Yuriy leads the others down the wide aisle until he reaches Zmiya’s bunk in the far corner. Taras notices that it’s colder and darker here. Maybe that’s Snake’s problem; simple physical misery.
Zmiya sits up, propped on his folded pillow. He swallows. There’s a small bulge under his shirt. His paper hat is still folded on his pillow. Oh no, he had to pull his own cracker. For a moment Taras actually feels sorry for him, but not all that sorry.
Yuriy, Taras, Tymko, Myro and Ihor stand near the bunk. Yuriy sits down near the middle of the bunk and Ihor at the foot. The others drag chairs near and sit around in a partial circle. Zmiya can’t get past them.
“You look a little out of sorts,” Yuriy says. “I thought I might tell you a story.”
Zmiya looks puzzled. There’s a brief moment when he might have said, “I’m not interested in any story,” but it’s gone before he can speak.
“This story,” Yuriy says, “takes place in the old country, in a small village. One day a poor man and his wife had so little to eat that after their supper the man was still hungry. He begged his wife to sweep out the flour bin and see if there might be enough flour to make him a nice bun. His wife did as he asked, and set the bun on the windowsill to cool.” Yuriy’s friends listen and nod at each other and at Zmiya. He shifts on his mattress and nods back.
“But this bun had its own ideas. It began to roll, and it fell onto the bench by the window. It rolled again and landed on the floor. It rolled so well and so fast that soon it was out the door, across the path, through the gate and down the road.”
“No!” Ihor says. “What about the poor old lady?”
“She saw the bun getting away and called for it to stop, but it kept on rolling, singing this song: ‘I was made from flour and yeast. And I was baked in an oven. And I shall run away from you!’”
“What?” says Tymko. “I’ve never heard of such a thing!”
“The old woman had never heard of such things either. And then her old man saw the bun and he tried to make it stop too. But the bun only sang, ‘I was made from flour and yeast. And I was baked in an oven. I have run away from the old woman, and I shall run away from you.’”
“All this from a bun?” Taras asks, getting into the spirit.
Yuriy nods. “From a simple, fresh, tender bun. Who would have believed it?”
“Then what happened?” Myro asks. He looks like one of the Wise Men, Taras thinks, in the purple-and-silver hat.
“Well, I’ll cut it short for you. The bun played the same trick on a rabbit, a wolf and a bear. The bun added a line to the song for each animal. Believe me, they were all getting quite annoyed.” Yuriy looks fixedly at Zmiya and pats him on the small bump inside his shirt.
“A thrilling story, isn’t it?” Yuriy asks. “I can feel your excitement. The area over your heart is quite warm. But enough of this happy storytelling, we must come to the end. Picture the bun rolling away, followed by an old baba, an old dido, a rabbit, a wolf and a bear. And no one can catch the bun.
“At last the bun rolls up to the cottage of a vixen, sitting on a bench plucking a chicken for her supper. By the way, it’s not that well known, but vixens are very particular about not swallowing any feathers when they eat chicken.” The others laugh, but not Zmiya.
“The vixen says, ‘Come and let me eat you,’ but the bun bargains with her. He offers to sing a fine song if she agrees not to eat him. ‘All right,’ she says, ‘let’s hear it, then.’ And once more he sings, ending with all the creatures he’s escaped from.”
Yuriy sings in a very fine tenor, with great feeling: ‘I ran away from the old woman. I ran away from the old man. I ran away from the rabbit, the wolf and the bear, and I shall run away from you too!’” Yuriy’s friends lean toward him, as if tense with anticipation. Every second there seems less space for Zmiya, less air for him to breathe.
“‘What a fine song,’ says the vixen,” Yuriy says in a high-pitched vixen voice. ‘But I’m a little deaf. Can you sing it again, but this time sit on my tongue so I can hear better.’”
“Oh-oh,” Ihor says.
“So the bun jumps on her tongue and begins to sing. It reaches the words, ‘I ran away from...’ when the vixen’s jaws go snap! and she eats the bun in a couple of gulps. And everybody else has to go home with nothing.”
“Oh,” Ihor says, “that’s so sad. The poor old man.” He moves a little closer to Zmiya.
“And the poor old woman,” says Tymko. “She did all the work. Workers should receive some reward, even if it’s only gratitude. But preferably a decent wage.”
Yuriy bends closer to Zmiya. “What do you think? Wasn’t that sad?”
Zmiya gulps. “I suppose... I suppose it was.”
“Try not to feel too bad. It’s just a story.”
“But a very important one,” Myro says. “It shows we must be vigilant at all times.”
“Or someone might take the food from our mouths,” Tymko agrees.
“Never mind,” Yuriy says. “It happened far away. The old man and woman are dead and gone.” He pats Zmiya again, right on top of the bulge. Zmiya doesn’t move a muscle as Yuriy undoes a couple of buttons, reaches under Zmiya’s shirt and pulls out a bun with a couple of bites gone – crumbling a bit after being inside the shirt.
“Have some of this nice warm bun,” Yuriy says. “That’ll cheer you up.” He pulls off a good-sized chunk and pushes it into Zmiya’s mouth. “Eat. It’ll do you good.”
Before Zmiya can chew it, he pushes in another piece, and then another. Zmiya can’t chew or swallow. The others lean even closer. Zmiya tries to take a deep breath, tries to swallow, starts to cough.
“Oh dear,” Tymko says, “the poor man’s choking. Give him a little more.”
Zmiya holds up a hand to say he’s had enough, but Yuriy shoves in the last of the bun. Zmiya can’t get a proper breath, just keeps gasping and choking. There’s a gurgling noise in his throat. His eyes dart wildly.
“Myro, run and get some water,” Yuriy says.
When Myro brings it, Yuriy pours the water on top of Zmiya’s head. Myro and Tymko exchange a glance, and Tymko grabs Zmiya and shifts him to the edge of the bed. Pounds the choking man on the back with stupendous blows. Zmiya coughs and sneezes. Tears and snot stream down his face. After a minute or so of pounding and coughing he can breathe again. What looks to be all of the bun and most of the turkey dinner lies on the floor. Myro brings more water and this time they let him drink it. Tymko moves even closer to Zmiya. He glances at Yuriy, raises his eyebrows. Yuriy nods.
“Now,” says Tymko, taking Zmiya’s face gently in his hands and looking down into the teary eyes, “I hope you liked our friend’s story. It’s just a village tale, but I think a person can learn from it. I’m sure it holds many lessons, but the one I like best is that a person can be too smart for his own good. Have you ever noticed that?” He waits, brows raised, for an answer. “Hmmm?”
“Maybe.”
“So. Listen carefully. We have been patient. That’s done with. You have just become a new man. One who doesn’t steal another person’s food. Or attack a fellow prisoner with an axe handle.”
Zmiya nods. The men stand close. They look harsh and unforgiving. Even Myro.
“A thing like that could break a man’s legs. Luckily, that didn’t happen. Now, no one wants you to find out how that would feel. But it could happen, couldn’t it?” Again Zmiya nods. “Always remember, there are many of us. If anything happens to one...”
Shivering, Zmiya swipes at his wet hair and face with his shirt sleeve.
“Well, we’ve said enough for now. Maybe one day we’ll talk again. When you’ve been a new man long enough that all of this is almost forgotten.”
Tymko lays Zmiya gently down and they leave him to his thoughts.
Back at Yuriy’s bunk, Tymko says, “Really, it’s better if we learn through reason. But maybe some people learn only through fear.”
“Is that a scientific conclu
sion?” Myro asks.
“No,” says Tymko. “Just a wild guess.”
Taras shares out the remaining bun. Wonders what they’ve done.
Late in December he gets a packet of letters tied with twine, all but one from his parents. He tears them open and reads them one after another, though they’re smudged with handling and pocked with ink where the censor has crossed something out. He wonders what his parents could possibly have written that would be dangerous to the Canadian government. He reads them out of order, but pieces together a story. The harvest was small but enough for them to buy potatoes, cornmeal and molasses, and a small grindstone to make flour. When cold weather came early, in the middle of October, they bought a load of coal for the stove. Protected by the sod walls, they were warm, but trapped indoors with little to do except worry about him.
In late November his friend from work, Moses, drove out one day in a borrowed wagon and asked them to come and stay with him in town. His parents are more than all right. His mother works three days a week cleaning a lady’s house. Mykola helps the local blacksmith when there’s more work than he can handle. It’s not what was supposed to happen, not the golden wheat sheaf life of the tavern poster. But they’re safe and warm and they have good food to eat.
He hasn’t felt joy since he left the village and now, for a moment, he’s afraid he might faint from the avalanche of feeling. He realizes that his heart has been starved here in this place, not only his body.
The last letter comes from Moses.
“It is a great pleasure to have your parents in my house. They remind me of my Ukrainian father. Already the lady your mother works for says she can’t do without her. Your father has made a friend in the blacksmith, William Patterson. Mykola says they are more and more like real Canadians, but I’ve seen them cry when there were no letters. Since your letters came, they are happier. We look forward to celebrating Christmas.
“Pavlo taught me to sing the church services, but your parents are teaching me folk tales and songs from the old country. Mykola says I have a beautiful voice. I told him it’s from my mother. When she sang, I thought the stars must be listening.
“I lost my first family and then I lost Pavlo before I was ready to be on my own. Your parents have taken away that pain.
“Have courage, Taras. You won’t be in that awful place forever.”
Taras sees a pen stroke, as if someone had started to strike out the word “awful” and then realized how petty that might look.
Taras is unaware of tears on his cheeks until Myro gets up and puts an arm across his shoulder. “They’re all right,” Taras says. “They’re safe.”
PART 2
CHAPTER 11
Ukrainian Christmas
January, 1916
Canadian New Year arrives – another holiday for internees and guards – and in a few more days, it will be Ukrainian Christmas – not a holiday. Tymko says the government must think they were lucky to have one Christmas, even if it was the wrong one.
Christmas Eve, many of the men gather in the centre of the bunkhouse and say prayers. Even people who aren’t very religious or very political resent being made to work on Christmas Day.
Before they leave the bunkhouse on Ukrainian Christmas morning, Tymko suggests a hunger strike.
“Let’s analyze that idea.” Yuriy makes his voice sound deep, like Tymko’s. “You aren’t for religion, but you want to lead a hunger strike so we can have Christmas in peace.”
“Certainly,” Tymko says. “People must be respected. Every community has its beliefs and customs. That is their right.”
“Very interesting,” Myro says.
“Besides, protest accustoms people to political action. This undermines dependence on supernatural forces. Teaches people to act to achieve their own goals.” Tymko winks at Taras.
Good answer, Taras thinks. He winks back. It makes him smile.
Everyone agrees that a hunger strike is not in the prisoners’ interests. It could result in the men not getting fed all day, or even longer, and there’s no point in starting anything until they’ve at least got breakfast in their bellies. What then? In the end Tymko the socialist and Ihor the Hutsul volunteer to lead the men in refusing to work on Christmas. After the usual runny porridge and scorched coffee, they’re expected to line up in groups ready to head out for work. Instead the men march in a rapid but orderly manner back to the bunkhouses, before the guards can catch on and lock them out. Tymko and Ihor wait outside to explain what’s happening.
In moments the two of them have been locked in the guardhouse, as they expected would happen. Each has several candy bars from the prisoners’ canteen in his pocket, contributed by men who were saving them for Christmas day. Lying on his bunk, Taras tries to imagine their conversations. First they’d each eat half a candy bar. Then Tymko would analyze, scientifically, how the protest was going so far and predict how long they’d be locked up. He’d probably estimate that it would be only until the middle of the afternoon. Knowing it’s their Christmas, how could the commandant be as harsh as usual? After this analysis, Ihor would tell tales about Hutsul life and sing old Christmas songs.
This is pretty much what happens, as Taras would hear after it was all over.
When Ihor gets going on the songs, Tymko joins in. The guards must be amazed to hear two-part harmony, baritone and deep bass, coming out of the guardhouse. Somebody bangs on the door with his rifle butt.
“Pipe down in there!” Barkley. Of course. The two men sing louder. He yells again but they drown him out. He gives up.
“Now what’ll we do?” Tymko wonders. “I know! Let’s fight to keep warm.”
Do you think I’m crazy? Ihor’s look says.
“Not serious fighting. Just a little wrestling to keep warm. And to keep in shape for the revolution.”
“The revolution, is it? Oh, all right. I’ve nothing else to do. But no damage. Always remember, you don’t want to get me mad.”
“Certainly not. And we have our coats on to keep us from getting hurt. Dobre. We wrestle.”
They circle each other, looking for openings.
“Come on, mountain man, what are you afraid of?”
“Not you, you piece of gristle coughed up by a Russian dog.”
Tymko grabs Ihor around his head and shoulders. Struggles to use his greater weight and lower centre of gravity to throw the Hutsul. Doesn’t see Ihor’s foot snake out and loop around his ankle. Tymko lands with a whump. Ihor leaps down to pin him, but Tymko wriggles away and jumps on Ihor’s back. Ihor arches his back and Tymko falls to the floor. On their knees, grappling for a hold, each tries for a pin. They yell and grunt, even the hard wooden floor groans under them.
Again and again, one man takes the other down, only to have the victim slide out and appear somewhere else, like a ghost. Sweating and gasping, they peel off their coats.
“Now, sheepman, let’s see what you can do.”
“More than a moth-eaten Russian bear.”
Tymko roars. “Don’t call me Russian!”
They’re off again. Tymko’s stronger, but Ihor’s cagier. More agile. Just when Tymko thinks he’s got it won, Ihor gets his hip under Tymko’s and vaults him through the air, like some heavy bird, a stork maybe, falling out of the sky. He lands in a sprawling heap on the floor, holds up a hand to say he’s done.
“You devil. How did you do that?”
“It’s a Hutsul thing. We don’t talk about it.” Ihor flops down beside Tymko, who starts to laugh.
“It was marvellous. I thought I was flying. It was almost a mystical experience.” They pull on their coats. “Christ, I wish we had a drink!”
“A glass of plum brandy sure wouldn’t hurt. You know, you look like a sheep that slipped on some ice and is afraid to get up.”
“I do, don’t I?” Tymko says. “Oh, I wish I was drunk!”
“Me too. Really drunk. Stupid drunk.”
They’re still laughing, arms around each other’s shoulder
s, when someone pounds the door again.
“Hey! Settle down! Don’t make me come in there!” Barkley again.
This sends them into volleys – no, cannonades – of laughter. Or maybe it’s like thunder, or ice breaking up in spring. They figure Barkley’s going to have to come in, now he’s made the threat.
The key turns in the lock and he opens the door, rifle in one hand. Coming from bright sun, he obviously can’t see them lying on the floor. Where the hell can they be? He feints with the bayonet, trying to look dangerous. Tymko and Ihor laugh so hard they’re afraid they’ll choke. Barkley, pale as a snowman in the dim light, is threatening them!
“Look out,” Tymko says in Ukrainian. “He’s got a gun!”
“Just shut up in here!” Barkley snarls. “Or I’ll make you shut up.”
“Oh dear God, we better be quiet,” Ihor says. “He’s so scary.”
They become instantly quiet, but Barkley can easily see that it won’t last and beats a quick retreat. Before he’s turned the key in the lock, laughter roars out at him.
“Goddamn hunkie socialists!” he screams back.
Ihor and Tymko laugh until tears stream down their faces. They stagger to the bunks along the walls.
“You’re a good man, Ihor,” Tymko says.
“Oh, go on,” the Hutsul answers, “you must be drunk.”
By the time it’s sorted out – the internees agree to work for the rest of the afternoon, all the men will be given supper, including Tymko and Ihor, and that’ll be the end of the matter – there’s not much afternoon left. Good thing, because everybody’s hungry already.
The men are marched out in their usual work gangs, as far as the town centre. The guards make them clear a bit of snow off the streets, but nobody takes it seriously, including the guards. And then, much earlier than usual, they’re marched back and allowed to rest until supper. Tymko’s right. The brass aren’t going to take away supper on a religious holiday. Even if it’s one they don’t admit exists.
Blood and Salt Page 13
