wagon.”
“I was never lost, brother.” Bernhard grinned. Then he pulled Christian in close and whispered something in his ear.
Christian pried himself away from his brother’s grasp. “Don’t be a fool!”
“You have to take the things you want in life.”
“Listen to you speak; you sound like our father,” Christian said. Bernhard shoved him in the shoulder. “You – you’re turning into him. If you do this, you’ll have everyone against you.” He back-stepped away from Bernhard, stopping next to my father. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“He ain’t no angel either,” Bernhard snapped at Christian. “What he did to cousin Claudius –”
My father winced at the sound of that name. He turned to me. “Is he the one who told you?”
I nodded, but I couldn’t bear to look him in the eye. The next thing I knew, I was falling to the ground and when I looked up, Bernhard and my father had locked horns – grabbing and twisting each other for some kind of advantage. When they finally spun apart, Bernhard hit Father with a strong punch that cut him across the brow.
He smirked. “You’re bleeding, Feist.”
Father growled and swung a right fist at Bernhard, hitting him on the chin, before Christian and Mr. Gutenberg pulled them apart.
That was about the same time another pair of men in bowler hats and dress coats approached the building. The tall one said something I didn’t understand, but whatever it was it sent the other group of Englishmen laughing. These new fellas shook their heads at my father and Bernhard as they sidestepped the wrangle. The short one pulled a key from his pocket, opened the land titles building, and shut the door behind them.
My nerves were on fire. These land agents weren’t going to fix things. They didn’t care that Bernhard and Father were fighting; they’d only made a joke about it. I looked at Mr. Gutenberg holding Father around the shoulders while Christian backed Bernhard up against the brick wall, and all I could think about was getting on the other side of that door. So I went up and knocked on it. Bernhard got right angry. His eyes turned to dark coals set against a bloody red. Fortunate for me, Christian held him off long enough that I got clear of the door. Mr. Gutenberg also tried to come to my aid, which set Father loose, and the whole group began unwinding. The Englishmen stepped in, making sure Mr. Gutenberg and Christian understood they weren’t to use this as an excuse to cut in line. Others too began crowding towards the door. Mr. Zerr. Mr. Dudenhafer. The whole bunch of them started spinning in on each other – people shouting and speaking all kinds of languages. And, in the middle of it, Father and Bernhard just stared at each other. No more words.
A few moments later, the door to the land titles office swung open and the tall land agent came out and stood at the entrance. He didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there looking us over with his cold cat-like eyes. Most folks quieted right down. A couple of would-be scrappers kept stoking their fires until they realized the moment had passed. When they’d settled, he said something I didn’t understand and the other agent, the shorter one, came forward and the tall one went back inside. The short one said something about ten dollars and documents; then, he said something to the Englishmen and one of them pointed to Bernhard.
“You.” The agent waved Bernhard forward. Bernhard smiled and let out a smug little laugh as he stepped into the office.
After that folks began finding their places again. The land agent stood watching us from the door, making sure folks took their places without all the commotion from before.
Mr. Gutenberg clapped Father on the shoulder; then he went and took his place in line next to Mr. Dudenhafer. Christian too disappeared to the back of the line. That left just me and Father.
He didn’t say anything to me. He just pulled out the map he’d been carrying since North Dakota and shook his head at it.
“Where will we go?” I asked.
He looked up at me with tired eyes. “How could you be so –” He was right to be mad at me: I was still wet behind the ears. I didn’t know what angry people might do to make other people hurt like them. I moped around kicking at the dirt for some time before Father grabbed me by the shoulder and gave me a shake so I’d look him in the eye. “You’ll take whichever quarter is left next to Uncle Sebastian. He’ll be happy to have your help –”
“No, you have it,” I said. I didn’t want to make things hard for Mother and the little ones.
Father’s jaw tightened as he shook his head. “No. This is the way it has to be. Or would you prefer I take the land Mr. Gutenberg or Mr. Zerr plans to farm?” He sighed. “I don’t intend to make more enemies this day.”
He was right, of course; he’d find no peace living next to that man. So I agreed and let him get back to figuring where he’d settle Mother and the kids. It was hard standing there watching Father trying to find some kind of hope on that map, while on the other side of the door Bernhard was changing our future on something as small as a piece of paper. I wanted to tear down that door and tear down Bernhard while I was at it. I imagined him begging for mercy and handing me the title to the land he’d stolen. Then the door opened and Bernhard stepped out. He looked over to me and Father and smiled. “Fine day, Feist. Fine day. I figure this about settles it for us.”
I lunged at Bernhard and nearly had him by the collar, but Father held me back.
“It’s too late, Jakob.” Father steered me inside the office. Once more, my father and Bernhard fixed eyes on each other, but this time when Father spoke there was an eerie calm in his voice I’d never heard before. “You’re going to have a very short and difficult life, Bernhard, and when it’s over, you will regret this.”
Maybe it was the look in Father’s eyes or maybe Bernhard’s heart finally heard through his hate, but that smug grin washed clean off his face. It didn’t last more than a second or two, yet it said plenty.
I don’t know if it had something to do with the way Bernhard’s look changed when Father spoke to him that last time, or the fact some promises are just too big to be kept; either way Father didn’t repay Bernhard what he was owed. And while there are some folks that think he did, they’re wrong. In the end, any revenge my family might’ve taken came from my hand – in a roundabout kind of way – and whatever satisfaction I got from it faded fast.
I reckon someone else can tell that story. I take no pleasure in it.
The Horse Accident
1909
Nels Eberle fixed the collar of his sheepskin jacket against the cold wind as his heavy horses, a pair of black Belgian mares, carried him east to Frank and Katherine’s farmyard, which, from his vantage, was nothing more than a fe
w dark mounds of earth against the pale morning light. Swirls of fresh snow kicked up against the sleigh like dancing spires, bringing a smile to his face. He considered taking a pull of moonshine or whiskey – he’d packed both, along with his axe, bucksaw, chains, ropes, blankets, oats for the horses, and the box of food his wife, Aggie, had set out for him – except his sister, Katherine, might smell it on his breath. Nels worried about her. She was pregnant with her first child, which according to the midwife would be here before May seeding, should all go well. He’d worry less if it weren’t for her husband, Frank, always sitting on his hands until the very last minute. The woodpile was proof enough. Nels had noticed it was light back in December, had warned Frank that if the winter turned cold they’d be in trouble, but Frank was stubborn and didn’t take well to others telling him what to do. “Ah, there’s still tables and chairs in the house,” Frank had told Nels. Sure it was a joke, but January had brought a biting cold and weeks bound inside the soddie watching the firewood dwindle. Had the cold spell lasted another week, Frank might’ve eaten those words.
Nels was close now. He could smell the woodsmoke from their stove and see the yellow lamplight through the window pane. It’d be dawn soon. Precious daylight. This time of year, February, you could get about ten hours of good daylight; they’d need all of it today to get where they were going.