Lesia's Dream (20 page)

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.

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.

The man nodded kindly but the woman tossed her head. “Too cheap,” she proclaimed with a curl of her lips. “It's probably sour.”

The man roared with laughter. Slowly they sauntered away.

Lesia stared at the ground until she felt the flush of heat fade from her face. Beside her, even Minnie looked embarrassed.

“It's because of Papa,” the other girl said in a low, trembling voice. “They know he was taken away That's why they won't buy our things.” She wouldn't meet Lesia's eyes.

Was it true, or was there another reason? It didn't really matter. Lesia could tell by the defeated slump of Minnie's shoulders that Paul's internment had hit her hard. It couldn't be easy for her. But life
wasn't
easy. Maybe Minnie was finally figuring that out.

“We all have our crosses to bear,” Lesia said, glancing away from Minnie towards the river.

There was that little girl again. Such a pretty little thing in her pink-and-yellow dress. Skipping back and forth behind a group of adults. Closer and closer to the white “Danger” sign. Surely one of them would watch her. The river was so high. It was overflowing its banks in places. She could fall in.

It's not your business.

It was a long time before anyone stopped at their table again. When they did, Lesia upped her price by two cents. “And it's good with the bread.” She gestured to the loaves Minnie had proudly displayed.

“Too much.” They waved vaguely over their shoulder. “It's cheaper over there.”

“I also have eggs,” she said. “Very fresh.”

But the people were gone.

Lesia could feel Minnie's eyes studying her. She waited for the girl to insult her, to say something about her pathetic attempt to sell the butter and promote the bread. But Minnie was quiet.

Nervously, Lesia bent down and checked the butter. Was it melting? The sun was climbing; soon it would be midday, and the heat would intensify. But Andrew's packing job was holding up nicely.

The market was crowded now, full of people
greeting friends and exchanging gossip, searching out the freshest milk and the tastiest bread. They still didn't seem interested in Pearl's bread. Or anything Lesia had to offer. Every once in a while, Lesia caught a glimpse of the litde girl with the black ringlets. She was getting closer and closer to the edge of the riverbank.

It wasn't her business. Besides, when she had tried to help at the store, it hadn't been appreciated.

The young child laughed as she chased after a black-and-white butterfly. Had she ever been that carefree? If so, Lesia couldn't remember when.

The girl was getting closer and closer to the water. Bozhe! What if no one stopped her and she fell in?

She wouldn't. Lesia fought back her anxiety and turned away. She smiled at a passing group of people. They glanced at her eggs, slowed. But then the younger boy nudged his mother, pointed out larger eggs on a nearby table, and they moved on.

The little girl … where was the little girl? Lesia's heart lurched when she turned and couldn't find her. Ah, there she was, down the way, still laughing and chasing after the butterfly.

The adults were paying no attention.

She should stop her. Or say something. Her heart told her it was the right thing to do. But her head told her it wasn't her business. Surely her parents
could read the “Danger” sign. She was a Ukrainian peasant. And hated by these people. Speaking up would only invite humiliation. She'd had enough of that to last a lifetime. She'd just stop looking at the child, that's what she'd do.

Restlessly she tapped her fingers on the edge of the table. The sun was high in the sky. Her stomach growled. It was almost lunchtime. Lesia wondered if she could trade Minnie some butter for a chunk of bread.

Involuntarily, her eyes floated back to the edge of the riverbank. The girl was still there.

And then, in a flash of pink and yellow, the child was gone.

There was no scream. No thumping fall. No rustle of fabric. Just there one minute and over the edge the next.

Lesia jumped up and craned her neck. She couldn't see a thing! There were people in the way.

“What is it?” Minnie asked.

Wildly, her eyes searched up and down the riverbank. There was no sign of her. Maybe she was with her parents. Heart pounding, Lesia turned and scanned the crowd.

No little girl.

Bozhe! She
couldn't
get involved. She was a useless, worthless peasant. People would be angry. They
would misunderstand. She would be questioned. Maybe even taken away.

“What is it?” Minnie asked again.