Lesia's Dream
Authors: Laura Langston
Laura Langston
FOR MY MOTHER-IN-LAW,
MARY NAZARKO,
WITH LOVE
Prologue
January 2003
Winnipeg, Manitoba
You come to me young and fresh, full of questions. I sit here, old and weary, full of memories. In that school with all its rooms and teachers and so many pencils that you have no need to share, they have asked you to speak of your roots. Something called your heritage. You are Canadian, you tell them. Born here. Just as your mother and grandmother were born here.
Before, they say. Before.
You do not know of heritage. You know only of me.
You are so tall, though you are only sixteen. At sixteen, my face showed hard lines of worry and my hair, once long and beautiful, had become dull and brittle. But your face is unlined, full of promise. Your hair has the rich, golden shine
of the honey we gathered in Shuparka.Your world is different from the one I lived in at sixteen.
Other babas are sad about this. Some are even mad. But I accept. Because accepting brings me peace.
You are not of the old world. You are firmly of the new. But you are tied to me. Oh, yes. Tied to me forever.
Laisha.
They told me you were named for me. I told them your name is not my name. It is not true to custom.
But now⦠now I think your name is beautiful. It is all that is goodfrom me and my time, sprung forth into all that is new and wonderful in your time.
It is the freedom I dreamed of when I was your age.
Ach, sixteen. Back then, I carried within me the egg that would become your grandmother, the egg that would become your mother and the one that would become you. Yes, I carried generations in my loins. And even then I carried memories.
I carried the spring smell of the fruit blossoms in Shuparka.The sound of the wind whistling through the beekeeper's hut. The feel of Baba's arms around me as we said goodbye.That first glimpse of the prairie. Especially that.
The prairie changed me. Just as I changed it.
I am old. My eyes are failing. My legs are weak. But my memories are strong. And they have been silent for too long.
Pull up a chair and listen, for soon my body shall disappearfrom this earth. Traces of me will remain, oh, yes. In the
prairie I cleared, the wheat I planted, the family I buried. In brown eyes that are thickly lashed and far seeing. In strong, sure hands that are meant for working the soil, for turning thepyrohy dough.You have them both, dear Laisha.Just as your daughter shall have them and, so too, the daughter that follows her.
I will answer your questions about roots and heritage. And that will satisfy them. But it will not satisfy me. Heritage is like soil. And soil is nothing without seeds. So I give you these memories as seeds. I hope you will honour them and cherish them and pass them along so they may grow and ripen and nourish you, your daughter and her daughters forever.
March 1914
Shuparka Province of Galicia Austro-Hungarian Empire
Lesia's day had started before dawn. Turning the landowner's wet, spring soil had been hard, heavy work.Though her thin arms were strong, after twelve hours of lifting they ached with fatigue. But though the gnawing hunger in her belly usually made her light-headed and grumpy, it didn't today. Today Master Stryk had paid her well and given her a large bundle of wood besides.
She could hide another rynsky!
Clutching the bundle of wood under her arm, she pulled up her skirt and ran through the village. Coins
tumbled happily in her pocket. The setting sun cast a golden glow over the thatched roofs of the nearby houses. In a few weeks, the spring air would be filled with the rich, sweet scent of plum blossoms flowering near the beekeeper's hut in the grove.
Lesia was so hungry she could taste the plums now. Stewed with honey and linden flowers. And in babka at Easter, if they were lucky enough to have flour by then.
The fence that had once surrounded their small cottage was gone, burned long ago to keep them warm, but the gate still stood on its posts, swaying in the breeze as it often did. Lesia nudged it shut with her foot, raced down the dirt path, pushed open the thick, wooden door and hurried inside.
“Mama, Baba, come quick.”
Mama was nowhere to be found, but Baba was low on her heels, poking at a pot over the fire. “What is it, child?” The old woman stood up and frowned. The skin of her face collapsed into prune-like folds. “What's wrong?”
Lesia giggled. “Nothing's
wrong!”
She shoved the bundle of wood at her grandmother. “Here.” She reached into her pocket. “And here.” She held out seven rynskys. The eighth stayed in her apron. Guilt tugged at her conscience. She knew what she was doing was right, but it still felt wrong.
“Bozhe! Bozhe! A bundle of wood
and
seven rynskys.” Baba's smile slipped. She squinted suspiciously. “How come they give you so much?” Baba had been furious four years ago when Lesia had turned eleven and had gone to work in the landowner's fields. Serfdom was over, her grandmother had said angrily. Lesia should go to school. But there was no school in the village. Besides, earning money for wood and food was more important than an education.
Lesia grabbed the old woman's hands. The wood tumbled to the floor. “Because I work hard, so very hard.” Grinning broadly, she swung her grandmother back and forth. “And tomorrow they have asked me to assist with the bees.”That was her favourite thing to do.
She stopped mid-step. Something smelled wonderful, and it was more than the potatoes they'd been living on for weeks. “I must be dreaming,” she said slowly “I smell bread.”
“There.” The old lady pointed to a crusty loaf cooling in the corner.
When Lesia's eyes widened, Baba patted her cheek. “Ivan and Papa are home. They brought flour.”
Lesia's heart jumped. “Where are they?”
“Out back.” Baba started to cough.
Lesia flung herself out the back door.”Papa! Ivan!”
There was Papa, wearing the same black pants he'd worn nine months ago when he'd left home to search for work. His moustache was greyer and his eyes were tired, but he offered her the same crooked smile, the same open arms.
“Lesia!” His whiskers tickled her cheek as he kissed her. “I've missed you, moye sonechko.”
My sunshine. Oh, how she'd yearned to hear that phrase! “And I've missed you too, Papa.” His sheepskin coat smelled faintly of tobacco; it was smooth and cool against her face.
“Well, sister, I hope you've taken good care of the bees while I was away.”
“Ivan!” She swung around to greet her brother. He hadn't returned for Christmas like Papa, and Lesia had missed him. He was standing near the bee skep. It had been golden brown when he'd left, the colour of flax before it flowered. Now, it had weathered to a soft dove grey.
Lesia stared. Ivan was older, thinner.With his new clothes and moustache, he looked more like Papa than ever. “You look so different.”
“It's been three-quarters of a year. I'm an old man of seventeen now, you know.” He shuffled his feet and pretended to walk with a cane.
They all laughed, even little Sonia, who clapped
her hands and excitedly bobbed her head up and down, up and down.
“Did you find it?” Lesia demanded. “The big money we talked about?”
“Lesia!” her mother chided. Sonia was squirming and clapping. Mama put her down. “That's silly talk.”
But Mama didn't know about Lesia and Ivan's plan.They'd told no one. Not even Baba. “Did you?” she demanded again.
Ivan's eyes gleamed with excitement. He nodded. “We're almost there, Lesia. How about you? Did you manage to save?”
“A little.” She nodded. “Twenty-four rynskys so far. After today, twenty-five.”
Papa looked at Mama. Mama looked at Papa.They both looked confused. “What are you two talking about?” Papa asked.
She grinned at Ivan. “You tell them!”
“Lesia and I are going to Canada,” Ivan said. “We want you to come with us.”
“Canada!” Mama looked shocked. “That's halfway around the world.We cannot afford toâ”
Ivan interrupted her. “We've been working and saving, Mama.We have over six hundred rynskys.”
Lesia smothered a gasp. Ivan had obviously done well in his travels.
Mama clutched her throat and turned the colour of an eggshell. Papa's eyes widened in disbelief. “Six hundred rynskys?” he repeated.
“Yes!” Ivan said triumphantly. “Just a little more and we'll be ready to leave for Canada.”
“We are not going anywhere.” Papa repeated the words he'd said so many times before. “The Magus family belongs in Ukraine just as the great Dnister crests its banks in spring. I will not give up on this land.”
Lesia's stomach flipped nervously. Her grin faded. “We have nothing here, Papa. In Canada we'll have wood and land and food. We'll be rich beyond belief!”
Wordlessly, Papa shook his head. She'd been so sure he would change his mind once the money was saved. Dejected, her stomach sank to her toes.
Mama looked sad. “You dream, my darling Lesia. You think you'll be a tsarivna and live in a grand palace too one day.”
“That's not it at all!” Impatiently, Lesia brushed away a fly. “How much heartache must we suffer? How many more deaths must we witness?” She couldn't stop the words. “Think how different our lives would be if we'd gone five years ago!”
Mama gasped. If they'd left back then, Slavko would still be alive. Maybe even her beloved Geedo.
“Nothing can be done to change things,” she murmured. “As God ordains, so it shall be.”
Lesia stared at the ground. It was Mama's usual response.
“We've talked about this.” Papa rubbed his moustache wearily. “More than half the village has given up and left, and look at what we hear back. Some say Canada is the land of milk and honey. Others say it's the frozen land of Hell. We don't know who to believe.”
“We are visitors in our own land,” Ivan said grimly “First the Russians oppressed us, now it's the Austrians and the Poles. Slavery ended over fifty years ago, but we're not really free. They've taken away our right to have a Ukrainian nation. They won't even let us call ourselves Ukrainians. We have to call ourselves Ruthenians instead.”With a twist of his lips, he stared beyond the small patch of black soil Baba had prepared for planting, beyond the cherished bee skep, to the house on the rise where the landowner lived.
Ivan turned back to Mama and Papa.”Most of our land has been taken, and we're being taxed to death. We have no wood for fuel and almost nowhere to grow food. We're practically starving.” He paused and looked at Lesia. They were both thinking the same thing. Slavko. And Geedo.”It's time to get out!”
“It's those people you associate with,” Papa muttered. “Teaching you to read and write. Putting strange ideas in your head.” Mama was close to tears. “Look at the trouble you caused handing out books, holding meetings and encouraging Ukrainians to join together against the state.” Papa's voice slipped to a whisper. “You take great risks, Ivan.”