morning the workers lined up at the provision house, bundles and instruments slung from their backs, waiting for Katyaâs father to pay them.
When they left, he slept for half a day on a bench in the summer room, overcome finally by exhaustion and the silence in the compound beyond, lulled by the sound of baby Johann as he crawled about the floor. When he awoke, he hitched up his suspenders and went to see Abram. Today was the day he would talk to him about the land.
They were going to have a house in a village and land nearby where her father would go out and work with his own hired men, the village community pastures becoming home to their German red cows, watched over by a herder and shepherd dogs. Katya went through the rooms of the Big House looking to tell someone who did not already know, and found Mary and Martha Wiebe in the kitchen. The sisters were daughters of a drink-bump, a man who loved his brandy more than life, sheâd heard, and they had been sent away to work at an early age to keep the family going. They were ordinary-looking women, Martha being heavy-set and brown-haired, Mary lighter-coloured and lighter of nature, too, more apt to laugh, while her sister looked for the dark side of things.
Ja, ja
, Katya, we know, the Wiebe sisters said, their soft sadness emanating from them like a night vapour.
She found Aganetha mending in the sewing room. Aganetha looked out overtop her glasses and her great bosom heaved when she sighed, and she said it would be terribly hard to get used to a new family living across the backyard. Someone else sleeping in the attic room, Katya thought, her room with its two views of the world.
Yes, I know youâre going away, but you wonât be going far, will you? Helena said. They would be nearby in the village of Franzfeld, or Hochfeld, perhaps, and Helena would often see them at church.The window in Helenaâs bed-sitting room looked out across the yard to the west garden wall, the flower gardens beyond it, and the orchards. Patches of colour moved among the fruit trees, workers picking in the pear orchard. Above the window was a shelf holding ivy plants, and an old birdcage whose presence had gone unexplained. Whenever they asked, Helena pretended not to hear, or said that some things were private and would remain that way. She now said that Katya and her family would not be going as far away as she wanted to go. Since she had returned from Germany she was softer, would sometimes nod and smile to herself as though she nursed a pleasant secret.
Sophie was in the washhouse, having finished cooking up a batch of soap. She was the last to know that the next harvest Katyaâs father brought in would be from his own land. Oy, Sophie said, my eyes will hurt not to see you. My heart will burn. My toes will curl up and fall off. Katya was grateful, and eager to help Sophie loosen the soap from the moulds, freeing the thick opaque slabs that always looked good enough to eat. And not only that, Sophie said, as though picking up on an argument sheâd been having before Katya arrived. And not only that, now she had to wash the mattress ticks the workers had used, which were lying in a heap outside the door. Then she was expected to go and help Manya scrub the quarters, count the tin spoons fastened to the tables by chains, straighten the bent ones; she was being made to do the work of outside help. God, God, she muttered. She would need to fire up the stove in the bathhouse later to heat water, get rid of the tiny beasts that, no doubt, were living in the mattress ticks and wouldnât miss the chance to hitch a ride on her clothing, a bite of her tender skin. Outside is outside, she said. Inside is in.
She went over to the door of the washhouse and pulled her headscarf free. Then she sucked in her breath and her hands flew upand covered her eyes. Katya came to the door and saw what it was Sophie didnât want to see. There was Manya, carrying a bundle,
When they left, he slept for half a day on a bench in the summer room, overcome finally by exhaustion and the silence in the compound beyond, lulled by the sound of baby Johann as he crawled about the floor. When he awoke, he hitched up his suspenders and went to see Abram. Today was the day he would talk to him about the land.
They were going to have a house in a village and land nearby where her father would go out and work with his own hired men, the village community pastures becoming home to their German red cows, watched over by a herder and shepherd dogs. Katya went through the rooms of the Big House looking to tell someone who did not already know, and found Mary and Martha Wiebe in the kitchen. The sisters were daughters of a drink-bump, a man who loved his brandy more than life, sheâd heard, and they had been sent away to work at an early age to keep the family going. They were ordinary-looking women, Martha being heavy-set and brown-haired, Mary lighter-coloured and lighter of nature, too, more apt to laugh, while her sister looked for the dark side of things.
Ja, ja
, Katya, we know, the Wiebe sisters said, their soft sadness emanating from them like a night vapour.
She found Aganetha mending in the sewing room. Aganetha looked out overtop her glasses and her great bosom heaved when she sighed, and she said it would be terribly hard to get used to a new family living across the backyard. Someone else sleeping in the attic room, Katya thought, her room with its two views of the world.
Yes, I know youâre going away, but you wonât be going far, will you? Helena said. They would be nearby in the village of Franzfeld, or Hochfeld, perhaps, and Helena would often see them at church.The window in Helenaâs bed-sitting room looked out across the yard to the west garden wall, the flower gardens beyond it, and the orchards. Patches of colour moved among the fruit trees, workers picking in the pear orchard. Above the window was a shelf holding ivy plants, and an old birdcage whose presence had gone unexplained. Whenever they asked, Helena pretended not to hear, or said that some things were private and would remain that way. She now said that Katya and her family would not be going as far away as she wanted to go. Since she had returned from Germany she was softer, would sometimes nod and smile to herself as though she nursed a pleasant secret.
Sophie was in the washhouse, having finished cooking up a batch of soap. She was the last to know that the next harvest Katyaâs father brought in would be from his own land. Oy, Sophie said, my eyes will hurt not to see you. My heart will burn. My toes will curl up and fall off. Katya was grateful, and eager to help Sophie loosen the soap from the moulds, freeing the thick opaque slabs that always looked good enough to eat. And not only that, Sophie said, as though picking up on an argument sheâd been having before Katya arrived. And not only that, now she had to wash the mattress ticks the workers had used, which were lying in a heap outside the door. Then she was expected to go and help Manya scrub the quarters, count the tin spoons fastened to the tables by chains, straighten the bent ones; she was being made to do the work of outside help. God, God, she muttered. She would need to fire up the stove in the bathhouse later to heat water, get rid of the tiny beasts that, no doubt, were living in the mattress ticks and wouldnât miss the chance to hitch a ride on her clothing, a bite of her tender skin. Outside is outside, she said. Inside is in.
She went over to the door of the washhouse and pulled her headscarf free. Then she sucked in her breath and her hands flew upand covered her eyes. Katya came to the door and saw what it was Sophie didnât want to see. There was Manya, carrying a bundle,
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