Pemlych from downstairs and Tato carried up the boxes first and then Mama followed with Mykola. Baba stayed sitting in the wagon with her arms crossed over her chest. “I can’t climb up all those stairs,” she said.
I tried to help but she just sat there looking angry. Then the man who owns the wagon said something in English and motioned with his hands for Baba to get out of the wagon. I was worried about what he was going to do, but then Baba sighed and asked me for my hand and I helped her down.
She didn’t have much trouble getting up the stairs. She puffed a little bit and rested a couple of times, but that was all. I walked behind her just in case, so I was the last one to see our new house on the inside.
Here is what I like about my Canadian house:
— we walk up three giant flights of outside stairs to get here
— no one lives on top of us so the roof is ours
— I am with my dear tato again
— I have a bed that we set on its side against the wall during the day to keep it out of the way, but that is flipped down at night
— I don’t have to share a bed with Baba
— we have an inside pump for water
— we have a big stove that heats with coal instead of wood
— we have our own outhouse in the backyard
Here is what I don’t like:
— I have no room of my own
— I have to share a bed with Mykola
— the people who live underneath us are very loud
— what should be a backyard is filled with rows and rows of stinky outhouses for other people
— there is no front yard
— we only have one window!
— there is no place for a garden
Thursday, May 7, 1914
early morning, in our new home
Mama tsk-tsked when we got in. I could see that she was pleased with the place itself, but she was not happy with how Tato had been keeping it. The floor is grimy and there is a stale smell in the air. Tato said that he was renting out sleeping space to single men to make more money until we got here.
Mama had hardly been inside when she filled a big pot with water and warmed it on the stove so she could fill the tub with water and we could all have a bath. As it was warming, she started cleaning. We hadn’t even sat down and she started cleaning. Mama is still the same in Canada as she was in Horoshova. I don’t know whether that’s good or bad.
Later
I still haven’t seen this boy, Stefan, who supposedly lives on the first floor of this building. The family directly below us doesn’t speak our language. I don’t know what language they’re speaking. It doesn’t sound like English either.
Tato has already left. He works at a factory right on Grand Trunk Street! He says I will be starting school on Monday and Mama will be starting at the job he found for her. In the meantime, I am to help Mama get the house in order. We are also supposed to find Canadian clothing. I am glad about this. Canadian clothing may look funny, but at least people won’t stare at us.
Pemlych’s wife brought us a basket of buns and a jug of milk. She works for a Canadian lady just like Mama. I hope Mama gets to bring home buns from work! Mama will be working for a lady called Mrs. Haggarty. Pemlych’s wife said she doesn’t get to bring food home often, just when there are leftovers. The buns were delicious!
Pemlych’s wife drew a map for Mama so that we could get to the Association of Ukrainians, which is at 481 Wellington Street. She said it was not a long walk. This was confusing, though, because Tato gave us a map to go to the Ukrainian Society on the corner of Centre Street and Ropery Street. Mama showed her that map but our neighbour said the Association is better if it is clothing we want.
Mama asked Pemlych’s wife why both of these places had “Ukrainian” in their names and not “Galician.” Pemlych’s wife said that Galicia was just one area where people share our language and customs. There’s also Bukovyna, the Crimea, the Carpathian Mountains and even parts of Russia and Poland!
Late at night
Things that I love:
— my new shoes and my new stockings
Things that I hate:
— this stupid dark blue jumper thing that I have to wear to school — it is so ugly!
— people who make fun of my mother
— drawers
Baba stayed with Mykola while Mama and I explored. We wanted to get to the Association of Ukrainians, but we didn’t know the streets and took a wrong turn and ended up by the canal on St. Patrick Street.
A man wearing a dirty brown hat was following us. I told Mama but she told me to keep on walking. When we were about half a block away, the man yelled something at us that sounded like “Dirtybohunk.”
Mama was so surprised that he was speaking to us that she turned to stare at him. She tripped on a crack, falling down hard on the sidewalk and almost pulling me down with her. As I tried to help her back to her feet, a kind shopkeeper came out of his store and helped Mama up. He didn’t speak our language, but she thanked him with gestures and then she showed him our map. He turned it around and showed us what direction we needed to go in.
By the time we got to the Association of Ukrainians, it was mid-morning! An old man named Augustyn opened the door and we followed him in.
There was a man at the table who was reading a newspaper. I was shocked when I saw him because he looked just like my brother. Mama went up to him and said, “Volodymyr, is that you?”
When the man looked up, though, he stopped looking like my brother. I’ll tell you later about my big brother who died. This man had a weak chin and big teeth. My brother was perfect. Mama sat down to talk to him and I looked around the rest of the room.
An old lady who was mending in the corner nodded to me in greeting. When I told her that Mama wanted school clothes for me, she looked me up and down and then started sorting through a basket of clothing at her feet. She said she’d put something together for me.
She held up a white long-sleeved shirt and showed me that it had a stain on the front. She said it would be covered up so I shouldn’t worry.
When I looked down at it, I saw that it was much too short! Can you believe that it came only as far as my hips? I blushed just looking at it. There were buttons up the front, and where there should have been embroidery, there was something called a collar.
I told this lady (who I now know is Sonechko the widow) that a shirt like this was indecent! A bit of wind is all it would take to unwrap my skirt and show my privates to the world!
Widow Sonechko laughed so hard that she wiped tears from her eyes. Then she told me that this wasn’t a shirt, but a blouse. Then she sorted through her basket and found a plain dark blue thing and pulled it over my head on top of my other clothing.
Widow Sonechko told me that this ugly thing is called a jumper. It doesn’t wrap like my skirt, but goes over my head, so it can’t get caught in the wind.
But it is so ugly! The blouse has no embroidery and the arms are tight and the collar feels like it will choke me. Also, the collar goes up so high that it hides the beautiful necklace that Irena made for me. I weep to think of wearing this jumper instead of my beautiful embroidered wraparound skirt.
Why don’t Canadians wear embroidery? Why do they laugh at my clothing? What they wear is plain. At least she couldn’t find shoes and stockings that fit, so I got new ones.
She found a black skirt for Mama, but no blouse. She told us to go down the street to the dry goods store. A woman who works there speaks Ukrainian and