It was the first time since he’d become a socialist and an atheist that Tymko seriously considered God might exist after all and was punishing him for leaving the church.
That night he sat by his daughter’s bed, her face warmed by lamplight. His wife’s photograph, framed in carved wood, watched from the wall over the bed. Friends and neighbours came quietly in and left again just as quietly. His friend Anton the Czech sat for many hours, offered him whiskey from a pocket flask. Tymko could sense him there in a wooden chair, his warmth radiating into the room, but inside he found only the chill of water that has not travelled far from a glacier.
He could not imagine allowing people to lay Oksana in the earth. He knew it was crazy, but he kept thinking she might not be truly dead. Maybe if he watched faithfully she would come back.
When Anton returned the next morning, he touched Tymko’s hand and Tymko knew what was going to happen. It seemed his heart tore in his chest and he fell on the planked floor and knew nothing more for a long time. He awoke in his bed the next day after the people from the union had seen to her funeral and burial.
Here in the almost empty bunkhouse, Taras can’t think how to help, but he takes Tymko’s hands in his and holds them.
That night Tymko has a coughing fit, bringing up ugly green sputum. Friends bring him their handkerchiefs. “I tell you, boys,” he says, “I’ll never go down a goddamn mine again in this life. Not by the holy saints Cyril and Methodius.” He winks at Myro. “Whoever they were.
“You can’t imagine what it was like in the mines,” he goes on without waiting for encouragement. “It was quite the life, even if it did rot your lungs. I never met so many different kinds of people. And we got along pretty good. Mostly, anyway. Nobody gets along all the time.” Taras looks at him, wondering if it’s good for a sick man to talk so much.
“We were union men. Full of hope. I wish you could have seen those coal towns. People built houses as soon as they could afford it. Their kids went to school and had warm clothes and took music lessons. Music lessons! Violin. Piano. Bandura.
“We built labour temples. Churches, even. We dressed up in suits and went to the photographer to have our pictures taken. Why, I wonder? So we could see how well we were doing? Or we dressed up in old country clothes, the women practically glowing with embroidery. Miners swaggered as Cossacks. We had more Cossacks than ever were in all of Ukraine. We even had a Ukrainian theatre group.” He grins. “I took the part of a hetman.”
“You, Tymko, a Cossack?” Myro shakes his head.
“It was a good part. I pretended he was a socialist, and after that it was easy.”
Other men come to listen. Tymko coughs for a couple of minutes and goes on.
“I wish I could show you the picture of Rainey and me, taken in Mr. Gushul’s studio.”
“Rainey?” Yuriy says. “That doesn’t sound like an old country name.”
“She came from Scotland. She had the loveliest accent. I could listen to her for hours.”
“Not all men like to listen that much to their wives,” Ihor says.
“Maybe not, but my Rainey had this way of rolling her r’s, and when she spoke, I listened. I’d have listened even if I hadn’t known what she was saying. And she was a big supporter for the union.”
“Scottish wife,” someone breathes. “Who would have guessed?”
“Anyway, to continue about the picture. We looked really smart, Rainey said. None of you have seen me with tidy hair and a well-trimmed moustache, but you could almost have called me a handsome devil. And now the proof’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Government took it off me when I came here. You never know what secret, subversive meaning it might have.”
“You’ve never mentioned a wife before,” Bohdan says.
“No. That’s because she died. About six months before I lost my daughter.”
“I was afraid you’d say that. What was the matter?”
“Well, the odd part is she died of tuberculosis.” Tymko’s matter-of-factness stuns them. Surely a man can’t talk this easily about such hard things. “Now, you’d think it would be a miner who got the TB, but Rainey must have had it even before we met. One day a neighbour found her lying on the ground in front of our house. She’d had a sudden hemorrhage – bleeding from her lungs – and by the time a doctor came...”
No one dares speak. “The union did everything for the funeral. There was a band with trumpets and bugles and a long procession through the streets. Snow was very deep that winter. The men worked in shifts to dig the grave. Burned coal, let the embers warm the ground. Because I wasn’t in the Ukrainian church, we had a ceremony in the English church.”
He stops and it seems he’s done. Yuriy is longing to know what comes next, but like the others, he doesn’t want to make Tymko tell more painful things. Tymko sees the look.
“When I lost my daughter, everything was gone and I had to decide whether to keep on with my life. Finally I thought, well, if I don’t have my family, I’ve still got socialism. And my friends in the union and my work in the mine. Of course I didn’t know that in 1913 Canada would fall into an economic depression. Factories didn’t need so much coal. It took a while to catch up to our mine, but by the spring of 1914 I was laid off. Nothing to do but sit in my snug new house and wonder how to buy food.”
“That’s why I lost my job too,” someone says. “No demand, the boss said.”
“That’s right,” Tymko says. “There was no longer any demand for Ukrainians. Before, there was, so they wanted us to come. Then there wasn’t, but we were still here. That’s a big reason why we’re all in this hole.”
“Not for me,” Yuriy says. “We had this neighbour who didn’t like me and he told lies about me to the police.”
“Me too,” Taras says. “My boss wanted me out of the way.”
Tymko’s face tightens. “I told you we got along mostly. But when the war broke out, some people said us Ukrainians should be let go. They said Austrians were taking jobs away from Canadians.”
“Well, we know what some people can be like,” Yuriy says. “They want everything to be for the English.”
“Yes,” Tymko says, “but these were other Ukrainians. From the provinces in the Russian empire. I thought they were my friends.” For a while no one can speak.
“We must not give up hope,” Ihor says finally. “One day we’ll leave here. We’ll go on with our lives. This terrible time will be forgotten.”
“No,” Myroslav says. “It will never be forgotten.”
At breakfast a story goes around the prisoners’ mess hall. Private Amberly – the kid who told Taras to hand over the pocket watch – has left the camp. Private Amberly who helped two men escape. Andrews says it’s true. Some time in the night Amberly walked into the woods and wasn’t missed until morning roll call. A search party found him in a clearing not far from camp, sitting on a log, an empty whiskey bottle propped in the snow. His hands and feet were frostbitten and some of his toes will have to be amputated. He’s in hospital in Calgary and won’t be coming back. He has been declared unfit for service.
CHAPTER 34
Edward Bellamy
A week later the temperature hovers around freezing. Taras is dressed but still lies on top of his bunk. Tymko is asleep. They have refused to work until they see a doctor. The door opens and Bullard and Andrews enter. Andrews fidgets with his collar.
“Attention, everyone. The American consul’s coming to inspect the bunkhouse. Everyone stand to attention!” Something in his voice convinces them to stand up in a semblance of order. Although he hasn’t said please, he’s somehow implied it.
The guards walk through the bunkhouse and stop near Tymko’s bunk. He’s awake now, but making no move to get up. Taras sits on the side of the bunk.
Myro is close by. “Who is this American consul?” he asks.
“New man. Name of Bellamy,” Andrews says. “Somehow he heard there’d been a strike. Maybe
he came to find out why you prisoners wouldn’t work.”
“So the commandant asked him to come?” Yuriy asks.
“You kidding?” Bullard says. Yuriy grins. “But consuls from non-combatant countries have the right to come, under the Geneva Convention, and I guess this one takes it seriously.”
Andrews goes outside for a moment and brings in Edward Bellamy, a man of maybe fifty years, very neat and compact, with a serious expression and a look of authority.
Bellamy looks at the internees. “Please, there’s no need to stand.” The internees sit on their bunks. He turns to Bullard. “Is the bunkhouse always this cold?”
Bullard looks confused. “No, sir...I mean...uh, lately –” He doesn’t say it’s usually colder, but maybe Bellamy figures it out.
The consul strolls over to Tymko’s bunk. The guards follow.
“What’s wrong with this man?” He stares right at Andrews.
“He’s, uh, not well,” says Andrews. “Neither of these men is well enough to work.”
“They...took a severe chill,” Bullard says. Taras almost wonders if they’re trying to get the consul suspicious.
“Took a chill? I’m asking what’s wrong with this man.” You’d have to be a tougher man than either Bullard or Andrews not to answer the consul.
“He was punished, sir,” Bullard says.
“Punished how?”
Bullard squirms. “They were dragged through the river.”
“Extraordinary. What were they punished for?”
Taras sees Bullard getting more and more nervous, his forehead sweaty. “They refused to work,” he explains. “Said their clothes weren’t warm enough.
“Said the food was bad,” he adds.
“Commandant says they’re socialists,” Andrews says, as if they might as well get everything off their chests at once. “Radicals.”
Bellamy studies Tymko, who meets his eyes squarely, and then Taras, who decides it’s his moment to speak.
“We protest our continued imprisonment. We have committed no crimes. We want only to live and work in our new country.”
The consul watches Taras for what must be a full minute.
“Are you a socialist? A revolutionary?”
Taras looks right back at Bellamy. “If a revolutionary is someone who wants freedom, then I guess I am.”
A ghost of a smile touches the consul’s lips. He turns to Andrews. “Have these men been seen by a doctor?”
“No, sir. Medical officer’s on leave.”
“There must be a doctor in town. Am I right?”
“Yes,” Andrews says.
“I want to see the commandant now. I’d like this man to come with me.” He nods at Taras. He leaves the bunkhouse, followed by Andrews, Bullard and, more slowly, by Taras, who can’t even guess what kind of trouble he’s going to be in. He’s scared but can’t make himself regret that he spoke out. That’ll come later, he supposes.
They stop inside the door of the administrative building and Bellamy dismisses Bullard and continues down the linoleum-floored hallway to the commandant’s office with Andrews and Taras. He asks Andrews to wait outside with Taras, knocks and goes into the warm, bright office.
As the consul enters, the commandant stands. Once again Taras sees the person who rules his days, much closer than he’d have wished. The man is calmer today, not so red in the face, and Taras can’t believe how utterly bland he looks. Sandy hair and moustache, pale blue eyes, but uniform pressed and boots polished fit to be seen by the king if he happened to drop in.
“Good morning to you, sir.” Bellamy steps up and shakes hands. “I believe you were expecting me.”
“Good morning, Mr. Bellamy. Sir.” The commandant makes a slight bow and gestures at a small side table with a pair of upholstered chairs on either side. A tray of tea and biscuits on a china plate sits on the table. They sit. “Will you take tea? And some biscuits?”
“Thank you, commandant. I’ve completed my inspection and spoken with some of the men.”
“I trust you found everything in order?”
Bellamy regards the commandant thoughtfully. “I cannot say that I did.”
The commandant gives a little start.
“The internees complained of being poorly fed and clothed –”
The commandant makes a small strangled noise as he tries to interrupt, but Bellamy waves it off. “I was inclined to believe it when I saw their shabby outerwear. And the bunkhouse was not particularly well-heated.”
“Sir, we have been instructed to keep costs down. We do the best we can –”
“Has it occurred to you,” Bellamy rolls on as if the commandant hasn’t spoken, “that the Canadian government, having taken these men from their homes and families, has a serious responsibility toward them?” There’s a strong enough edge to his voice now that even the commandant hears it.
“We have always –”
“They must be treated correctly.”
“Certainly. No question.”
Taras can’t believe the man’s ability to lie. Or is there some way he’s convinced himself that things really are good for the men? In which case he has learned well how to lie, first and foremost, to himself.
“Now.” Bellamy leans across the desk. “I understand two men were punished.”
“Two radicals, sir. I felt I must make an example.”
“Entirely unacceptable. You had them dragged through icy water. That’s barbaric! You could not treat an actual prisoner of war in that manner. You could have killed them. It was your own idea, I suppose?”
Taras begins to shake. He can’t believe he’s hearing this.
“They were completely insubordinate. Attacked a guard.”
“Indeed? And what were the circumstances of the attack?” Andrews has inadvertently drawn further into the room and Bellamy turns to him. The commandant must wish Andrews wasn’t there but now can’t get rid of him.
“Speak up, Sergeant,” Bellamy says.
“Well, sir, they were concerned about another prisoner. A fellow who was ill... Captain Workman...” Andrews is obviously looking for some way out of this.
“Please continue,” Bellamy says. “What did Captain Workman do?”
“He...attempted to, uh, rouse the sick man. Tried to pull him to his feet, you see.” He stops but the consul nods, as if to say there must be more. “He called him... He called him...a lazy bohunk. The internees are very sensitive to –”
“Yes, quite.” The commandant glares. “That will be all, Andrews.” His look says that if ever there were a soldier who could forget about any kind of promotion, Andrews has shown himself to be that man. Andrews withdraws just beyond the door.
Bellamy makes the commandant wait a few moments, then speaks with unconcealed contempt. “Sir. Has it occurred to you to think of these men as a resource?”
“Certainly, sir. They have built a number of roads and a bridge and an extra nine holes on the golf course –”
“Ah, the golf course. Yes, I see. Not exactly essential to the war effort, but I suppose a golf course is always a delight in and of itself.”
“I suppose so... Tea, Mr. Bellamy?” The commandant pours tea, offers biscuits, cream and sugar, all of this completely ignored by his guest.
“I must consider what report I am to make,” the consul says. He watches the sweat break out on the commandant’s brow.
“Now. I am aware of the change in Canada’s labour situation. A great many of your young men are away fighting the war and Canada is now short of labour.”
“An unfortunate corollary of war, if I may say –”
“My government is also aware that a great many of the prisoners in this camp have been released to work in mines, on the railroad and indeed on farms and ranches.”
“That is correct. We have been able to supply a number of mines and a cement plant in the area. A thoroughly satisfactory arrangement for everyone.”
“Except for the remaining prisoners, I would
suppose. And except for the complete outrage of logic their release implies.”
“Er?” The commandant stirs his tea vigorously. “Don’t quite follow.”
“I mean, sir, that if these men were previously far too dangerous to be allowed their freedom, what must now be the consequence of their release?”
“Sorry? Still don’t quite –”
“I would assume that when these alarming fellows were allowed to leave, there must have been an outbreak of violence, lawbreaking, perhaps even sabotage?”
“I’m not aware of any.” The commandant picks up an iced biscuit but obviously doesn’t realize the force he’s putting into it. It bursts into tiny shards and sprays the table and the front of his uniform. He tries, furtively, to brush them away but only manages to stain the cloth.
“No factories blown up or bridges bombed? No attacks on government buildings? No murder and mayhem in the streets?” At last the consul takes a sip of tea.
“Perhaps you understand me? I don’t believe these men are any danger to Canada’s peace. If any of them have committed crimes, they should be dealt with according to the law. The rest should be released and, I would suggest, compensated for their imprisonment.”
Taras takes a deep breath and feels his chest and belly relax. He realizes he’s barely been breathing all this time.
The consul has confirmed Taras’s own ideas. The consul is telling off the commandant. Taras will never forget this. He has his own analysis. It’s not so different from Tymko’s, but he’s pieced it together himself.
“Released? Compensated?” the commandant is saying, as if he can’t believe his ears. “Now look here, that’s the business of the Canadian government.” He looks happy to have thought of this objection and it invigorates him for a moment. He takes another cookie.
“It should be. And don’t mistake me, I’m under no illusions about what’s likely to happen. However, be assured that if there is any repetition of such scandalous acts of inhumanity here, I will raise holy hell with your government, and the world press will know of it! And that is my business.”
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