“They shouldn’t let ’em in,” the thin man counters.
Teodor leads the horse and wagon to the side entrance, up the low plank ramp and into the cavernous belly of the elevator. Myron ducks as the cart rolls through the doorway. The wheels rattle over the iron grid that covers the hopper below. The fat man rolls the heavy door shut behind them. It groans across the rusted rollers.
“Shovel it off and make it quick. I ain’t stayin’ past four.”
Myron jumps off and starts untying the bedsheet knots. The fat man grabs his clipboard. Teodor doesn’t hurry.
“What’s your name? Name.”
“Teodor Mykolayenko.”
“Christ, how do you spell that?” Teodor looks at him blankly. “Spell, do you understand?”
Myron answers, “M-y-k-o-l-a-y-e-n-k-o.”
“What kind of name is that? Communist?”
“Ukrainian,” Myron answers calmly.
“What quarter-section?”
Teodor nods his permission for Myron to continue. “Northwest Section 2, Township 64, Range 6, West of 4 Meridian.” He struggles to free the knot his father tied.
Teodor pulls back the bedsheet and hops up into the back of the cart. He rights a bag, and balancing it on the edge of the cart, cuts the binder twine to open the sack. He proceeds to the next bag.
The fat man goes to his land claim maps and checks the lot numbers. Myron pulls on the knot with his teeth. It tastes like mildew and sawdust. He tries to pry it apart with his fingernails.
“We got a problem, bud. I don’t see your name here. Are you sure you gave me the right numbers?”
“It’s my land,” Teodor replies.
“Here it says it’s registered to Anna Sev—Shev-chik.”
“Shevchuk, my sister.”
“You got any documentation, a permission letter, something giving you rights to bring in this grain?” Teodor cuts open another bag. “Does he understand what I’m saying?”
Myron looks to his father.
“My grain,” Teodor answers.
“I can’t take this if it ain’t yours. Get it out of here.” The fat man slams the clipboard shut.
“You buy.” Teodor stands knee deep in his wheat.
“I told you—no buy. No!”
“You buy.”
The fat man yanks on the door. It rumbles open. “Get him out of here.”
Myron looks to his father. Teodor holds his ground. “You buy.”
The fat man plants his feet and picks up a bat he keeps near the door for emphasis. “You want to argue with me?”
Myron sees his father’s eyes empty and his hand tighten around the knife. He steps between the man and Teodor. “My father didn’t understand what you were asking. We have permission. My uncle said to tell you he gives his permission. He said you’d know him. He said everyone in town knows him. His name is Stefan. Stefan Shevchuk. He’s my uncle, we’re bringing in the wheat from his land. He said you would treat us fair. He said you were a fair man.”
“You’re the guy working Stefan’s land?” The fat man directs the question to Teodor, but Myron answers, “Yes.”
In Ukrainian, Myron pleads with his father: “You have to say yes, Tato. We need to sell it, right? It doesn’t matter what he says.”
Teodor looks at the mound burying his feet. He knows what he has to answer. He bows his head like he’s done a hundred times before to the guards.
In English, he answers, “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say that when you come in?” The fat man sets aside the bat. “We heard he had someone working up there.” He looks at Teodor, his head bowed, the ratty jacket with holes in the elbows, frayed cuffs, and tattered sheepskin collar. He almost feels sorry for the poor bastard. His stomach growls, reminding him he hasn’t eaten since noon. “Off-load it.”
The fat man pulls a knife from his hip sheath and with one swipe slices off the stubborn knot. “You ain’t got all day.” Myron bundles up the bedsheet with the missing corner and wonders what his mother will say. He jumps up and joins his father.
With sausagelike fingers, the man sets the weights and counterbalances. From the bowels of the elevator the auger groans and churns, ready to carry the grain to the bins. Dust blooms through the grid. “Empty it!” the fat man shouts over the din. Myron picks up the first bag and prepares to spill its contents. Teodor stops him.
“How much?”
“What?” the fat man hollers.
“How much?” Teodor asks.
“Sixty-three cents.”
“No,” says Teodor. “Ninety-three.”
“What’d he say?” the fat man wheezes.
“He thinks it should be more.”
“Tell him that’s the price.”
Teodor pulls the crumpled newspaper from his pocket. He points to the market column. “Wheat Number One, ninety-three cents.”
“You think I’m cheating you?” The man puffs out his chest.
Teodor points again at the paper. “Ninety-three cents.”
The fat man waves him away. “Those were last month’s prices. That’s for grade one. This is grade four. Sixty-three cents a bushel.”
Teodor grabs a handful of wheat. “Good grain. Number one.”
“That’s the price. Tell him he can take it to Bonnyville, what’s that—fifty miles away? But the price ain’t going to be any better. He’s lucky I’m offering this much. But if he thinks he can get a better deal …”
“Seventy cents,” Myron blurts. “He wants seventy cents.”
“No!” Teodor sputters in Ukrainian, “I want full price!”
Myron tries to reason: “He’s gonna give us nothing. We can’t take it back! You know we can’t.”
Teodor crouches down and picks up a handful of wheat. It’s good wheat. Grade one. “Tie up the bags,” he calmly tells Myron.
“Tato …”
“Do it.” Teodor twists a sack closed and wraps it with twine. Myron looks helplessly to the fat man.
“Crazy bohunk.” The fat man shakes his head. “Seventy cents.”
Teodor doesn’t look up. “Eighty.”
“Seventy-five and that’s it.” The fat man recalculates his profit. “Make up your mind, it’s almost dinnertime.”
“Seventy-five cents.” Teodor recalculates his losses. He pulls the string off and tips the bag. The wheat spills through the grid. Myron is surprised how quickly it is gone.
AFTER TEODOR LEAVES, Maria finds the source of the mildew. Balled up and stuffed in the corner of her chest—her mother’s blanket. Its ivory-and-salmon flowers obscured by splotches of grey-green mould.
Months and months, hand spinning and dyeing the wool; over a year weaving the intricate patterns; all done by her mother’s arthritic hands.
Her mother said she wouldn’t leave her beloved Ukraïna; that she was too old to start again. But with her gnarled hands, she would have been denied entry. No defects allowed in Canada. They had agreed not to say goodbye. No tears, no chance to raise suspicions. Maria didn’t even tell her father they were leaving. He might have told. The night they were to run, her mother came to the door. She held up a warning finger—no words—and thrust a bundle into Maria’s arms. It was the blanket.
Maria opens another layer of the woollen fabric, revealing the grass stains and red smears.
“What’s this?” escapes her lips.
It is Katya who chimes, “Raspberries.”
Sofia, who is rolling dough for the pyrohy, stops mid-roll. Her heart begins to pound, her mouth grows parched as she remembers that hot, sunny summer day picnicking at the lake. Katya rambles on about fish and bubbles and holding up her dress and catching a minnow in her hand … not once does she mention Sofia’s name. Not even when Maria asks through clenched teeth: “Who else was with you?”
Katya answers, “Just me.”
Maria drags her to the bedroom, screaming about taking something that didn’t belong to her and that her father would deal with her when he got hom
e, because she is afraid of what she might do to her. Her hand tight around her daughter’s arm, she worries that she will bruise her, but God forgive her, she doesn’t let go. When Katya starts to whimper, Maria yells at her to stop, that she has nothing to cry about, she isn’t the one who is hurt, and that she best get on her knees and beg for forgiveness. And Katya does, even though she doesn’t know what she’s done wrong.
Dania offers to wash the blanket. Maria tells her to burn it, get it out of the house. But Dania scrubs it with snow and hangs it between two pine trees to air, with plans to wash it properly tomorrow.
Sofia keeps rolling the dough. She tells herself, Katya’s little. They won’t punish her hard. Not like they would with me. She’s older, she’s supposed to be like Dania and take care of the smaller ones. Sofia rolls harder to block her mother’s sobs.
It is dark when Teodor and Myron get back. Ivan sees them first from his perch at the window. Maria can barely contain him long enough to wrap the scarf around his neck and pull the hat down over his ears, but when it comes time for his mittens, they are nowhere to be found. When he is warned that he can’t go outside to greet his father unless he finds his mittens, he breaks down and confesses that he lost them. He is promptly stripped of his winter clothes and sent to stand in the corner.
When Teodor and Myron return home, the women set the dinner plates in silence. Each of them senses the tension that will shatter, injuring them all, if anyone dare ask, “How was your day?”
Myron eats quickly so he can finish chopping the wood. He can’t bear his father’s silence any more. Ivan has fallen asleep in the corner and Dania carries him to bed. She then excuses herself. Sofia, who wants more than anything to see the money and ask her papa for a new dress from the Sears Roebuck catalogue, hides the advertisement under her pillow, thinking it best to wait.
All the children are in bed early, but only the smallest are asleep. The others’ ears are straining to hear the sound of money. Maria lights the oil lamp and sets it on the table. She sits across from Teodor, who is finishing a lingering smoke. He butts the cigarette and reaches in his pocket. He lays the money on the table. Forty-two dollars and seventy-five cents. He sets ten dollars aside.
“This is already spoken for.” He doesn’t meet her eyes.
Thirty-two dollars and seventy-five cents. That’s it. She wants to cry. She feels it climb up her throat and push at the back of her eyes. Her cheeks flush. Don’t, she reprimands herself. Don’t. She takes a deep breath. “What do we have to get?”
Teodor’s fingers rub the rough tabletop. “We need a harness.”
Maria counts out the money.
IT IS THREE in the morning when the final penny is divvied among the piles. Teodor and Maria sit exhausted from their negotiations. Teodor will have to wait for a new shovel, hardware for the granary, and getting the horse shod. Everyone will have to make do with the boots they have, save for Ivan and Petro, who can’t get through the winter with what they have now. Lesya won’t get new shoes. Only the eldest will get new long underwear and winter stockings. Their old winter underwear will be passed down. Myron won’t get his fur-lined hat. Maria will knit Ivan new mittens and socks for the men. She will try to stretch the fabric to make three heavy skirts for her daughters.
She will need to patch the men’s pants again. There won’t be enough meat to get through the winter, but hopefully the potatoes and rice will carry them through. Maria has already evaluated the preserves and vegetables, and noted the ones she will try to trade in February for more meat. She picks up the remaining thirteen cents and squirrels it away in the tobacco can on the highest shelf. She calculates the pennies, nickels, and dimes. They have a dollar and eighteen cents for emergencies.
Teodor checks in on the girls. They sleep blissfully unaware. Katya and Dania are snuggled back to back. Little Katya’s legs are stretched out against Sofia, who is pushed to the edge of the bed. Where will the baby sleep if it’s a girl? he wonders. He should build a cradle. He has a birch log. He was saving it to make Maria a cupboard, but that will have to wait. Dania rolls over and wraps her arm around her little sister. Her long blond hair is loose around her face. She is almost a woman. Soon she’ll marry and have her own farm. She’ll be like her mother. Practical and sensible. She’ll make do with what she has.
I’ll keep you safe, he wants to tell them. He tucks Sofia’s arm back in. As he pulls the quilt up, he notices the piece of paper protruding from under her pillow. He slides it out and unfolds the catalogue page, Girls and Misses’ Cloth Dresses. Circled, in the bottom corner, is an illustration of a young girl, her arms tucked behind her back, her head tilted demurely, her hair short and curled. Teodor reads slowly, stumbling over the odd words. Girls’ Dress made of all-wool flannel, bolero effect, shoulder flaps, high-standing collar and band in front are made of black velvet, trimmed with white cord. We can furnish this dress in royal blue and red. Price $3.75.
He doesn’t know the words bolero, velvet, or royal. But he understands the price. He folds the page back up and slides it farther under the pillow. Of all his children, she is the one he worries about the most. She wants to be someone else. Katya groans and stretches, digging her feet into Sofia’s side. Gently, Teodor reaches under the covers and lifts her legs. Katya squirms, her eyes open blearily.
“Tato?”
“Shhh,” Teodor soothes her.
Tears spring to her eyes. “I stole Mama’s blanket.”
He thinks she’s had a bad dream and is about to say so when Katya breaks his heart.
“Do I have to go to jail now too, Tato?”
Maria neatly folds Dania’s old winter stockings for Lesya. The legs might be a little long, and the wool is picked, but they’re clean and darned. Dania washed them herself yesterday, while she and Teodor were in town getting supplies. She built the fire, cut through the ice, hauled water up from the lake, filled the washtub, and topped it up with snow. It was ten below yesterday.
When they arrived home before dinner, she was still outside. Her hands were raw and cracked, and the front of her coat and sleeves had frozen. She was churning Maria’s blanket for the third time through the steaming water. She had scrubbed the mouldy patches and raspberry stains with a horse brush. She was down to the last thumb-sized cake of soap. The dyes in the wool had leached where she had rubbed. The grass stains were impenetrable, but still she scrubbed. Maria told her, That’s enough.
From the window Maria can see it hanging on the line, frozen stiff, the sun bleaching its pastel colours to bone white. Tonight she’ll hang it by the stove, let it thaw, and see if the smell is gone. She plans to nail it to the back wall to keep out the wind’s chill. Put it to some good use. She lays the folded underwear in the bottom of the basket. The clothes smell like winter.
She tucks in one bar of soap, two skeins of yarn, and Petro’s new boots, size 7. She hopes they’re large enough. His toes were poking through the old ones. Ivan hasn’t taken his new boots off all day. Last night, he tried to sleep with them on. His feet were jutting out from under the covers so he could admire their shine. When she insisted he remove them, he set the boots in front of the wood stove, beside his father’s, carefully lining them up to face the door. This morning he slipped them on, in unison with Teodor. Left foot first, then the right. He laced them across, giving a final tug, mimicking his father. But he still needed help tying the bow: The rabbit comes out of the hole, goes around the tree, and back down the hole again. He has been clopping in and out of the house all morning. She caught him twice bending down to wipe snow from the toes.
If there had been a middle boy, Ivan would be wearing hand-medowns, like his sisters. But Myron’s old clothes have long been reused as rags and patches and his old leather boots have been cut up to repair harnesses and saddles. Ivan has always been the roughest on his clothes. No matter how many times she tells him to stay out of the mud and not to drag his toes, he doesn’t remember. He’s worn a hole through the toe on his left boot, and th
e leather has cracked and split at the seams from the constant soakings. She had to get him new boots this year. She tried not to make it an event—she just casually passed them to him.
He let Katya touch them. Sofia pouted and kicked her boots against the table leg until Maria swatted her still. Sensing that it wasn’t fair that his boots hadn’t lasted another year, he did his best to hide his feet under the chair. When Dania unwrapped her new winter underwear, Sofia ran to her room and didn’t come out for the rest of the afternoon. Later, Maria found a pile of shredded paper under the bed; all she could piece together was the head of a young girl with ribbons in her hair. She is thankful school is back in and the house is quiet today.
Maria folds a little bag of candy and hides it in the layers of linen. Lesya will make sure Petro doesn’t eat it all at once. Dania divided up their stash: two blackballs, three peppermints, four butterscotches, and one lemon drop apiece. None of them took a bite; instead they squirrelled their treasures away in their trunks, hiding them in socks, under skirts, and in pant pockets. Even Myron, who initially said to give his share to the little ones, was relieved when Maria refused his charitable act. He tucked the lemon drop in his shirt pocket.
Maria sucks on the butterscotch candy she pilfered last night. There are five more stored in the tobacco can. She prefers to bite down on these hard candies, feel them shatter between her teeth, but then it would dissolve too quickly. Instead, she holds it in her cheek, her tongue gauging the halfway mark, when she will wrap it in wax paper and hide it back in the tin.
It’s been harder dividing the food. The way Anna has been eating, she’ll empty the pantry in a month. And she’s not convinced that Anna will salt the meat or that Stefan will freeze it properly. Maria decides to ration the supplies: half a pound of sausage, a pound of chuckroast, a pound of sugar, two pounds of salt, and a pound of rice. She adds four jars of preserves to fill out the basket. She ponders including a chicken, but knows Stefan will want it roasted and then will eat it in one meal, whereas she can stretch it for weeks by turning it into jellied chicken, making a broth, and using the feet, gizzards, and heart in stews. She reassures herself that it is best that she administers the food. She can send over a basket once a week to replenish their supplies.
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