Michal Stryk was wrong. She wasn’t useless or stupid or worthless. She wasn’t rich yet, but she could walk into the store, hold her head high and proudly pay for whatever she wanted.
She’d mail the letters, buy flour and potatoes and oil. And she would buy a piglet or a colony of bees or maybe some chickens.
Up ahead, she could see a large grain elevator and some low, brown buildings. Hazelridge. Her heart began to pound.
It couldn’t be as bad as Winnipeg. Could it?
She looked down at her clothes, the same clothes that had shamed her when she’d arrived months ago. They were dirty then. Now they were clean—or as clean as she could make them—but they were still full of holes. Still different.
She followed the rail line into town, looking nervously from left to right. There were buildings everywhere. The blacksmith was easy to spot, and so was the livery. But the store? It could be any building at all.
Then she saw it. The gathering place. Lesia counted three teams of horses and two pairs of oxen, all paired with wagons of various sizes, waiting outside. She slowed and watched as a man and a woman came down the steps and got into a large, fancy red wagon. An older man and a younger man wearing black overalls followed. Their arms were full of sacks and supplies. She could hear them as they loaded the wagon.
They were speaking English.
Her heart fell. She hesitated. Then she remembered Baba’s words. We are all worthy. We are all somebody. She was worthy She had taught herself to read and write, hadn’t she? She had money, didn’t she?
Lesia waited until the wagon had pulled away. Then, with her heart pounding, she followed the two men as they went back inside.
The store was large and crowded. People were talking all at once. German, English, Polish. The older man had taken his place behind a long counter, where he fetched and carried as people pointed to the goods on the shelves behind him. Lesia saw a sign with large, Ukrainian characters. It said “Jack Scott’s General Store. If you cannot buy it here, you do not need it.”
Andrew had told her the man was very British, but he had to be friendly if he had a Ukrainian sign. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so hard, after all!
An older woman in a faded green apron showed three women a length of bright blue cotton. The plump young man in the overalls measured a wedge of butter on a large, shiny scale. A litde girl with long black ringlets and big brown eyes ran back and forth behind the counter, from the young man to the older woman, and then back again. Pretty and petite, she couldn’t be more than eight or nine. Lesia tried—and failed—to catch her eye. Instead, an old grey dog ambled up and licked her hand.
It was the only greeting she received.
She looked at the tables piled with tins of beans and jars of fancy jam. She studied the sacks under the table and marvelled at the oats and corn, grains of wheat and fat potatoes. She eyed the bolts of colourful fabric and the thick skeins of wool and wondered if she had enough money for either one. She waited patiently for the store to empty, but it never did. Instead, as one group left, others arrived.
Forcing her shyness aside, Lesia tried to catch the eye of the younger man. That didn’t work. She moved closer to the older woman, but she paid no attention. It was the litde girl who finally smiled and spoke, though in a language Lesia didn’t understand.
Lesia smiled back. “Can you help me?” she asked in Ukrainian.
Giggling, the child fiddled with a shiny, silver scale. A large round of cheese slid close to the edge. Lesia lunged forward to grab it, knocking over a sack of beans in the process. The cheese fell with a smack, pinning the litde girl’s hand underneath. The girl screamed, and the woman in the faded green apron looked at Lesia as though she had thrown the cheese at the child. As the older man bent over to clean up, Lesia heard him say that horrible word she had come to recognize: Bohunk.
Lesia flushed. “I was trying to help,” she said. They ignored her. She could hear drops of rain sleeting against the window. A storm was coming. She reached into the pocket of her apron, withdrew the cream sheets and waved them in the air. “I have letters to mail,” she said shyly.
The man barked a reply. Lesia could feel all eyes studying her. Her stomach sank and her hands grew clammy. If she didn’t make this man understand, the people in the store might laugh at her. Even worse, she might have to leave empty-handed.
“You wish to mail letters?” the younger man asked in a strange, halting mixture of Ukrainian and Polish. His round face was friendly; there was a trace of stubble on his chin. Thick brown hair kept falling into his eyes. Impatiently, he flicked it back.
“Yes, please!” He was being kind to her. And she could understand him! “Also, I would like to send money to the homeland.” Her knees trembled with relief.
The young man frowned, pushed back his hair again and looked uncertainly at his father. The old man mumbled something under his breath.
She put twenty Canadian dollars on the counter.
I can pay.
The older man’s eyes narrowed, but the younger man smiled and looked at his father for confirmation. The man studied Lesia with his cold, blue eyes. Finally, he shrugged his agreement.
Then everyone began talking again and the boy behind the counter became very busy. Lesia watched as her letters were stamped and filed. Politely, in his unusual mix of languages, the boy asked Lesia what else he could do for her. Politely, Lesia told him.
Was it money that made the difference? Or the decency of a stranger? Whatever it was, Lesia felt her confidence grow as her supplies were placed on the counter in front of her. A sack of flour, potatoes, some tea, a little sugar. Outside the sky remained dark. The rain continued to fall.
“Would you like a bolt of fabric?” the young man asked. “Or candles? Oil? Some candy?” He pointed to the baskets on the table.
She would love all of those things, Lesia thought, but she needed something that would produce food for the family. Shyly she asked to buy a colony of honey bees.
“None for sale,” he said.
Lesia asked about the price of a cow.
“Forty-five dollars.”
Her eyes widened. Papa would have to work for months before she could buy that! “What about piglets?”
“Seventy-five cents each. But we don’t have any. Only three hogs. They’re seven dollars each.”
Lesia’s shoulder’s sagged. She stared at the goods on the counter. Perhaps she should put something back. But what? “How much are chickens?” she finally asked.
“Forty cents apiece.”
Carefully she peered at the coins in her hand. Could she afford it?
“You could buy six.” The young man answered her question before she could voice it.
But she wanted to put two Canadian dollars aside for Baba’s passage. “I’ll take two,” Lesia said cautiously. As an afterthought she asked about the price of candy and oil. She could buy a litde of both and still have some money left over. Nervously she held out her hand and watched as the young man removed more coins. Then she carefully tucked the last of her money away
“I’ll get the chickens,” he said. “Where’s your cage?”
“Cage?”
“You do have a cage for them, don’t you? Or a box?”
“No.” Foolishly, she hadn’t thought ofthat.
“What kind of wagon do you have?”
“I don’t.” She swallowed nervously.
The young man’s eyes widened. “You’re walking?”
Embarrassed, Lesia nodded. She could feel the older woman behind the counter studying her.
“Where do you live?”
She told him.
“That’s hours away by foot.”
“Yes.”
“Longer in this weather.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s supposed to hail, you know.”
He used an English word: hail. Lesia didn’t know what that was. She agreed anyway.
She watched as he said something to his father. His father sho
ok his head. The younger man sighed, gestured to Lesia and spoke again to his father. The older man frowned and answered sharply. Just like the weasel man who lived next door, Lesia thought. Not nice.
“Wait here.” Then the young man was gone. Lesia tried to ignore the stares and whispers. The older woman was the worst; she looked sideways at Lesia and made cluck, cluck, clucking sounds with her tongue. And there were those words again. Bohunk. Peasant scum. Lesia wished the floor would open up and gobble her whole. She wished she’d never come to this town, this store. And for a fleeting minute, she wished she were back in Shuparka. She’d rather be dealing with Michal Stryk than this nastiness.
Finally the plump young man with the unruly hair was back, carrying a rectangular wooden box stamped with large, black letters. Lesia could hear the scratching of chicken feet against the bottom. “This box should hold the chickens,” he said. “And I have a ride for you. Mr. Marchand is going within a mile or two of your farm.” He handed her the box.
A ride! “Thank you!” Such kindness. And from a Canadian, no less. She peered inside the box. Two pairs of beady black eyes stared trustingly up at her. Lesia grinned.
“You’ll have to walk the rest of the way, though.” He studied the pile of goods on the counter with a skeptical frown. “Somehow,” he added.
“I’ll manage,” Lesia said confidently.
She always managed somehow.
One of the chickens gave Lesia an encouraging squawk and she giggled under her breath. After all she’d been through, walking a few miles was nothing. Whether she had chickens and supplies or nothing at all. It was faith talking. Wouldn’t Baba be proud!
Chapter Nine
August 8, 1914
The Magus homestead
Lesia’s success in going to town and buying supplies gave her boundless energy. The Marchands had been kind enough to drive her all the way home, and because of their generosity, and Papa’s earnings, she now felt hopeful and optimistic about the future. The chickens, aptly named Girlie and Noisy by Sonia, were laying more eggs than they could eat—three a day, sometimes four. Mama fried them in oil, boiled them for lunches and even baked paska, the rich egg bread they usually had at Easter.
Sonia’s colds disappeared. Mama’s face was rosy and full, and her bulging belly was a sign that the baby was growing well.
Lesia was up every day before dawn, letting the chickens out of the deep hole she’d dug to keep them safe at night, gathering the eggs and counting them. When she had enough, she would go to town and trade them for milk and a pickling crock.
Every day after egg collecting she watered the garden, checked the traps and stopped at the bee skeps, hoping to see even a quiet buzz of activity. Every day she would quell her disappointment and then head to the south field. In spite of the fact that the bees hadn’t come, she was slowly but surely making progress on their land. The third acre was almost clear; soon she would start on the fourth. Ivan was right, the soil was hard and back-breaking, but Lesia was determined to tame it. Determined to break ten acres. Determined to prove Minnie wrong.
After dark, she would sit by the fire. When her eyes were too heavy for writing, she would work on her latest project, a woven willow fence for their property. The idea had come to her while she was weaving a cover for the chicken hole, but it was inspired by shame. When the Marchands had dropped her off a few weeks ago, they, like Minnie, had seemed to expect a landowner to have a fence.
The beet tops swayed lightly in the breeze as Lesia headed in for lunch one early August afternoon. She paused, admiring the swell of soil hinting at the red bulbs growing below the surface. Nearby, the beans were climbing their makeshift trellis, the small, tender vegetables hanging like baby fingers from the vines. Just a few more days and they’d be ready to pick!
If only Baba were here to see her garden overflowing with vegetables! To see the two chickens she had purchased with Papa’s hard-earned money, and the fence she was building with her own hands. But Papa would see it. And so would Ivan. They would be so pleased!
“Lesia!” Mama called.
Looking up, she was surprised to see Andrew standing beside Mama and Sonia. She waved him over with a grin. “Soon we’ll have beans to eat.” She pointed proudly. “See them?”
“Yes.” Andrew nodded.
“Andrew would like to spend some time alone with you.” Mama gave her an encouraging look.
Lesia knew that Mama was thinking of a betrothal. She would like to have Andrew as a son-in-law. Not only was he caring, his land was productive, and he was good at saving money. But, while Andrew was hardworking and kind—two qualities she would want in a husband—Lesia couldn’t think of such things while Papa was away.
Sonia tugged on Andrew’s pant leg. “Andrei, Andrei!” Surprisingly, Andrew didn’t pick her up and toss her into the air, as he often did. Instead, he held his hat in his hands and shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. “I need to talk to you,” he told Lesia. “Can we walk?” He gestured towards the creek.
“Of course.” She had never seen Andrew look uncomfortable before. Her heart began to pound. What if did ask her to marry him? How would he feel when she had to say no? She fell into step beside him and they walked silently for several minutes.
“There is no easy way to tell you this.” When they reached the edge of the creek, Andrew stopped. “I have another letter from the homeland. It is not good news.”
Everything grew sharper then. The birds chirped more loudly, the wind rustled the leaves with greater intensity. The blood coursed through Lesia’s veins, pounding in her ears. “What is it?” Uneasily she licked her lips. “What’s happened?”
Andrew pulled two letters from behind his hat. “Here.”
The paper was cool against her fingers, the tall, spiky Ukrainian writing familiar. Dmytro. One letter was addressed to Gregory and Ahafia Magus and family. The second was addressed to Lesia Magus. The postmark was Babyntsi, the nearest village to Shuparka. Lesia frowned as she stared at them. “How … how do you know they contain bad news?”
Pain flashed in Andrew’s eyes. “I happened to be at the store when the mail arrived. Everything came in a package. The rest is in the wagon. There was a letter addressed to the postmaster. He opened it, and when he told me … well, I offered to take care of it.”
“What … what is it?” Confused, she stared at Andrew. “What?”
His eyes were troubled but his voice was firm. “Open the letters, Lesia.”
Her fingers fumbled with the letter addressed to her. Slowly she withdrew the slip of paper. She unfolded it carefully, and nervously she began to read.
Dear one, by the time you read this, I will be gone.
The words were Baba’s. But where was she going? Puzzled, Lesia glanced up at Andrew. He was waiting, watching. She turned back to the letter.
Do not grieve for me. It is my time.
All of a sudden Lesia understood. She began to shiver uncontrollably. In spite of the warmth, she was viciously cold.”Baba?” she whispered. She shook her head from side to side. There was a terrible, vile taste in her mouth. “Not Baba.” It was all wrong. There was a mistake. She waved the letter at Andrew. “No!” Her voice rose sharply.” Baba’s coming here. I’m saving for her passage. I need her here. She’ll help me work the land. She’ll help with the new baby. She’ll teach me to make her healing medicines. She will do the mending. Baba’s coming!”
The letter slipped out of Lesia’s fingers and fell to the ground. She stared at the creek, where the water was down to a trickle because of the summer heat. “Baba’s coming,” she repeated thickly. “She’s coming to see my creek. My garden.”
Andrew retrieved the letter. “Sit down.” He eased Lesia to the ground before sitting down beside her. “I’ll read it to you.”
Lesia leaned forward and rested her head on her knees. She felt nauseated, faint. It was wrong, all wrong. “No,” she said weakly. “No, don’t.”
But Andrew wouldn’t liste
n. He started from the beginning.
Dear one, by the time you read this, I will be gone. Do not grieve for me. It is my time. I am glad you are safe and well fed in Canada. I am glad you have many animals. Your life begins as my life ends. Let it be a joyful life. A prosperous life. Hold tight to your faith and remember, when you hold the Bible close, you hold me close. Because we are one in heart, I send to you the carved wooden box my baba gave to me. It is special, like Geebo’s Bible. Mama will tell you about it. I love you, dear one. Hold your head up always. You are Lesia Magus. A proud Ukrainian. The heart of my heart. We are one. Forever, Baba.
Great gulping sobs shook her entire body. Andrew touched her hand in a gesture of comfort, but it made Lesia cry even harder. The only hand she wanted touching her now was Baba’s. It could not be true. Bozhe, Bozhe! Baba was supposed to join them in Canada. She had two dollars set aside for her passage. They would all live together. What would she do now without dear Baba in her life?
Lesia wasn’t sure how long she cried, but eventually her sobs lessened. Baba had died comforted by Lesia’s lies. Was that good or bad? She didn’t know.
Andrew spoke again. “There’s another letter.”
Lesia nodded. Of all the hardships they had endured since leaving Shuparka, none compared to the hardship of losing Baba. “Would you read it?” She wiped her eyes. “Please?”
Andrew opened the second envelope and withdrew a single sheet of paper.
To the Magus family, formerly of Shuparka, Galicia, he began. I write on behalf of Nadia Chernetsky. She dictates this to me and will shortly dictate another letter to her beloved granddaughter, Lesia. Andrew cleared his throat. Dear ones, my cough worsens. I am old and it is time for my final journey. Do not mourn, for I will join our Heavenly Father and Geedo and Slavko. I will be a star to light your night sky. I have asked Master Stryk to send you a few rynskys for my land but the old man … Andrew stopped suddenly.
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