Lesia's Dream (3 page)

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.”

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 rain 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.

“God has many tapestries,” Mama told me, “and they are all beautiful.” I thought of Baba saying the bees do not care if the flower is open only a little. They make do.

In my head, I made that prairie pretty. I saw rainbows sparkling in the melting snow. I saw food growing in the rich, brown soil… creeks swelling with a melt that would be our water … birds in thickets that would provide us with song. On distant hills, I saw green grass and tiny purple flowers and trees about to burst into leaf. I saw hope.

And soon I was in love. The prairie would give us land and food and dignity. A beautiful tapestry or a plain quilt, it did not matter. That prairie rolled and waved and dipped. It was endless. Boundless. Sun-kissed. Full of promise.

Just as we were.

April 22,1914
Winnipeg, Manitoba

Canada was noisy and confusing!

Horses and buggies moved briskly past imposing brick buildings. Windows held goods Lesia didn't
even recognize. Crowds of people milled about, immigrants as well as townsfolk. As the Magus family threaded its way down the sidewalk to the immigration hall, the smell of bread and fried onions floated out a doorway. Lesia's stomach growled. Bozhe, she was hungry! She hadn't eaten in almost two days.

“Dirty bohunks.”

“Filthy peasant scum.”

“Ignorant foreigners.”

The English words made no sense, but that didn't stop Lesia from staring at the people who spoke. The men were clean-shaven and wore fine, dark coats, matching pants and impossibly tall hats. The women looked like fancy birds with their long, sweeping skirts, fitted white blouses and high, tittering voices.

“Dishonest and ill-mannered. They live ten to a room.” A young girl giggled and pointed.

Lesia was suddenly ashamed of her dirty woollen skirt, her kerchief, the loose hemp blouse with its detailed embroidery.

“Stupid farmers.They can't even read.”

Ivan scowled. He had a gift for languages; he was proud of the English he'd picked up on the ship.

“What are they saying?” she whispered as they went inside.

After making sure Mama and Sonia couldn't hear,
Ivan said quiedy, “That we are stupid and dirty and ignorant. That we are dishonest.”

Lesia was shocked. She could have stayed at home and been ridiculed by Michal Stryk and the rest of the Polish nobility. “But I thought everyone was welcome in Canada.”

“So did I until I boarded the train and I heard the truth.” Ivan's eyes flashed in anger. “The British are welcome and so are the Northern Europeans, but they call us the unpreferred Continentals.”

“But why?” Lesia asked.

Ivan shrugged. “Why do people hate? Some questions have no answers.”

Papa overheard them. “Things will be different when we're with our own people in the Interlake,” he said.

The official behind the long granite counter took one look at them and waved another man over. The man greeted them in familiar Ukrainian.

I hope this one doesn't demand money, like the one at the station in Quebec,
Lesia thought. But this interpreter had a friendly, honest face. The Canadian official, on the other hand, had narrow lips, impatient eyes and seemed to dislike the Magus family on sight. In fact, Lesia realized as he barked orders at the interpreter, he seemed to dislike the Galician man too.

“He wants to know how much money you have.” An embarrassed flush rose on the interpreter's face.

“Enough for our section of land,” Papa said. In spite of being swindled four times during their trip, Papa still had the ten Canadian dollars he'd hidden in his sock.

“You need more,” the interpreter replied swiftly, softly.