Lesia's Dream by Laura Langston Page A

through the feathers of the bird’s wing like beet juice staining a piece of bread.
    Lesia reached out. The bird twitched and flopped. Horrified, she jumped back. Of course it was moving. That happened after birds were slaughtered. Frowning at her foolishness, she forced her hand forward. There was its head, off to the side. And its eyes watching her.
Don’t look.
    She lifted it by its feet. They were slick. Warm. More blood drained to the ground. Lesia swayed. She would
not
be sick. She took a deep, steadying breath.
You must do this.
    Anxious to show the others her catch, she began to run. The chicken flapped and splattered blood on her apron, but Lesia’s squeamishness was gone. Tonight they would eat a prairie chicken. It was going to taste wonderful roasted over the fire!
    â€œLook,” she yelled when the dugout was in sight. “Look.”
    Sonia saw her first. Her scream of delight alerted Mama and Papa.
    â€œWhat have we here?” Papa beamed.
    Lesia lowered the chicken and allowed Sonia to touch the feathers that were clean. “Dinner,” she said proudly.
    Mama looked incredulous. “You killed that yourself?”
    She grinned. “There was no one else to kill it for me, Mama.” She looked around the clearing. “Where’s Ivan?”
    Papa pointed.
    She followed the direction of Papa’s finger. Ivan was standing behind the dugout, where the root cellar was going to be. And he wasn’t alone.
    â€œWe have company,” Papa said.

Chapter Six
    â€œHis name is Wasyl Goetz and he’s looking for work,” Papa explained. “He needs money.”
    Didn’t they all? She studied the man. He was taller than Ivan, with broad shoulders, sandy brown hair and a thin stubble of beard.
    Ivan glanced over, saw the prairie chicken and grinned. Wasyl Goetz turned. His eyes widened. She recognized the desperate yearning in his eyes: hunger.
    The two of them walked towards her, and Lesia tried not to stare. His sheepskin coat was worn, his pants were torn at the knees, his shoes were held together with string. He carried a faded red blanket tied into a bundle, and a rifle over his shoulder. What she could do with a rifle!
    â€œWell done,” Ivan said. “We’ll eat plenty tonight.”
    An embarrassed silence fell and Wasyl Goetz stared at the ground.
    â€œYou’ll stay, of course,” Mama said to him.
    â€œThank you.” He looked up, smiled shyly. “I have a few potatoes in my bag. You would like to cook those to go with the bird, yes?”
    Extra potatoes! Lesia could scarcely stop herself from laughing out loud. Mama could make pyrohy.
    â€œYou keep them,” Mama said generously. “Let us feed you.”
    Mama did make pyrohy—out of the last of their own potatoes. Lesia refused to think about what they would eat tomorrow. Instead, after the bird was strung up over the fire, she listened to Wasyl tell Ivan and Papa about his experiences searching for work.
    There was little left on the railroad, and it was tough in the city, too. Thousands of Ukrainians had marched in Winnipeg demanding jobs. “They yell over and over again—work or bread, work or bread.” He shook his head. “There is so litde work that men are organizing in protest. And things are just as bad in the homeland.” Wasyl shook his head. “It’s not a pretty picture.”
    â€œHow so?” Ivan asked.
    â€œWord is the army is mobilizing on the border between Russia and Galicia,” he said. “Talk of war is at an all-time high.”
    â€œIf there is a war, what will that mean?” Lesia asked.
    Papa reached over and adjusted the spit that held the chicken. “War is never good.” His eyes had a sad, faraway look. He’d watched his father march off to fight in the Austro-Prussian War. It had been the last time he’d seen the man alive.
    â€œWar may not be good, but it always brings