Sometimes Ida fell asleep while they talked and woke up screaming, with Helen’s hand over her mouth in case she blew their cover. Ida said she saw people stripped and shaved, she saw wax and fire. In the dust, she drew stick figures laid in heaps. She felt ashamed of her dreams, but she couldn’t stop them. The drone of the train tattooed itself on Ida’s soul; she had to find protection, some religion. She questioned everyone, Had they seen a very tall, skinny man named Daniel? The men looked at her warily. And yes, of course, Daniel had been seen in Thunder Bay, Regina, Kapuskasing, Moose Jaw; Daniel was everywhere but here. She hadn’t earned him. At last, she was infected with shame. Helen heard her muttering in German; she put her hand on Ida’s forehead. “Shhhh,” Helen said, “tell me.”
They were riding on top. No moon, no light, clusters of men rolled up, sometimes three to a blanket, and one dog. Beside them lay a man so thin they could barely see his face, his eyes and cheeks reduced to shadow. His reedy voice drifted into their conversation as if it were something travelling in the air, like the smell of alfalfa mixed with burning garbage from the jungles they passed, and he said, or perhaps he said, “It’s the Fascists.” Ida turned to him. He was not Daniel. He looked at her through black sockets, eyeless, expressionless. Ida lay beside him with her face close to his. “Tell me about the Fascists,” she asked him.
“Gleichschaltung.… They’re joining… they’re planning to take over Europe.”
“Gleichschaltung,” said Ida. She stared at the sky.
“What is it?” asked Helen. She was almost frozen with fear.
“It is an invitation to the end of the world. A command performance.”
The train travelled quickly; it was night, and there were perhaps forty men with them. “But we’re not alone,” said Ida. And Helen thought, We are all alone, and this is our only hope, that we act alone. Helen had come to the trains through the leafy avenues of money, and she was frightened of what might happen if the rich joined with the rich, the poor with the poor, to fight for the government of each other. She would not be governed. She would fight like a cat against the restraints of government. She felt rage eating at her inside. It was worse than hunger.
CHAPTER SIX
WHEN IDA GAVE UP HOPE of finding her husband, it reduced her to ashes and finally forced her to reclaim herself as an entirely new woman. She lost her soft margin, her youthful faith in implicit goodness. She bounced back, tougher, sardonic. She and Helen laughed a lot, a slapstick sense of humour; life’s one big kick in the butt.
Ida’s speech was a hot pepper stuffed with quotations from Marx. She could be brutal and rude, but she got away with it because she was a walking satire and most people didn’t want to be called bourgeois, whatever the hell that is when it’s home. She needed a religion, something big and purposeful. So she became a Communist.
Three times during that year, they dropped off a freight car to see us for a short stay. They would casually walk into our yard, short and tall, gaunt men with purple shadows around their eyes, covered in bruises. Helen’s long, thin hands descended from a beat-up jacket three sizes too small, and her pants stopped several inches short of her boot tops, so you could see her bony legs without socks. She sat down on the front steps and took off her boots, revealing her narrow feet, their finger-like toes blackened by dust and crooked from walking. Stretching happily, she’d smile at her dad and me, white teeth, a dirty face. The smell was so rank, she’d take her first bath outside in a tub in the yard, unabashed, desexed by starvation.
We fed them constantly. Our garden had a windbreak and was close enough to the river for irrigation, and we’d sold enough vegetables at the north-end market to keep the cow and a few chickens, so we weren’t starving, though we didn’t bother to seed wheat because prices hadn’t come up much since hitting bottom in ’32.
Richard would drop by often to see if we knew anything, had we heard. He’d look around carefully, casually. We were lucky for the first two visits; his timing was off. I was always edgy, though, and it felt ugly, hiding her from him. The more he looked for Helen, the more it became impossible for him to find her; the beam of light from his scrutiny was sending her farther and farther away. He was righteous and mad at first, though he affected more simple anxiety for her safety. I felt sorry for him and gave him coffee or a drink, and I could at least share his anxiety. He and I were talking so, one time, when he said, “She’d be better if she had a child.”
He was getting into his car when he said this. We’d had a drink of Scotch.
“Oh,” I said, “I don’t know about that.”
He nodded, convinced. “It would give her something. Other than herself.”
“Well, that’s a loving attitude, Dick.”
“I’m a firm believer in family, Blondie.” I’m sure I saw hatred in his face. “I’ll never give up on her. I’m not that kind of man. Family is everything to me.”
Third visit. Afternoon. Late summer, a drizzle, rain thin as radish seeds. Helen stood at the window, a slice of bread in one hand, a piece of cheese in the other, talking to Eli. Eli sat at the kitchen table watching her. He was somewhere past seventy years now, the old weathered barn of his body more ruined and more handsome than ever. He was still a big man, even if he did keel over a little and the parts of him missing were like holes in the barn roof. His beauty took your breath away. “If they can’t speak English,” he was saying, “if they’re from all over, I can’t picture how they can talk revolution, one to the other.”
“Well, everybody talks about food mostly. Cake and soup and that. And sometimes their mothers. It’s pretty easy to follow,” she said, scratching her neck. We hadn’t yet killed off all the fleas.
“Keep eating,” I told her.
In this single thing, Helen was obedient. Chewing, she quietly added, “Gramma Alice would be happy as a pig in shit.” She cheerfully swallowed the bread.
“Watch your language,” said I, for old time’s sake.
“A pig in goddamn shit. She would, eh, Mum? I think about her a lot. All the mess, everybody talking. She’d of loved it.”
“Maybe. But she wouldn’t want to be patron saint of a starvation train.”
The fast approach of Richard’s car, even the tires seemed high pitched and panicky. The three of us stiffened. Helen watched her husband slide out. He was very well dressed. She made a move as if to bolt, then stood frozen. Richard walked briskly towards the house. He saw her through the window. He stopped for a second and then kept coming at his quick pace. I let him in. He stood expectantly. “Well,” he began, even now managing that half-smile. “You’ve cut your hair.”
“I’m not going back with you,” said Helen.
“You’re very thin.”
“I’ll put it back on. See?” She indicated the cheese in her hand. She put it down on the table.
Richard looked nervously at Eli and me. I didn’t want Richard nervous.
Helen said, “Go away, Richard.”
Eli said, “Hush now, Helen. There’s more to say than that. Have a seat, Richard.”
He didn’t take the chair, but entered farther into the room. Leaned against the kitchen cupboard and crossed his arms.
“There is nothing to say,” said Helen.
“Calm down,” said Richard. “You’ve got to calm down.”
“No. I don’t have to. I don’t have to do anything.”
“No one is making you do anything, Helen. I’ve always let you do whatever you like.”
“You let me? Listen to me, Richard. I will do as I need to do.”
“But now it’s time you came home. It’s not respectable. It’s not right. You could get sick, if you’re not sick already. You had an adventure. Now it’s time to—what?—just grow up.”
Helen looked so sad at that moment that Richard was encouraged. He went to her, took her hands between his. “I’m being loyal to you. Not many men would do that.” He touched her face. “Where is your loyalty?”
It wasn’t a
question. It struck Helen. She avoided his eyes, but she said, “You would never understand. Please, leave me alone.”
“I never thought you’d go that way,” he said. “You’re going nowhere. She’s a little unbalanced these days, right, Blondie?” He looked at me for confirmation, which I declined to give him. I had so often had the same thought myself, but, damn it, in a different sense than Richard’s. In many ways, Eli and I were proud of our daughter just then, scared but proud; it takes courage to lose your balance, to learn to fall. Richard continued, his confidence rising. “Get rested, come home. We’ll make a few changes, if you’re so unhappy.”
“Just…” She broke away from him, backed away. “Just give me a few days. Then, maybe.”
He shook his head. “You always expect too much.” He sighed. “A few days. Blondie will look after you, will you?” He appealed to me. I gave my best poker face. He needed to leave on a high note. He did his best to walk out casually, the winner.
When he’d gone, we were quiet for some time. Eli looked upset, the way he used to, in the days when he couldn’t look at Helen.
“Are you really going back to him?” I dared to ask.
She scratched, the tension easing out of her. “I’d rather be stuffed.”
“He’s not going to give up.”
“Well,” she said, “what can he do?”
We three thought about it, and though we couldn’t come up with anything, Richard stuck with us like a bad debt.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“FELLA,” SAID THE PRESBYTERIAN MINISTER to Ida while he scratched his hide (the fields they passed looked unseeded, straw-littered), “you’re talkin’ Moscow Excretio.”
Ida squinted. “I hate money,” she said. “That’s not so hard to understand.”
Helen, Ida, the minister named Ebenezer and a Spanish-looking kid, chronically impressed and speechless, sitting side by each atop a freight car.
“Ebenezer,” said Helen, “can I ask you something personal?”
Ebenezer wriggled his bum like a warm scone in butter. He was among the salt of the earth!
“I’ve been sitting here listening to the way you talk,” Helen said, “and I can’t get a handle on who you are. I mean, you look like a Scot. You talk like a railway bull. But you act like, I don’t know, you remind me of my grandmother Alice.”
Ebenezer tipped his head, his eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, son,” he said. He smiled, his teeth like pale church pews. “Is that where you got your wealth? Was it old money?”
Ida, who had had to pee for the past hour, blurted out, “Hell, no! It was her husband’s—Oh…”
“My grandmother’s husband’s money, that’s right. How’d you know?”
Ebenezer was satisfied. “You look like someone who could go home for dinner. Just say it’s the cut of your jib. You’re a strange piece of work. Why you’d throw away comfort to live a hard life is beyond my ken.”
The rail line at that point ran close to the highway. Helen saw the yellow Packard, a sedate, purposeful car; she saw Richard’s golden hair, his single-minded pursuit. The road was about a hundred yards away, but he sensed her, looked over at the train, looked right at her.
Ida said, “Are we going to slow down soon?” She crossed her legs, too girl; she really had to pee.
“Just go over the side,” said the Spanish boy seated beside her. “Downwind,” he said. His grin involved his whole neck and chest, a lopsided, quirky tension.
“Might. If I have to.” Ida rolled a smoke, offered it to Helen. Helen was staring at her blue-eyed husband driving. Then the highway wound away behind some trees.
“I’ll have one of those,” said the boy. Accepted a light, said, “The name’s Finito.” Inhaled. That grin, white teeth, clear skin, black hair. “Know why?”
Ebenezer said, “You’re of Spanish descent.”
Finito burst into a laugh, slapped his knee, the overly demonstrative civility of very lonely people. “Everybody says that!”
Ida uncrossed, crossed, wondered if she’d hurt herself so she could never have any kids. Wondered if she’d ever want kids. Wondered if she’d be able to be a wife if she found Daniel now. Marriage is a feudal corruption. Finito smoked so fast he went pale. He’d left home in Portage la Prairie just a few days ago, was already so lonesome he didn’t know if he could take it. “Yep,” he said, “everybody thinks I’m Spanish.”
Helen searched the bush for signs of highway, the yellow car. Ebenezer, again compelled by the refinement of Helen’s face under the dirt, asked her, “You a Communist too?”
“Ukrainian!” cried Finito. “You never knew!”
“No,” said Ida. “Never would’ve guessed.”
“That’s why they call me Finito,” said Finito. “Someday I’m going to go there.”
“I’m an anarchist,” said Helen. It was the first time she’d ever said it. Was it the right name for the leopard that lived inside her?
“The Ukraine,” said Ida. She found that when she talked, it relieved some of the pressure on her bladder.
“Spain!”
“Going to be a war there,” said Ida.
“Good!” Then Finito aged a decade, the bitterness crabbing his handsome features. “At least I’d have a job.”
“An anarchist,” said Ebenezer. “Now that’s a rare bird.”
They were on their way to Regina to meet up with a huge bumming parade, about fourteen hundred men riding the rails to Ottawa to protest the conditions in the relief camps. The On to Ottawa Trek. Bums on strike. The rail line was suddenly littered with RCMP. They were coming into Regina when Helen spotted the yellow Packard. It was parked at the Exhibition Grounds. Ida was unbuttoning her fly even as she hit the ground running.
Helen and Ida had just dropped into a trap.
Regina was a central depot for the RCMP. The railyards were situated so they could be closed off. So Regina is where this strike, this On to Ottawa Trek was going to end.
The trek had been stalled in Regina for more than two weeks. Ida emerged from the bushes. They made their way to the town’s Market Square. There was going be a big bum-rally with a lot of galvanic speeches about the right to decent work and pay. The police were on their way to Market Square too. The RCMP had just decided they had enough evidence to arrest seven of the trek’s leaders, on what charges I don’t know, but remembering what had happened to Bobby Russell in 1919, I assume they simply called these men subversives and that was that.
The RCMP charged out in the midst of the speeches, and everybody started running. Then the local police joined this mess, armed with baseball bats. Ida was one of the first to pick up a rock and chuck it at a cop.
Helen dragged Ida away. “Let go of my fucking arm.” Hate poured out of Ida like electric light. She was less than five feet tall. Starving that year as a hobo had made Ida stocky, made her muscled and heavy of bone. She moved like Jack Dempsey. She pivoted out of Helen’s grip and leapt in the air, coming down with a man’s throat in her hands; she hung on, and you could see the holes in her boot soles when she kicked at the air while the guy spun circles in the dirt, trying to fling her off. Helen caught her wrist as she wound up to hit him with a brick. Ida let go, so the brick fell on his face. Helen held Ida under her arms, pulled her on top of herself, and Ida struggled against her till she could turn around. “You fucking bastard,” Ida said, and punched Helen in the jaw with a fist like a small stone. Helen had slow anger, a pilot light; ignited, it never went out. She didn’t forgive, ever.
One man died. Det. Charles Millar. He was hit from behind with a piece of wood. Smashed his skull. The rioters hit the cops who were trying to carry Millar to an ambulance. The cops got beaten with lead pipes, wood bats. Cops on horseback beat the strikers with clubs. This happened for about six hours. Trekkers hid behind streetcars, threw rocks at the police; it rained glass. The police shot at the rioters. Real bullets. This was a riot, mind you, not a civil war. Trekkers hit by a bullet in the foot, in the back, a
bullet in the stomach, in the face. Ambulances pulled up and hauled away the injured men. Ida reclaimed Jerusalem; she proved herself a man of steel, and finally, exhausted, let herself be carried back to the Exhibition Grounds and fell asleep in the hay. Finito had watched. The riot was torture for him. He remained dead pale and quiet.
Finito misunderstood this country. He thought we knew what we were doing. Each side. He believed that we had a plan. Scared him half to death.
Helen thought she saw the war beneath the surface. She thought, Scratch the surface and a war bleeds out, and it’s always there. Helen saw this, the civil war under the skin. It is safe only at the centre of the battle, where the danger is not hidden beneath the false surface of peace. She believed that, deep in her gut.
But the riot had all the reality of the boondoggle road. It was an occasion. There are so many innocent people. Almost everybody.
Just before dawn, in the hours after the riot, Helen strolled through the Exhibition Grounds, fingering an unlit cigarette, and watched the remaining Trekkers sleep, still dressed, wearing their boots. War is chronic. There is something deeply painful in the look of a man curled in the fetal position with his boots on, both hands tucked between his knees, the blood in his ear dried black, blood cupped between his praying palms.
Grandmother Alice had taught Helen to listen to languages she doesn’t speak. Helen listened to the men breathing.
For the first time since she had left Richard, her own hands ached for her loom. It was a rare spasm of nostalgia. For reverie, for privacy, the luxury of soft surfaces, the illusion of depth. Part of her missed being kept. She even missed his jealousy. The riot left her with a hangover. The biggest building at the Exhibition Grounds had become a minimum-security jail. Ida, with a wealth of hatred that surprised Helen, had already tried to escape. The riot had triggered something in them both. Rage, pure and simple, ran like booze through their veins from the distillery of their hearts. Ida and Finito lay on their backs, hound muscles twitching. Helen inhaled the funk of hay and livestock, the stink of blood and meat, and then went outside to smoke.
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