Dear Diary, first the good news: Slava is safe. She has been in a home for orphans, but Mr. Foster found her.
Right now I am sitting in a train that is travelling north into the wilds of Quebec. Mykola is sitting beside me. He is quietly pulling off chunks of bread from a bun that one of the officers has given him. He is putting each bit into his mouth and savouring it. He reminds me of a bird.
Beside Mykola is Slava. She is eating her own bun and looking out the window.
This train is not like the one we took from Chernivtsi to Hamburg, where we sat on our trunks in the gloomy darkness of the railway cars. In this one there are big windows and comfortable benches. Baba and Mama sit in front of us, but they face away from us. Mama keeps on turning around to make sure we are still here. She shouldn’t be worried, because although the train is packed full, these people are not strangers. Besides, where would we go?
The motion lulls me into thinking that we are travelling back home, to our dear Horoshova, but then I remember where we are really going and it frightens me. The train rumbles, but I have taken my coat off and made a table for you, Dear Diary, on my lap, so that I can write neatly.
At least we will be with Tato again.
When I look out the window, I see the most beautiful sights. The rocks here are a deep brown grey and the way they’re cut at sharp angles makes me think that God was angry one day and kicked them so hard that they shattered. The lakes still have big chunks of pale blue ice floating in them and the water itself is a deep dark blue. I have never seen water like this. On top of the sharp dark rocks is snow, and there are fir trees with huge ragged boughs. Every once in a while I see a deer or moose. I have tried to point them out to Mykola but by the time he sets his bun down to look, we have passed them.
Afternoon, still on the train
You know, Dear Diary, I have not embroidered since leaving our village, and that makes me sad. If we still lived in Horoshova, I would have made more than simple pillowcases and duvet covers for my hope chest by now. Maybe I would even be betrothed. But my hands were so sore while working at the factory that I couldn’t bear to embroider things for my hope chest.
I wonder what our new house will look like? I hope Mr. Foster isn’t lying and that we aren’t really going to a jail. I hope there is room for chickens and maybe a little garden.
Later in the afternoon, still on the train
When I look out the window now, I don’t see so many rocks. The ground is flatter and there are still many trees and lakes. Mixed in with the fir trees are birch trees. They remind me of the birch forests in Horoshova. Oh, Dear Diary, how I miss my home.
Thursday, April 22, 1915
Mama needs help unpacking and then I must look around. I will write later.
Here is what happened early this morning.
I woke up with a jolt when the train came to a stop. I looked out the window and my heart sank. There were soldiers with guard dogs, guns and stern faces glaring in at us. Behind the soldiers were buildings behind a high barbed-wire fence, with tall guard posts on each corner. A shiver went through me. Mr. Foster had said that there would be no fences.
I thought we were going to get off the train there, but instead, the soldiers stepped in (with their dogs!!) and the train moved again very slowly and then stopped. Not far from the second train stop was another set of buildings, but at least these were not surrounded by barbed wire. The soldiers ordered us out of the train and then they inspected us. When it was Mama’s turn, they made her take off her wedding ring and give it to them. They also took her money. It was only a few dollars. Why did they take it? Baba’s wedding ring was too tight on her finger and it wouldn’t come off. They cut her ring off. Don’t they know that Baba has never taken it off her finger since the day she was married? Baba did not cry when they did this. I think she wanted to, but she didn’t want them to see how much it bothered her.
They didn’t take my hair ribbon, but I would have gladly given it up if they had left Baba’s wedding ring alone. I could tell by the way that Mykola gripped onto my hand that he was afraid of the dogs. We must have looked quite a sight, because one of the soldiers (who looked no older than Stefan) smiled kindly and even ruffled Mykola’s hair.
As we followed them to the second set of buildings, Slava let out a sob as we passed a well-kept cemetery with what looked like a small church behind it. I wish she hadn’t done that because it got us all sobbing and I didn’t want the soldiers to see how frightened we were.
As we got closer, I could see that some long wooden buildings were half built and others were finished. There were men dragging logs and sawing wood and banging nails into the sides of the unfinished houses. Suddenly the work stopped. I could see each man search our faces, looking for a loved one. I spied Tato just as he saw us. He threw down his hammer and ran towards us. He gave Mama a big smacking kiss on the lips and then he held her tight. I could tell by the way his body was trembling that he was sobbing, so I looked away. Men don’t like to be watched when they’re crying.
One of the other men was staring at us. I didn’t recognize him at first, but it was Stefan! His face looks older now, and his shoulders and arms are much bigger than when he was in Montreal. Cutting down trees is harder work than selling newspapers.
Stefan set down his saw and came over to me and shook my hand. Why is he so formal with me? He looked angry or sad, I don’t know which. Then he walked over to where his mother was and hugged her tight.
Stefan’s hands are so rough now. Where is his father?
Later
I am thankful that the soldiers did not go through our luggage, because they would have found the silver spoon that has been in our family forever. I don’t think Baba could bear it if it was stolen.
Friday, April 23, 1915
Dear Diary, I just realized that it has been a year and three days since I stepped onto the ship to Canada. I never dreamed then that so much could happen in a single year.
Our new house is not blue like our dear cottage in Horoshova, nor is it three storeys tall like our house in Montreal. This house is long and made of wood. It has just been freshly built by Tato and the other men and I love the house itself, if not the fact that we are prisoners. There is enough room in it for four families. More later.
Almost forgot — they are called bunkhouses.
Saturday, April 24, 1915
Dear Diary, everything is a muddle here so I cannot write much, but I just wanted to say that Spirit Lake Internment Camp is two separate camps. The one we are in is for the married prisoners and their families. Down by Spirit Lake (the actual lake, I mean) is the bigger camp. It is for the guards (who are soldiers) and their families and also all of the unmarried prisoners. I will tell you
Sorry, Diary. Mykola couldn’t go to the outhouse on his own because he said he saw a ghost. Was it the spirit from Spirit Lake?
It was getting dark, so I went out with him. This outhouse looks like a small bunkhouse but inside, instead of bunks, are ten individual water closets along one side and then ten along the other side. I like water closets better than outhouses. They are cleaner than the outhouses behind our home in Montreal. No matter how often we scrubbed them they would still be stinky. These water closets smell of pine needles and soap. There is another building beside the outhouses and it is a wash house. It has a pump with cold water and also big tubs for washing clothing and a stove to heat water.