You’re probably wondering why you don’t make pysanky out of hollow eggs, aren’t you, Dear Diary? pysanky are supposed to be made of raw eggs. If you boil the eggs, the dye doesn’t take, and if you blow out the eggs, they don’t sink into the jars of dye. Also, giving a pysanka as a gift is like giving a wish, and everything about it means something. Giving a live egg (I mean a raw egg) is good luck. All the designs we write on the eggs mean things like good health and long life.
Baba says that it is okay to make these ones on hollow shells because we are not giving them to friends as wishes, but are selling them to strangers for things that we need.
Friday, May 28, 1915
We women are allowed to go into the woods to gather mushrooms. I guess the soldiers know that we would never run away and leave our men. When it gets warmer, maybe I will be able to find some more feverfew for Baba’s knee, but today Mama and I went into the woods looking for black walnut bark. In case you don’t know, Dear Diary, you make black dye for pysanky and embroidery thread by boiling black walnut bark.
We walked past the clearing and down a rough and narrow path in the woods. There was a whiff of smoke and we thought that we were probably close to some of our men cutting down trees. The trees got farther apart and then there was a clearing.
It wasn’t our men! We saw a cluster of cloth-covered cone-shaped tents. And there was a woman in a hat and a long white dress who stepped out of one of the tents. She looked right at us and my heart almost stopped beating. It was my ghost!
I pulled Mama’s hand and we ran away, tripping and bumping our knees and toes on the rocks and underbrush. We ran all the way back to our camp. I was out of breath and so was Mama. I have never been so scared in my life!
Later
Stefan is so mean. I told him about our scare and he laughed at me.
Saturday, May 29, 1915
(cool and sunny)
Do you remember Natalka’s little sister Lyalya? She is the girl who is close to Slava’s age. She woke up this morning with a cough and she was wet with sweat. Mama made a tea from her herb collection and gave it to Mrs. Tkachuk to give to Lyalya. Mrs. Tkachuk has been sitting at Lyalya’s bedside all day. I hope she will be all right.
Speaking of Slava, she doesn’t see her father very much. Tato said that her father has gone strange in the head since he’s been here and that it’s for the best if Slava stays away. I think that is very sad. Tato says we should think of her as part of our family now. Does that mean she’ll live with us when we go back to Montreal?
Sunday, May 30, 1915
I am no longer hurt by Stefan.
He put some of the babka we had baked into his coat and then he told me to follow him. When I realized that we were going back to where Mama and I saw the white tents, I almost turned back, but Stefan grabbed my hand and said, “Trust me.”
That woman is not a ghost at all, but a lady. She wears a man’s hat decorated with a kind of ribbon and her hair is braided like mine. This time she was stirring something in a big pot over an open fire. Her skin is a lovely golden tan and her teeth are strong and white. She motioned to us to come to her. Stefan gave her the babka and she grinned with delight, then took it into the tent.
A moment later, the lady opened the tent flap from inside and motioned us to come in.
Stefan slipped onto his knees and bent his head. I did the same. With my head bent down, I tried to look out of the corner of my eye. I saw an old woman sitting on the ground, surrounded by beautiful animal pelts. And you will never guess what else I saw, Dear Diary! On some of the fur pelts was intricate beadwork like what I sometimes do myself! Also, sitting on her lap was a piece of smooth leather with the outline of a beautiful and delicate bead design that was partly finished.
Dear Diary, you are not going to believe this, but she was using small seed beads just like mine. Who would have thought that I could travel halfway around the world and up into this faraway part of Quebec only to find a stranger doing my own special craft? The floral design that she was creating reminded me of the beadwork and embroidery that we do on sheepskin vests. I feel like I have met a long-lost relative!
I sat and watched as she wove her magic into that piece of leather. I have no idea how much time passed, but she created one whole flower petal. Stefan gently took my elbow and said, “We should go now.”
She held up her hand as if to say, “Wait a moment.” Then she reached into her skirt and drew out a leather pouch. I held out my hand and she tipped the bag over. Many tiny seed beads, all different colours, fell into my hand. Just before she closed the bag back up, a red Venetian glass bead fell out. It has a delicate etching of a bird in flight and it is the most beautiful bead I have ever seen. The woman chuckled with delight and then she placed her two grizzled hands over my fingers and closed them tight around the beads.
Monday, May 31, 1915
I am sitting outside at dawn on my favourite tree stump, still thinking about yesterday.
Stefan told me that these are the Pikogan people, and part of the Algonquin tribe. Before the internment camp was built, they would hunt and fish around Spirit Lake, but now we internees and soldiers scare away the animals. Also, when all those trees are cut down, the animals have fewer places to live. It is not such a good life for the Pikogans any more.
If this is the Pikogans’ land, why did Canada build the internment camp here?
June 1915
Tuesday, June 1, 1915, at lunch
Mary and I had trouble keeping the children interested in their lessons this morning because it is so hot.
I am still thinking about our visit with the two Pikogan ladies. They do not know us and yet they are so kind. Our camp has ruined their hunting grounds and still they are so kind. I think they must know that we did not come here on purpose. They have seen the soldiers.
And did the elder read my mind? It is as if she knew I had lost Irena’s precious bead. Maybe there really is a spirit of Spirit Lake!
Wednesday, June 2, 1915
(very hot!!!)
A year ago I thought Stefan was mean, but I don’t think that now. Is it me who has changed, or him?
Thursday, June 3, 1915
(third hot day in a row!!!)
I got a letter from Maureen today! You remember Maureen, my Irish friend from school, don’t you, Dear Diary? I can hardly read it, though, because most of it is blacked out. At least I know that she is okay and that she is thinking of me.
Friday, June 4, 1915
late at night, in my bunk bed
Dear Diary, Lyalya seemed to have recovered, but this morning her coughing was bad again. Mrs. Tkachuk made her stay in bed and Mama made a mustard plaster for Lyalya’s chest.
Almost forgot — Private Palmer showed us some of the photographs he took! Some were of the Pikogan women and also our men when they are out working. He also has pictures of the officers and their families down at the main camp. I didn’t realize there were so many soldiers with children here. It is too bad we are not allowed to play with them.