She was eighteen dollars richer. But Geedo’s precious Bible and Baba’s beloved box were gone. Her dream of being worthy and respected and rich in the land of milk and honey was over. And Lesia’s heart was broken.
Chapter Nineteen
“There’s mail for you.” Andrew threw a bale of hay into the back of the wagon and then reached into his pocket and handed her a letter. “Are you sure you don’t want to come into the store and look around?”
Lesia shook her head.
He opened his mouth and then shut it again. Wordlessly, he turned and headed back inside for the last of her supplies.
All the fight seemed to have drained out of Andrew in Winnipeg. Just as he had accepted Lesia’s silence on the train leaving Winnipeg, he had accepted the nine dollars she’d handed him when they’d arrived back in Hazelridge. She had asked him to stop at the store, and, when she had rattled off the list of things they would need for the next six months, he hadn’t even blinked.
She didn’t want to set foot in another store. She didn’t want to deal with the English until it was time to buy their passage home. She didn’t even want to spend the night at Paul’s farm, as Andrew had suggested. She just wanted to be alone.
She opened the envelope and removed a single sheet of paper.
Dear Lesia, Ivan had written. Things are changing rapidly in this place. Men are being released on parole to factories that are short of labour because of the war. They are paying almost nothing and the men are still slaves, but they are paid slaves. Perhaps that is the best we can wish for at this time. Paul is here, as you may know. He is convinced it is all a mistake and he will be released soon. We all think that when we first come in. We had news of the homeland last week. Master Stryk is dead. No doubt his son, Michal, is in charge now. Your loving brother, Ivan.
After tucking the letter away, Lesia stared into the late-afternoon sky. Thick, grey snow clouds rolled together, like a crowd of angry people. The wind pushed relentlessly against her shoulders; she pulled her tattered shawl tight and slid low on the seat. Hard to believe it was almost April.
Hard to believe she had gone halfway around the world chasing a dream, only to fail.
Another pair of chickens scratched in the box behind her, and Lesia sighed. They would have eggs soon … and full bellies for a little while. In another month or so, she would put in the garden. It was going to take them a long time to save for the passage home, a year, maybe longer.
A low, deep rumble came from the side of the wagon. It sounded like a cross between a bleat and a moo. Startled, Lesia’s eyes flew open. “What is that?”
Andrew held a brown parcel in his left hand and a piece of frayed old rope in his right. At the end of it was a spotted brown-and-white animal. He grinned proudly. “A cow.”
A young cow with the biggest, saddest brown eyes she had ever seen, three sorry-looking teats hanging from its belly, a mashed-up ear and a crooked nose.
“I didn’t know you needed another cow,” Lesia said.
“I don’t. Take this, would you? It’s the last of your stuff.” After Lesia took the package and stored it away, Andrew swatted the cow on the behind. “Git.” When the animal wouldn’t budge, he crouched down, scooped it into his arms and hoisted it into the wagon with a grunt.
Lesia yelped as the animal immediately clambered onto the seat and practically into her lap.
“Grab it and hold on!” Andrew ordered. “It’s going to try and get out the other side.”
Gasping in pain as the cow’s hoof stood on her stomach, Lesia clutched the rope and shoved the animal off. Not only was it heavy, it smelled terrible. The cow gave her an indignant stare before making its strange moo-bleat sound. It tottered on the seat beside them and then, seeing an opening, it bolted for the back of the wagon.
Andrew was too fast. With one large hand, he pulled the animal back before climbing into his seat. “Lie down,” he ordered.
In spite of her glum mood, Lesia giggled. “It’s not a dog. I don’t think it takes orders. Besides, it should go into the back.”
“It sits up here with us, otherwise it’ll escape.”
The animal nuzzled Lesia’s ear with its cold nose. She giggled again. It made its strange moo sound once more and this time Lesia laughed. Poor, gangly thing.
“Hold on to the rope,” Andrew ordered as the wagon began to move. Snow was starting to fall. “We’re in for a storm, and I want to be home before it starts. Don’t want to stop and chase a cow.”
After a litde while, the cow settled between them. Lesia waited for Andrew to speak, but he was silent. Lesia knew he was waiting for her to say something.
“I made eighteen dollars. “The snow was starting to cling to her skirt. She brushed it away. “I have nine dollars for the Shuparka fund. It’s a start.”
“Uh huh.”
Well. She was hoping for a bit more of a reaction. “In Winnipeg, you called me a crazy woman. Now all you can say is ‘Uh huh’?”
“You can save all the money you want,” Andrew said, “but you can’t go back. Not now.”
“Of course I can,” Lesia countered with a flash of annoyance. “I can do anything I put my mind to.”
“And what about Adam?”
She frowned. “What about Adam? He goes too, of course.”
Andrew gave her a quick glance before turning his attention back to the road. “He was born here. Adam’s a Canadian. He won’t be accepted in the homeland. Even after the war, people will remember Canada was against them. What are you going to do?” he asked softly. “Leave little Adam behind?”
Adam’s a Canadian. The words hung in the space between them. He couldn’t go to Ukraine. Not now. Not later. And they couldn’t leave him behind. It was unthinkable.
What were they going to do?
“I never would have taken you for a quitter,” Andrew added.
“I’m no quitter!” Lesia retorted indignantly. “Ivan and I came to Canada because we thought we would be welcome. Like Pearl said, we have watered this land with our own blood, sweat and tears. All I want in return is respect and acceptance. A peaceful life. Some warmth and some food. I just want to belong,” she admitted. “Even in Shuparka I’m not an enemy alien.” Adam was a Canadian. They couldn’t go home.
The snow was getting heavier. It was harder to see the road ahead. A thin white dusting covered the oxen. “Belonging takes time,” Andrew said. “I’ve been here thirteen years and I still don’t belong. Not like the Irish and the Scottish do. But remember, we’ve been outsiders in our own land for centuries. We still are. Give Canada a chance.”
How could Andrew be so accepting? “Don’t you hear what people call us?” Lesia demanded hotly. “The things they say about us?”
“Canadians aren’t all bad. They don’t all say those things.”
“Most do,” she retorted quickly.
Mutely, Andrew nodded.
“How do you stand it?”
“It’s ignorance, Lesia. And I won’t let ignorance make me bitter. There are worse things in life than being hated, believe me.” He paused and Lesia knew that he was thinking of his dead wife. “Besides,” he added, “Canada offers hope. We have to hold on to that.”
“How can you say that when they’ve imprisoned innocent men? And now taken Paul into the camp?”
One of the oxen chose that moment to wander left. Andrew struggled for control. It still amazed Lesia that he had taught the animals to pull the wagon like a team of horses; most people walked beside their oxen.
Once the animal was in line, Andrew said, “I’m not happy about it, but what can I do? Paul shouldn’t have been travelling without his papers. He knows the law.”
“What will happen to his farm? To Pearl and the children?”
Even in profile, Lesia could see Andrew’s lips pressed thin. “I’ll do what I can. Wasyl is still around too. He’s moving from farm to farm, staying two steps ahead of the authorities. He’ll help. So will the others.” He paused an
d shot Lesia a quick glance. “But Paul will be released. So will your Papa and Ivan.” His blue eyes gleamed with conviction. “We have to get through the war. We have to trust the Canadians to do the right thing.”
“I’m fresh out of trust,” Lesia muttered. She thought of the sneering pawnshop owner, the greedy neighbour who had dammed up the creek, the unfriendliness of the storekeeper. Was that what she had to look forward to for the rest of her life? Not if she could help it. “I’ll stay on our land,” she vowed. “I’ll give my heart to the prairie. But I’ll have nothing more to do with the English.”
“Huh.” Andrew flicked the reins. The oxen picked up speed. “It’s going to be hard to sell your butter with that attitude.”
At first she didn’t understand. “What butter?”
He looked at the cow and then at her.
Horrified, Lesia’s eyes widened. “You didn’t!” “I did.”
“But… but… !” She couldn’t stop sputtering.
“Bought and paid for with your own money.” He gestured with his thumb to the back of the wagon. “There should be enough food to keep her fed until the grass starts to grow. There’s a butter churn too. You’ll need it.”
“A churn?” Her voice was shrill enough to cause the cow to make its moo-bleat sound again. “I gave you nine dollars. You didn’t have enough for a churn and chickens and food and supplies and a cow.” She stared at the creature. She’d never seen anything so ugly in her life.
“They were taking her to the slaughterhouse tomorrow.” Andrew reached over and scratched the animal’s ear.
She wouldn’t let herself feel sorry. She wouldn’t even look at those big, brown eyes. “Why?”
“She went into labour two months early. The calf died. Her milk’s never really come in. She’s skittish and frail. Owner’s convinced she’ll be a lousy milker, but I’m not so sure.” Andrew’s eyes narrowed. “He has a reputation of being hard on animals. The better cows are treated, the better they milk.”
“How much did she cost?”
“Six dollars.”
She didn’t believe him. Milking cows fetched thirty or forty dollars. Even a three-teated cow had to be worth at least twenty. “I owe you money. Tell me how much.”
“Make me some butter and we’ll call it even.”
She rolled her eyes. Andrew needed butter like she needed more insults. The man was impossible. But she couldn’t take more of his charity. She finally understood how Papa felt. When you had nothing and no hope of earning respect, looking after yourself was the only source of pride left.
“You’ll have to take her,” she said stiffly. “I don’t have time to look after a cow.”
Andrew found that especially amusing. After he stopped laughing, he said, “I didn’t realize a cow took that much time.”
Lesia looked at the cow. The cow looked at her.
She had begged Papa for a cow. But not, she thought critically, a three-teated one with a mashed-in ear and a crooked nose. Not a cow that everyone would laugh at.
The animal studied her with sad, wistful brown eyes.
Lesia felt herself weakening. Fresh milk would be wonderful for Sonia and Adam. That and the butter would bring in some much-needed extra money.
“I’ll look after her, but Mama will have to sell the butter and the cream,” she told him. “I’m not going to town again.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” Andrew said cheerfully.
Wet snow was gathering in the hollows on the ground. The animals would have to go inside tonight, Lesia thought. Three chickens, four people and a scrawny, three-teated cow all crammed into the burdei. It was going to be unbearably crowded.
“Oh, by the way,” Andrew said. “I’ve named her.”
Lesia was silent.
“Her name’s Faith.”
Faith. Baba had told her to hold the Bible close and it would help her keep the faith. The Bible was gone.
But Faith, with her loving, trusting, big brown eyes, was right beside her.
Chapter Twenty
May 9,1915
Beausejour, Manitoba
Lesia was going to market. And she was going to be sick.
But her only sickness was cowardice. She didn’t want to face the Canadians.
You don’t belong here. You’re a dirty peasant. A worthless servant. They were words she had travelled halfway around the world to get away from. Words that kept coming back to haunt her.
She’d had enough derision, enough scorn, to last a lifetime. She couldn’t go to market.
Yet she was going.
All because of Faith. With a litde love and care, the cow had turned into an incredible milker, more than making up for the missing teat. Her milk was fresh, rich and tasted faintly of prairie grass and clover. But no matter how much they cooked with it, they couldn’t use it all. And Lesia couldn’t bear to see the extra go to waste.
Andrew’s wagon bounced with the ruts in the road. Now that it was May, the farmers had changed from sled runners to wheels. The snow was almost gone, dissolving into grey lumps, pooling and running into rivers and creeks and sloughs.
The drier fields had been ploughed and readied for planting. When the wind blew, the soil swirled into dancing brown clouds. Sometimes the air was so thick with dust that Lesia couldn’t see the tops of the trees.
Today, however, she could see everything: trees, fields and the high-water line of the Brokenhead River shimmering in the morning sun as they pulled into town.
Beausejour was crowded with other wagons and horses, people on foot, groups of children laughing and playing. The joyful atmosphere reminded Lesia of some of the markets she used to go to back home.
It reminded her all over again that she didn’t belong in Canada.
Andrew parked in a field. The ground rolled on endlessly, waves of earth coming to life after winter’s deep freeze. The river was so close she could see the silver sheen of the water as it rippled downstream. A nearby tamarack tree overflowed with velvety red rosettes, and in the distance, a small cluster of crabapple trees frothed with blushing pink blooms.
How could I ever have thought the prairie was ugly? Lesia wondered as she got out of the wagon. It has its own special beauty.
Women in colourful Ukrainian clothing were setting up tables. Men rushed back and forth carrying boxes of goods to sell. Maybe the English wouldn’t be here, she thought hopefully. Maybe it would just be Ukrainians and Poles. And other immigrants like them.
“Lesia!” Pearl waved.
After exchanging hugs and news, Lesia asked about Paul. The older woman just shook her head and changed the subject. “We have two tables,” she told Lesia. “I’m at one and Minnie is selling bread at the other one.” She motioned her daughter forward. “There’s room on her table for you.”
“Hello.” Minnie gave her a small half smile.
English Canadians weren’t the only hostile ones, Lesia reminded herself as she gave the girl a curt nod. She wished she had the nerve to ask Pearl to trade places. Her table was covered with rhubarb, early spring greens and sparkling jars of preserves. Why couldn’t Minnie’s bread go there?
“I’m off,” Andrew called.
A prick of horror skittered down her back. He wasn’t going to leave her here, was he? “Where are you going?”
“I have an errand to run,” he said, “and I’m not sure I’ll be back before dark. I told your mama that you might spend the night with Pearl.”
Ignoring Minnie’s disdainful sniff, Lesia watched Andrew walk away until he was a small, dark speck at the edge of the field. Then she got to work setting up her goods in time for the market to open. A slight breeze lifted the edge of her skirt and carried with it the smell of sweet bread, spring greens and her own fresh butter. She checked her wooden box again. The small blocks were still firm and cold. Andrew had come up with the idea of laying ice on the bottom of the box, followed by her eggs and then the butter.
The breeze from the river was
nice on the back of her neck, Lesia thought as she glanced idly around. Squinting at a nearby sign, she slowly sounded out the English letters. D-A-N-G-E-R.
Danger! The sign had been newly painted, and Lesia guessed that it warned of the rising water from the spring runoff.
Turning to Minnie, she pointed out the sign.
Minnie’s mouth fell open. “You can read that?”
Lesia swallowed her grin. “I’ve been reading English for months.” Weeks was more like it, but pride allowed her to stretch the truth.
The other girl looked impressed. “You’re not so dumb after all.”
This time she did grin. Trust Minnie to offer a compliment and an insult in the same breath. “Ukrainians, like us, are smart people,” she said.
Minnie lowered her eyes.
When the market opened, they weren’t busy like some of the other tables. At first, Lesia didn’t mind. But then she began to feel invisible. People strolled by, chattering with each other, glancing at the tables as they walked. Stopping at some of them. But not at hers.
Andrew had said Pearl’s bread was sure to sell out. Minnie had sold one loaf, or was it two? And even then she’d had to haggle over the price. How humiliating. Lesia hadn’t sold one bit of butter. Or any eggs.
A little girl with black ringlets spun in a crazy circle just yards away from Lesia’s table. Her pink-and-yellow dress twirled and rippled with the movement. It was the same child from the store in Hazelridge! The one whose hand had been smashed with the scale.
Where were her parents?
Lesia couldn’t see them. Content to spin and twist and dance with the wind, the little girl didn’t seem to mind.
How wonderful to be that young and carefree, Lesia thought.
A tall woman with thin, pinched lips stopped in front of Lesia. “How much is the butter?” she asked in a nasally voice. A brown-suited man clutched her elbow.
“Eighteen cents a pound.” Lesia tried to erase any thread of eagerness from her voice.
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