“If he’s here. I’m sure you’ll find him. Halya and her baba, too.”
Moses lends Taras his horse to ride to and from work. She’s a bony old white mare, but she’s good natured and she can get him there and back. Moses pretends Taras will be doing him a favour. Molly can eat the Kalynas’ grass, save him money on feed. Taras knows the benefit is all on his side. The walk home would take over an hour. He promises to bring Moses some of his mother’s bread.
The internees like this story. Most have seen a black person at one time or another but not up close. Not to talk to. Tymko explains that black people originally came from Africa. Some people know exactly where Africa is. Others have only a hazy idea. Bohdan asks whether, if he could touch such a person, the colour would come off on his hands. Taras assures him it would not. He sees Bohdan thinking about what wood he might choose to carve the likeness of Moses.
Myro takes on what Taras has come to think of as his teacher look. “This is not the first time a black man and a Ukrainian have been friends,” he says. People look up, amazed. They’re going to get two stories in one night. Both apparently filled with marvels.
“You see, Taras Shevchenko wasn’t only a painter and a writer. He was also a fine singer and actor, and he loved the theatre. One night in St. Petersburg he went to hear a great American actor – a black man called Ira Aldridge – perform in Othello. He was so moved it made him weep and he went backstage afterwards to thank Aldridge. He hugged the actor, he kissed him.”
Taras wants to say, “What’s Othello?” but he doesn’t want to stop Myro in full spate. His friend’s face seems to glow as he warms to his topic.
“They couldn’t understand each other’s languages, but they became friends, united by an unbreakable bond. And what was that bond? The knowledge that neither of their peoples were free.” Taras sees that he’s not the only person who doesn’t understand this.
“You see, black people were brought from Africa to North America as slaves. Kidnapped, to tell the truth. They worked on plantations and as servants. It was worse than serfdom.” His listeners look skeptical. They’ve always believed serfdom was the worst thing.
“Now, only a small number of black people in America were free at this time, and Ira Aldridge was one of them. While he was in St. Petersburg, he and Taras went everywhere together, to the best houses, the liveliest parties; and everywhere they went arm in arm. It was the most amazing friendship. A proverbial friendship. A friendship for the ages.”
“You say they walked down the street arm in arm?” Yuriy says.
“Certainly. That was very common among gentlemen in that time. No one thought it weak or foolish. Men were not afraid to kiss each other as friends.”
“Well, that happens in the village when you meet an old friend or relative,” Ihor says. “But afterwards we don’t walk around arm in arm like little girls.”
“That may be,” Myro says, “but they did. And Shevchenko was so moved by his friend’s soulful acting that he made a portrait of him.”
“I wish I could see that,” Yuriy says.
“Moses knows songs his people sang when they were slaves,” Taras says. “Did Shevchenko and this actor sing songs?”
“I’m sure they did. No one mentions what songs they sang. But I can guess.”
“What do you mean?” Yuriy asks. “Do you know slave songs?”
Without hesitation, Myro sings in a strong baritone:
Go down, Moses, way down in Egypt land
And tell old Pharaoh, to let my people go
“That’s all very well,” Tymko interrupts, “but it sounds like a lot of unnecessary emotionalism. They should’ve been talking about how to make revolution. How to free their people. Not prancing around St. Petersburg thinking what great artists they were.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“No? What was it like, then?”
“It was like this,” Myro says. “Art feeds the heart and the soul. Without heart and soul, what good would revolution be? Revolution for what? Theories are fine, but what kind of people do we want to be?” A few people nod. “Until we know that, we can’t make anything. Remember the words Taras recited? From the old man in the reading hall? ‘Examine everything you see. Then ask yourselves: Now who are we?’”
Momentarily at least, Tymko is silenced.
Early in February, 1916, just when Taras begins to believe the world has contracted to the space of the bunkhouse, the weather turns. The temperature rises to above freezing by mid-afternoon. He and his friends have to return to work and it actually feels good to be outdoors. The next day, Saturday, it’s cold again and for all they know could stay that way for a month.
Tymko says everyone should have Saturday off as well as Sunday, anyway. He says some day everyone will take this for granted.
By Monday it’s 7° Fahrenheit, and it stays mild all week. Water trickles everywhere. The air is soft and moist from melting snow. Mere breathing is pleasure.
On Wednesday Taras sees a man escape under cover of smoke from burning brush at the buffalo enclosure near town and feels pleased about it the whole afternoon. On Thursday, a soldier dies of heart failure at the Banff hospital, after lying ill with influenza for a week in the soldiers’ bunkhouse. The guards mutter among themselves that no one cares about their welfare. Now you know what it feels like, Taras thinks. No, probably they don’t. It wouldn’t occur to them.
Then it grows bitterly cold. Somebody called Brigadier Cruikshank visits to examine conditions in the camp and finds that both prisoners and soldiers are overcrowded in the bunkhouses and that guards are working eighty-five hours a week. He notes that having the prisoners walk to the worksites is highly inefficient: “The length of the march to and from this place, about thirteen miles, when the snow is deep, as it has been this winter, amounts to practically a day’s work in itself.”
The prisoners learn about it, as usual, from hearing snippets from the guards. They knew it all along, but this time one of the brass has said it. Surely the government will listen.
“Just don’t expect it to make one damn bit of difference,” Tymko says bitterly.
It doesn’t. Days and weeks pass; nothing changes.
CHAPTER 16
What is it to be Ukrainian?
One very bitter night, Myro and Tymko want to hear more about Moses, while Ihor, Taras, Bohdan and Yuriy want to talk about Shevchenko and Ira Aldridge. Why are people different colours? Yuriy wonders. Why do they have different religions and ideas? Bohdan asks, and Ihor demands to know, “Why do some people think they’re better than others?”
As usual Tymko has a lot to say. You could write down the things he says and publish it in a book, Taras sometimes thinks. Then he could send the book back to Shevchana, and the men would talk about it in the reading hall. Tymko says, among many things, that people learn to think of themselves as a group. “Could be a family, could be a small village, or a great big city, or even a whole country.” So far so good, but where’s it taking him?
“People are always looking at those outside their own group and seeing monsters,” he goes on. “Small differences in the shapes of faces, the colour of skins. Partly it’s that they want to think their group is the best. And partly it’s because they’re afraid. If they admit that another group is all right, they wonder if it makes them not all right.”
“Oh, that’s silly, it can’t be like that,” Yuriy says. “And differences aren’t always small. Not if a man has dark brown or black skin. That’s very different.”
“Yes and no,” Myro says. “We must ask what defines a man. He must have eyes, ears, a nose and mouth, and the senses that go along with those parts. He must have a mind to think and a heart to feel, and a soul to long for a good and useful life, and to know God. If he has all those things, then a different colour is a small thing.”
“That’s true, I guess,” Taras says, remembering the brick plant, “but it attracts a lot of attention when you see a black man where ev
eryone else is light-skinned.”
“Maybe so,” Tymko says, “but I think the ruling class likes to make such distinctions. Because they want others to serve them. The way the slaves did in the United States.” He waves his finger in the air to emphasize his points. “So they make themselves believe that black people are very different, and that black people aren’t as good as they are.”
“Okay,” Ihor says, “but something else interests me. And that is, what makes a person Ukrainian or not Ukrainian? Taras’s friend Moses is a black man whose family came from the United States. Then he was raised by a Ukrainian, and learned the Ukrainian language and religion. Does that make him Ukrainian?”
“How can it?” asks Yuriy. “He wasn’t born Ukrainian.”
“So. Dobre. None of us can ever be Canadians then,” Tymko says, sinking his teeth into the argument.
“Sure we can,” Yuriy says. “We can be more than one thing. I can be Canadian and Ukrainian.”
“So can Moses, then,” Taras says.
“Maybe we should ask, what makes a Ukrainian?” Myro says.
Yuriy thinks. “Well, we are a group of people with...common ancestors. We speak the same language, we look much the same. We know we’re a people.”
“Wait a minute,” Tymko says. “Where I come from, many Ukrainians speak Russian because lots of Russians live among us and they have a lot of power. Does that mean they’re not Ukrainian?”
“I guess not,” Yuriy says. “But maybe they’re less Ukrainian.”
“Less Ukrainian!” Tymko roars. “Are you saying I’m less Ukrainian than you?”
“No, of course not. Forgive me. I’m just trying to work things out.”
Myro holds up a hand. “Let’s look at some of the possible things that make us Ukrainian. One is language. Now, if I take a Ukrainian baby to another country, let’s say England, will the baby still be Ukrainian?”
No one has a ready answer. “I think,” Taras says finally, “that the baby would still be Ukrainian if it was taught about its own country. If it knew where it came from and knew the language. But if it only knew the language and ways of England, then I guess the child wouldn’t be Ukrainian.”
“So language is a necessary part? And customs and ways of doing things?” Myro asks. People nod, fairly certain this must be the case.
“I hate to tell you this,” Myro goes on, “but there are already children of Ukrainians in Canada who don’t know the Ukrainian language. I used to have a part-time job teaching kids like that the language.”
“So they’re not Ukrainian, then?” Taras asks.
“They think they are. But their parents had to learn English when they came here, and at first they thought it would be better for the children to speak only English, in order to be accepted. Later they realized they wanted them to learn.”
“Maybe a Ukrainian is someone who comes from Ukraine,” Taras suggests.
“What Ukraine?” says Tymko. “We haven’t got a country. We’re all chopped up and parcelled out to other countries.”
“And yet,” Ihor says, “I believe we are a country. And I’m a Hutsul, so I don’t always think of being Ukrainian, but inside, I am.”
“What was it Yuriy said one day?” Myro asks. “Something about Ukraine already being a country. He said, ‘I already live in it in my mind.’”
“Dobre, so Ukraine is an idea in our minds,” Taras says. “And a person is a Ukrainian if he thinks he is.” He sees a vision of Halya. “Or if she thinks she is.”
“Sounds good to me,” Yuriy says. “But then, what about a Jew? Many Jews live in Ukraine – the idea of Ukraine in our minds, I guess you could say – and they work and raise families there.”
“Is a Jew a Ukrainian, then?” Tymko asks.
“How can he be? He’s a Jew.”
“What about Taras’s idea?” Tymko persists. “You’re a Ukrainian if you think you are. If you’re involved in the life of Ukraine. If you speak the language.”
“But I’ve always thought Jews were very different,” Yuriy says.
“Different in religion, yes,” Tymko says, “but even there, remember that the Jewish religion is the foundation of the Christian.”
“Is it?” Yuriy asks, surprised.
“Of course,” Ihor says. “Their Bible is our Old Testament.”
“How do you know?” Taras asks. He’s never heard anything like this.
“I know because near where I lived there’s a whole Jewish town and I’ve talked with their rabbi. We talked about religions and he told me something I really knew myself. We Ukrainians haven’t always been Christian.”
“Of course not,” Yuriy says. “Only since the days of Yaroslav the Wise.”
“Before that, we were what they call pagans,” Ihor says. “We honoured the earth and the sun and we kept our own festivals.” He turns to Myro. “Isn’t that right, Professor?”
“It is right.”
“So what’s our true religion?” Ihor asks. “We Hutsuls have become Christians, but we remember the older times too. If the Christian way doesn’t work for us, then we’ll try the old ways. Medicines and chants and spells. Old Ukrainian ways.”
“Interesting questions,” Tymko says, “but where do we end up? Can a man be more than one thing at a time, as Yuriy suggests? We all must think it’s possible, because here we are in Canada, and yet we haven’t stopped thinking we’re Ukrainians.”
Myro smiles. “A masterly summing up.”
“See,” Yuriy says, “I knew I was right. Even the professor and the socialist think so. And what else do they agree on?”
The laughter is good-natured. Taras considers how complicated thinking can be.
Tymko could be reading his mind. “Enough of such hard topics. It’s time we heard more of Taras’s story. Let’s see, where did he leave us last?”
Yuriy thinks. “He was asking Moses if he’d seen Viktor and Halya. And Moses said Taras was sure to find them. So I want to know if he did. I want to know what comes next.”
“I didn’t find them. I only know Viktor got a farm somewhere near Spring Creek. Halya and Natalka must have been there too, but after that...”
“Tell us what you think happened,” Ihor says.
“I can’t. I don’t know any more than you do.”
PART 3
CHAPTER 17
The pahna
“Oh Maryna.” Natalka swipes the broom over the already clean kitchen floor. “If only you were here. If only we could laugh and cry together as we used to. The wild boar will never be at rest until he’s a wealthy pahn or whatever they call it here. He won’t be happy until Halya marries some rich man.” She puts away the corn broom Viktor bought her – imagine buying a broom! – and goes to the table to knead bread. She loves punching and pummelling it until it’s the way she wants. If only her son-in-law could be improved so easily.
“I see him always thinking, scheming. He reads newspapers, trying to understand the language, trying to find out how things are done here. I don’t see any rich young pahns around here looking for a wife, but I’m not trying the way Viktor is, so maybe there are some. He’ll find a rich man if he has to make one out of dust and straw. We have lots of dust and straw, as it happens.” She murmurs and frets as she shapes the bread into loaves and puts it into pans.
“And now what? He wants us to have a new name. We are to be the Dobsons. He saw this name in a newspaper. He thinks it will make us English. As if a different name can do that. He will be Victor Dobson and Halya is to be Helen. And what do you think he’s cooked up for me? I’m to be Nancy! Nancy Dobson! Do I look like someone called Nancy Dobson?” She spots an old newspaper folded and placed high on a shelf.
“Newspapers, everywhere you look. He’s driving me crazy.” Complaining and raging eases her feelings and has made her almost cheerful.
The wooden farmhouse, about eight miles west of Spring Creek, is plain and solidly built, but there’s nothing to tell you the people who live here are
Ukrainian. The living room furniture came with the house: a dining table and four chairs, a worn sofa, two upholstered chairs, curtains and a dreamy picture of a stream ordered from something called the Eaton’s catalogue. Viktor already has an old copy of this book of everything you could imagine buying. But there are no embroidered cloths, no icons, no table runners to be seen. Viktor’s shaking off the old country as fast as he can.
Halya and Natalka sit at the table mending clothes one evening, chatting comfortably in Ukrainian.
Viktor reads a newspaper, straining to wring meaning from the foreign words, the unfamiliar letters. He gets the weekly paper from Mr. Hamilton when he’s done with it, and the occasional Moose Jaw paper whenever his employer goes to town. For Viktor is working for another man, despite what people in the village would have predicted. He’s feeling out the new world on the road to being an important man.
“Give me the white thread, Halychka.”
Halya passes the thread. “There you are, babusya.” They laugh.
“You should try to speak English,” Viktor says, very grumpy.
“I’m old,” Natalka says. “Let me speak my own language.”
“Yes, you’re an old woman. But Halya needs to learn.”
“Pah! English hurts my tongue.”
“I work for Mr. Hamilton. He helps me learn. So I can help you and Halya.” Halya peers at her sewing as if it’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen.
“This is a good place,” Viktor says. “The land is good too.”
“Oh yes,” Natalka says. “That must be why the owner was so eager to get rid of it.” Viktor takes a deep breath to keep from rising to the bait.
“I’ve explained that to you. He bought a bigger farm closer to town. This is a good place and I’ve got us this house, bigger than in the old country.”
“But not nearly as nice. There’s no peech. And you won’t let us put up the icons.”
Viktor tastes hot words in his mouth, but again holds them back. He waves his hand as if to say that he can’t be bothered trying. He turns to his daughter.
Blood and Salt Page 19
