Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world.

Special Treat – Joan Skura

September 19, 2007

I am happy to introduce another new writer for Storytime Tapestry.  Joan Skura becomes writer #434 and I am sure you will love her story as much as I do.  Please email her and welcome her to our family.

A SMALL PRICE

Joan Skura

 

Alexei sat with his weary fellow travellers in the Brandon Land Registry Office. His violin case rested on his lap; his battered suitcase lay at his feet.

The young clerk behind the counter had looked contemptuous as they entered. He motioned toward the benches that lined two walls, saying, “Over there, sit, sit,” and called over his shoulder, “They’re here, Mr. Dickson, but there’s no sign of Buryk.”

A large, middle-aged man, with red hair and moustache, entered from another room, his eyes taking in each of them, as he said, “I am Elias Dickson, the Registrar. It seems your agent isn’t here yet. Any of you speak English? No? Well, I can’t register your claims until he gets here. Sorry; you’ll just have to wait.”

The clock ticked away the minutes. Mothers hummed quietly to their children and Alexei’s thoughts drifted back to that day when he’d decided to join the group from the village and leave forever the wheat fields he’d known since childhood. Since his mother’s death, there was no one now who would need him, his father having long since passed and his brothers and sisters all settled with families of their own. To be sure, he could marry and raise his own family on the land, but the land would never be his own and he could only serve as tenant farmer, sharing a small portion of the harvest, subject always to the whims of the landed gentry and a system based on tyranny.

Agents from the district capital, Lviv, had visited the village several times, with glowing descriptions of the farmlands in Canada. They were looking for families, single men, healthy individuals willing to travel to this new land that needed to be settled. For a filing fee of ten Canadian dollars, a quarter section of virgin land would be theirs, free and clear for all time.

On a glorious autumn day in 1897, Alexei and ten others signed the agent’s paper. In late April, 1898, with winter behind them, they left Lviv by train, travelling across Poland, into Germany to Hamburg, and from there to Montreal on the S.S. Algonquin, arriving four weeks later.

The clock struck noon and Alexei returned to the present, as Elias Dickson emerged from his office.

“Where the hell is Buryk? Damned agents, they get these poor sods here, don’t tell them the best lands are already gone and then don’t show up on time to meet them.”

Suddenly, the door burst open and Josef Buryk hurtled into the room, mumbling apologies, first to the Registrar, then to his countrymen, switching easily between languages and saying something about his wife being taken ill. Noting the distinct smell of liquor, Alexei and the others looked at each other knowingly, but were too relieved to be angry.

“Okay, okay,” said Elias Dickson. “Let’s get on with it. You’ve already wasted two hours of my time, Buryk.”

The agent flushed but, turning to the newcomers said, “All right, come to the counter, men with families first, then you others. All of you, have your ten dollars and your papers ready. Let’s not waste any more of this gentleman’s time.”

Alexei sat with the three men whose families had not accompanied them. Lately, he had become accustomed to waiting and he smiled, recalling how his mother would say, “Patience, my little Alexei, you must have patience; the good is always worth waiting for.” This was good—being here, waiting to file his land claim. It was worth the journey to Hamburg and the sea crossing with its cramped conditions, the stench of seasickness everywhere, lack of privacy and sparse rations.

Business at the counter moved briskly. Each man showed his immigration papers. The Registrar pointed out on a map the section granted, entered the new owner’s name and description of the lands in a large book and on a document which he handed to the titleholder.  His words were meticulously interpreted and the process explained by Josef Buryk. 

As he waited, Alexei’s thoughts returned to the more appealing parts of the crossing. With little else to do, he had time to read the books given him by Father Vasily, the village priest, books of poetry so beautiful that he thought they might be set to music, if one had the inclination. His cherished violin was his mainstay on many a bleak day and a source of great entertainment to all.

“Come on, Alexei, play for us,” the children would beg. “It will be just like home.”

And how could he refuse, when he’d played for them so often in the past? Sure, he’d play, whatever they wanted. Some of the crew would gather, too, enjoying the music and the dance, sometimes joining in and making everyone laugh at their clumsy attempts. The others, though, the ones who looked at him with contempt, they were not so approachable. All the same, he thought, they had unwittingly taught him something. He’d noted that certain words were accompanied by a sneer and Alexei knew it wasn’t desirable if one were referred to in those terms.

He’d noted this again, upon arrival at Montreal, when the official had issued his landing papers. He winced at the memory.

“And where are you headed?” the man said, disdainfully, looking at the list of names from the S.S. Algonquin.

“Uh...please, headed...what is?” Alexei faltered.

“Where are you going in Canada? Going, do you understand?” each syllable spoken slowly, as if to an infant.

Struggling, Alexei said, “Go-ing...oh...yes, go in Brandon.”

“What’s your name?” the man asked impatiently. “Your name, what are you called?”

“Me...name...Alexei Luczykowski.”

“Good God,” said the man. “That’s a mouthful. Luczyk, Alexei Luczyk, that’s you.” As he spoke, he wrote this on a document and handed it to Alexei.

“Here’s your papers,” he said, “you’re landed. Next in line, over here.”

Alexei stared at the paper, then at the man and said, “No...no Luczyk...name Luczykowski!”

“God almighty!” What more do you want? You’re here; you’ve got free land, isn’t that enough? Now, move on.”

Confused and humiliated, Alexei rejoined the group, as they waited to be taken to the railway station. With the mere stroke of a pen, a part of him had been taken away forever.

With some relief, Alexei realized that Josef Buryk was beckoning him.

“Come on, young fellow, you’re next.”

Alexei jumped from his chair, almost tripping over the suitcase at his feet, but holding the violin case safe and went to the counter. The Registrar looked at his papers, took the ten dollars, then pointed to an area on the map. “This is your quarter section, right here, Mr. Luczyk,” he said. “I’ll just write up your Deed and we’ll register...”

“No!” Alexei interrupted. “No...no Luczyk... name  Alexei Luczykowski.”

Turning to Josef Buryk, he pleaded, “It was a mistake at Montreal; the official didn’t understand. Please, Mr. Buryk, tell him my name is Luczykowski.”

Sighing, the agent said, “Alexei, there’s nothing I can do. Your name must be entered on the Deed as it appears on your papers. That’s just the way it is.” And his tone was gentle, surprising even Elias Dickson, as he continued, “Do you think my name is Buryk? No, I was Josef Bryzjynskj. Accept it, Alexei. It’s a small price to pay.”

Alexei’s eyes filled and he fought hard not to blink. “Very well, Josef Bryzjynskj, if that’s the way it must be, but it is no small price and I believe you know that.”

For a moment, agent and immigrant looked at each other in total understanding. Then it was back to the business at hand.