Lesia's Dream

by Laura Langston

  Jan Stryk looked up. His rheumy old eyes softened. “Lesia Magus.” A smile crept across his wrinkled face. “Come in.”

  She bowed low in front of him. “Glory to God.” Her voice trembled as she said the familiar, comforting words. She reached for his leathery hand and kissed it.

  “What can I do for you, child?” Jan Stryk’s chair squeaked as he leaned back and studied her. Other members of the Polish nobility ruled through harshness and intimidation. Not Master Stryk. His very kindness was one of the reasons her father had insisted they stay behind in Shuparka. And the landowner’s generosity was legend.

  “Sir, I… we … my family… we have decided to follow the others and go to Canada.” She licked her dry lips.

  “You’re tired of working my land?”

  She started to shake her head but stopped. She was tired of working his land. She wanted to work her own. “In Canada, there’s plenty of land to go around,” she said. “There’s wood … and plenty of food.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  He wasn’t making this easy for her. “I… we—”

  “Let me guess,” Master Stryk said dryly, “you want me to buy your three morgens of land.”

  “No. I mean, yes. But that’s something Papa will have to discuss with you.”

  Master Stryk looked confused. “Then why are you here?”

  She took a deep breath. “Selling our land won’t give us enough money to go.”

  A ghost of a smile flitted across the old man’s face. “Why hasn’t your father approached me about this?”

  “My father is a cautious man. He doesn’t like loans.”

  “Does he know you’re here?”

  “No.” Heat prickled her cheeks. “This isn’t something I ask easily or lightly,” she said in a rush. “We have some money. But not enough for all of us.”

  “How much more do you need?”

  “One hundred rynskys.” Her voice trembled.

  “Ah,” Master Stryk said again. He leaned forward. “What guarantee do I have that you’ll pay me back?”

  “You have my word. My honour! And my father’s honour,” Lesia vowed. “We will send money each month. We will work hard to pay you back.”

  “You’re a hard worker. So is your father.” He tapped two fingers thoughtfully against his blotter as he studied Lesia. “I hear he has returned, and Ivan too.” He raised an eyebrow. “I certainly would like to see your brother take his politics and leave this village for good.” He opened a drawer and began shuffling through papers. “Where would you settle?”

  Hope flared. Master Stryk wasn’t just making polite conversation! Was he? Perhaps. Hope died again. “The Interlake, sir. That’s where the Czumers settled.”

  “Ah yes. Your young friend Mary Czumers. I miss her wonderful laugh. “The old man’s head was bent. He was still searching. “Here we are.” He removed a small black book and reached for a pen. Slowly he began to write.

  What was he doing? Lesia wondered. According to village gossip, Master Stryk had a small tin money box hidden in his desk. She had prayed he would reach in, remove one hundred rynskys and give them to her. Instead he was giving her a piece of paper. A piece of paper was worthless. She couldn’t even read it.

  “Here,” he said, “take this paper to the—”

  There were two impatient raps on the door. Michal Stryk strode into the room.”Father, breakfast is ready. I’ve come to collect you.” He stared down his long nose at Lesia. “What are you doing here?” He planted a hand on either side of his large belly and rocked back onto his heels. “Shouldn’t you have your head in a beehive somewhere?” His hps thinned into a smirk.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment, Michal.”The older man ignored his son’s rudeness and handed Lesia a small square of cream-coloured paper. “Take this to the bank and they will give you one hundred rynskys. I expect you to pay me back, of course. As time permits.”

  Bozhe! He had said yes. “Thank you, sir. We will pay you back. Quickly too.” She leaned forward and took the small shp of paper from his gnarled fingers.

  Michal snatched it away from her. “Father!” Horrified, he waved the paper in the air. “How much more of our money are you going to give away?” Her heart thudded. She stared from son to father.

  “Give it back to her, Michal,” Master Stryk ordered.

  “You can’t be serious!” Michal’s face flushed with anger, a stain that rose from under the collar of his shirt. “Look at her. She is a dirty, uneducated peasant. Why are you giving her money?”

  A dirty peasant? She was proud of her peasant ancestry!

  “I am not giving her money,” Master Stryk replied. “I am lending it to her. So she may go to Canada.”

  “Canada!” Michal Stryk snorted. “Her? She is so thin and frail, she won’t make it to Canada. She is all eyes and elbows. She has no substance. She is a weakling, just like the rest ofthat Magus family. She can barely cultivate the flax and tend the bees.” His face went redder and redder until it was the colour of a bowl of borsch. “She and that brother of hers would wipe us Poles off the face of the map if they could. All for some pathetic Ukraine.” He spat the last word out through narrowed lips.

  Pathetic Ukraine? No substance? How dare he?

  Master Stryk looked at Lesia. “You must excuse my son. His manners are less than exemplary.” He turned back to Michal. “Give her back the paper,” he ordered a second time.

  Michal stared at his father. “All right,” he said slowly. “I will give it to her. If she can read it, she can keep it.” He handed the small piece of paper to Lesia. “Well?” he challenged with a sneer.

  The prickling in her cheeks spread to her forehead, her ears, the back of her neck. She didn’t look at the paper. There was no point. Instead she stared defiantly at Michal Stryk.”I don’t read.”

  He hooted.”You see, Father? She is useless. Stupid. Brainless. It’s shameful giving a worthless servant like this your money. Giving her my inheritance!”

  Useless. Stupid. Brainless. She stared at a narrow crack between the floorboards. She wanted to shrink until she could hide there. Never in her entire life had she felt so humiliated.

  Master Stryk glared at his son. “When I am dead and gone, you will make the decisions. While I am alive, I make them. I am still in charge here, Michal. I pay the bills and I issue the pay. Including, it seems to me, yours.”

  “But she is a peasant,” Michal argued hotly. “You cannot trust her to pay you back. We will never see that money again!”

  Lesia opened her mouth to speak but thought better of it. How dare he even suggest such a thing? She was trustworthy!

  The old man’s eyebrows stretched into one long frown. “I will take my chances.”

  “You are foolish, Father. Giving away our money. Allowing the peasants to emigrate.” Michal flung open the door. “Soon the rynskys will be gone. And there will be no one left to work the land.” He slammed the door behind him.

  The sound made her jump. Her heart thumped nervously. She pressed a hand to her chest.

  “He is young and foolish,” Master Stryk said with an embarrassed smile. “He does not mean what he says.”

  The master was simply trying to make her feel better. Michal Stryk meant exactly what he said. Lesia had lived with cruelty and disdain from the aristocracy all her life. She had shivered through many cold nights and gone hungry for many winters because of it. Papa said it was all a political misunderstanding that would eventually straighten itself out. Ivan said they needed to fight for their rights. Suddenly, Lesia realized that Papa and Ivan were both wrong.

  The truth was simple but shattering. She was not valued as a human being. As a Ukrainian peasant, she was considered worthless, brainless, useless. Michal’s words scorched her soul. Praise to God that she was getting out while she could! And going to a place where she would be respected, where her skills as a steward of the land, a fledgling beekeeper, would be valued.

  “I’m sorry,” Master
Stryk said softly.

  “Your son is wrong about one thing.” She was amazed that her voice was so normal! “We shall repay you. I give you my word of honour. We will send you money from Canada. A little each month, until our debt is cleared.”

  Master Stryk looked across the desk. Sadness, defeat and admiration flickered in his eyes. He smiled softly. “Go, quickly, child. Remember, you may always return. There will always be work for you in my house. God be with you.”

  Five weeks later, most of the village came to say goodbye. Warm bodies and laughing chatter filled the small cottage as Lesia slipped outside and hurried down the path to the horse and wagon.

  They were leaving for Hamburg in less than an hour, and she was terrified that they had forgotten something. She wanted to check the trunk one last time.

  The air was cool and her fingers stiff as she fumbled with the large, round lock on the sturdy brown trunk Papa had built. It was impossible to believe that everything precious was inside! Her family’s entire life reduced to one brown box. Strange.

  On the bottom were winter clothes, bedsheets and two quilts. Next came an axe, a handsaw and a hammer for building, a spade, a sickle, a hoe and the leathers of a flail for working the land. Baba’s one and only kylym, her tapestry, was tucked firmly between pillows. And Mama and Baba had still found room to shp in their precious ikons: a picture of the Blessed Virgin, the cross painstakingly carved by Geedo years ago and a small botde of holy water from the river Dnister. There were thirty bundles of garden seeds to plant when they arrived, folds of muslin stuffed with dried herbs to use for healing as well as onions, garlic and horseradish to both eat and plant. Ivan had demanded room for all his books, but in the end, he had been forced to reduce his selection to just two. When Papa had asked Lesia what she wanted to include, she had silently handed him a white handkerchief with a small scoop of soil from Slavko’s grave. Their one and only sheepskin coat had been laid on top before the lid was pushed shut.

  It was all there. All in its place. But it must have setded overnight because there was now more than an inch of room between the sheepskin and the top of the trunk. Strange how that worked.

  Footsteps fell on the path behind her. “Darling, we must talk.”

  It was Baba. “Why aren’t you inside saying goodbye to everyone?” Lesia asked.

  “I’m staying behind,” the old woman said. “I am too old to travel. Too set in my ways. But you must go to Canada and follow your dreams.”

  “Baba, no! We can’t leave without you.”

  Baba touched Lesia’s cheek. Her fingers were thick and coarse, lovingly familiar. “I will be fine. Like Papa said, Master Stryk is not so bad.”

  She wouldn’t leave Baba behind. She couldn’t. “I will stay with you until the others are settled. Until the house is built,” Lesia decided suddenly, “and then you and I can join them.”

  “You must go. They will need you. But I cannot leave Geedo and Slavko. Besides, Shuparka is my home.” The old woman coughed and her whole body shook.

  “Baba, your cough. I cannot leave. Who will care for you?”

  “Ach, it’s just the cough of ‘winter. It’s clearing already, now that the weather has warmed.” Clearing her throat, she pulled a crock from the folds of her apron. “This honey will feed you on your journey, but let it also feed your soul. Remember always the bees. Their work is their joy. They work long and they work hard, and always they work together, but ah, how sweet their reward. Let your effort be true, my darling child, and your rewards will be sweet.”

  “Baba, please!” She could feel her lower hp quivering. She didn’t trust herself to speak. Darling, darling Baba. How could they leave her behind?

  “Hush!” The old woman held one finger to her hps before pulling something else from her apron. “And you must take this with you too.”

  Geedo’s Bible! The one where he had painstakingly recorded the family history as far back as he could remember. Lesia’s fingers folded around the familiar worn leather. The Bible was one of Baba’s most precious possessions. She couldn’t read it herself, but it was her last link to the man she had married so many years ago.

  The lump in Lesia’s throat grew too big to ignore. “Oh, Baba!” Her voice cracked. Tears ran like salty rivers down her cheeks. The old woman folded her tight against her bosom and rocked her back and forth.

  “I can’t take the Bible, Baba,” Lesia finally managed to say. “Not that.”

  Gently Baba pulled back. “And I cannot give you my heart, dear one. So I give you this.” She touched her fingers to the worn leather and then touched her heart. “When you hold it close, you hold me close.”

  Lesia stared into the face that had always been there for her. Baba was the wisest. The one she depended on the most. “I can’t go without you, Baba.”

  The old woman sighed and reached for her again. “Hold Geedo’s Bible close and you hold me close. It will comfort you. It will help you keep the faith.”

  “But Michal Stryk was right, Baba. I cannot read. I am unworthy of this gift.” Useless. Stupid. Brainless.

  “Such silliness!”Baba smoothed her hair in a comforting gesture. “Do you think I would give Geedo’s Bible to just anyone? Ach. No! I give the Bible to you because in God’s eyes we are all worthy. We are all somebody. You are Lesia Magus, part of my heart. Part of Geedo’s heart.”

  Lesia wiggled out of her arms. “But Baba—”

  The old woman held up a finger. There was a fierce, determined look in her eyes. “There are many Michals in this world,” she warned. “And they would like us to live beneath them. I have seen this too. But in the eyes of God, we are all equal. Peasants and landowners. Ukrainians and Canadians. The Bible will help you remember.”

  Lesia hugged Geedo’s Bible to her chest. If Baba could entrust her with something as important as the family Bible, then Lesia had to make an important promise back.

  “I’ll take your Bible to Canada,” she said slowly. “And I will learn to read. I’ll also learn to write. I’ll write to you, Baba. I will send the letter to your cousin, Dmytro. He can read it to you.”

  “Yes. Yes!” Baba’s head bounced up and down.

  “And when I write about the riches of Canada, you will change your mind and want to join us. I know you will.”

  Baba laid a gnarled hand on her shoulder. “And I know you will be strong, my darling, and you will keep the faith. Just remember, the flower is not always open. The sun does not always shine. But if your effort is true, your rewards will be sweet. It is my promise to you.”

  Chapter Three

  Ah, Baba! I carried her memory across the ocean to Canada. I was determined to read and write for her. Determined to send for her. How could I know it was the last time I would see her?

  I opened the Bible on the ship. I asked Ivan to teach me to read. But how could I read with the smell? You have not smelled such a smell! There are books written about how our people travelled across the ocean in search of a better life, but no book will tell you about that smell. Few alive remember it.

  It was the stench of vomit and body odour. Of herrings and garlic and onions. Of hope and of fear and of death. It was a smell I had never smelled before. And never would again.

  And yet it never really left me.

  The sea was rough and that boat… it climbed mountains. Up and down, heaving and rolling, slamming into waves. Everyone was sick. Hundreds of us. We were crammed together, below deck, the poor ones. For more than two weeks we travelled that way.

  I had to put Baba’s Bible away. There was Mama to care for. Sonia too.

  The food they gave us was terrible, and we ran out of honey and kolachi, the special bread Baba had made. Someone had fish, but we were so sick and the fish smelled so bad that we went without. Sonia cried and cried from hunger. Once, someone took pity and shared with us two apples. Carefully we cut them up. I can still taste their juicy sweetness.

  I saw two people die on that boat. When the old man died, the ra
in was coming so heavy they had to wait three days before they went up on deck and threw his body over. The little girl was different. She died at night and was gone by morning.

  No book will tell you how it felt to watch a family mourn for a lost sister. A father. Words cannot tell of the fear in our eyes as we ate our last bit of bread and honey. Bozhe, Bozhe! Would we be the next to die?

  When we landed, I gulped the air of my borrowed country like a thirsty man drinks water. It did not have the same pure smell as Shuparka but it smelled fine. We had arrived. Soon we would live rich, live free!

  This is how we thought.

  We had nothing. That money we worked so hard to save? Gone like smoke to men called agents who said they would help. Those men, they made big promises and they brought us to Canada, but every time we took a breath, they demanded more money. They overcharged for food … for currency … for examinations that were supposed to be free. They cheated us and others.

  You know what it is to be poor and hungry and dirty? You do not know. All we had left was ten Canadian dollars for our land. Nothing more. Ach, our worries were big. But so were our dreams. And our best dream of all was the prairie.

  The colonist train travelled many miles through rock. The books call it the Canadian Shield, yes? But the books do not tell of our wailing when we saw it. Many tears were shed as our train slowly crawled through the jagged wasteland. This was Canada? We thought we had been cheated. Lied to. Ivan and I were so angry we could not speak. Could not look at each other.

  But then we saw it. The prairie.

  The size of it silenced us all. Even the children. Mama said it was as though God had come to earth and proudly laid His best tapestry for all to see. It stretched on and on forever. Endless land. Boundless sky.

  I wanted it to be pretty, the way Ivan had described it to me once. Golden wheat shimmering. He had read the words from a book. I had believed him.

  There was no wheat. No shimmer. We had left behind the leafy aspens, the fragrant lindens, the blue periwinkles. Canada was a quilt of grey and brown—of snow and soil. Of lonely marshes and scrubby yellow grasses. Of small leafless trees that stretched like black skeletons to the sky.