fires, no rogue horses or cows, no birds, no mice, no gophers, and especially no rabbits—she prays every night for the safety of her vegetables. She asks Anna to make a scarecrow.
Anna selects two long spruce poles and uses the ax to sharpen one point into a stake. She lashes them together with binder twine, forming a cross or a man standing with stiff arms outstretched. She wraps the poles with willow, shaping a body, a curved body with breasts and a waist. She puts her ankle-length, hand-woven and elaborately embroidered wedding sorochka on the skeletal frame. She stands back and examines her work. Then she picks up a knife and slashes the skirt and sleeves and is pleased to see the wind grab at the tatters. Maybe Maria should have stopped her, but she knew this was an exorcism.
She had tried to talk to Anna about Stefan. She offered to makeher a balm to heal her heart. Anna had laughed, laughed so hard that it frightened Maria. She was relieved when Anna joined them in the garden. Hard work, fresh air, sunlight, and, most important, being surrounded by life would be the best cure for her sister-in-law. Sometimes it is better to forget.
Anna works obsessively, not stopping for water or food, refusing any help. She stuffs the arms with straw, ties strands of one-foot lengths of barbed wire to the hands, and fastens metal jar lids to the barbs. The scarecrow claps cacophonously, tambourines twirling and dancing grotesquely. Its head is a white sugar bag stuffed with hay, garroted at the throat with rope. Its eyes—metal washers stitched in place with red thread. It has no mouth.
She climbs a makeshift ladder, propped against the body, even though she is afraid of heights, to place the wreath upon its head. A crown Anna had worn when she was married. Back then it had been braided with Guelder rose and periwinkle. The dead petals crumble as she drapes the tail of ribbons—red, green, and blue—over the creature’s shoulders.
Anna jumps down hard, letting the force of the landing jostle through her body. She steps back and for the first time in months smiles, her eyes blazing against the sun, looking up at herself.
Petro, Ivan, and Katya have nightmares for weeks.
T EODOR CHOOSES A SITE A HALF-MILE NORTHEAST from his sister’s house to cultivate, roughly at the property line that halves the two quarter-sections of land. Combined, their properties span three hundred and twenty acres. When Teodor was sent to prison, Anna applied for homestead entry of the quarter-section adjacent to hers on Teodor’s behalf, knowing that when he got out he would be ineligible to own land. He would be responsible for making all the necessary improvements to earn patent as prescribed in the Homesteaders Agreement, including the breaking and planting of twenty-five acres over three years, building a house and outbuildings including granaries and a barn, digging a cribbed well, cutting timber, and erecting fences. It would be his land. He was her brother and Anna didn’t hesitate to help him. Teodor insisted he would pay the ten-dollar entry fee on the first harvest.
Land up in these parts was untamed, choked by bush, rocks, and bogs. The flat rich land farther south went to the British and the gentrified. This part of the country was allocated for Ukrainians, Germans, Russians, Hungarians, and shared with the decimated Blackfoot, who had been pushed farther and farther north by train tracks, towns, and fences. This was land set aside for laborers, nonwhites, peasants with deep guttural languages and mysterious customs. It was a place of poor people, but the soil was rich.
Teodor could tell when he pushed his fingers gently into the dirt and found no resistance. Sliding his hand back out, he smelled thesweet scent. He rubbed the warm, moist soil between his fingers and let it fall loosely back to the earth. This land was fertile. If this quarter-section, all one hundred and sixty acres, was planted with wheat, Teodor would indeed be a
Anna selects two long spruce poles and uses the ax to sharpen one point into a stake. She lashes them together with binder twine, forming a cross or a man standing with stiff arms outstretched. She wraps the poles with willow, shaping a body, a curved body with breasts and a waist. She puts her ankle-length, hand-woven and elaborately embroidered wedding sorochka on the skeletal frame. She stands back and examines her work. Then she picks up a knife and slashes the skirt and sleeves and is pleased to see the wind grab at the tatters. Maybe Maria should have stopped her, but she knew this was an exorcism.
She had tried to talk to Anna about Stefan. She offered to makeher a balm to heal her heart. Anna had laughed, laughed so hard that it frightened Maria. She was relieved when Anna joined them in the garden. Hard work, fresh air, sunlight, and, most important, being surrounded by life would be the best cure for her sister-in-law. Sometimes it is better to forget.
Anna works obsessively, not stopping for water or food, refusing any help. She stuffs the arms with straw, ties strands of one-foot lengths of barbed wire to the hands, and fastens metal jar lids to the barbs. The scarecrow claps cacophonously, tambourines twirling and dancing grotesquely. Its head is a white sugar bag stuffed with hay, garroted at the throat with rope. Its eyes—metal washers stitched in place with red thread. It has no mouth.
She climbs a makeshift ladder, propped against the body, even though she is afraid of heights, to place the wreath upon its head. A crown Anna had worn when she was married. Back then it had been braided with Guelder rose and periwinkle. The dead petals crumble as she drapes the tail of ribbons—red, green, and blue—over the creature’s shoulders.
Anna jumps down hard, letting the force of the landing jostle through her body. She steps back and for the first time in months smiles, her eyes blazing against the sun, looking up at herself.
Petro, Ivan, and Katya have nightmares for weeks.
T EODOR CHOOSES A SITE A HALF-MILE NORTHEAST from his sister’s house to cultivate, roughly at the property line that halves the two quarter-sections of land. Combined, their properties span three hundred and twenty acres. When Teodor was sent to prison, Anna applied for homestead entry of the quarter-section adjacent to hers on Teodor’s behalf, knowing that when he got out he would be ineligible to own land. He would be responsible for making all the necessary improvements to earn patent as prescribed in the Homesteaders Agreement, including the breaking and planting of twenty-five acres over three years, building a house and outbuildings including granaries and a barn, digging a cribbed well, cutting timber, and erecting fences. It would be his land. He was her brother and Anna didn’t hesitate to help him. Teodor insisted he would pay the ten-dollar entry fee on the first harvest.
Land up in these parts was untamed, choked by bush, rocks, and bogs. The flat rich land farther south went to the British and the gentrified. This part of the country was allocated for Ukrainians, Germans, Russians, Hungarians, and shared with the decimated Blackfoot, who had been pushed farther and farther north by train tracks, towns, and fences. This was land set aside for laborers, nonwhites, peasants with deep guttural languages and mysterious customs. It was a place of poor people, but the soil was rich.
Teodor could tell when he pushed his fingers gently into the dirt and found no resistance. Sliding his hand back out, he smelled thesweet scent. He rubbed the warm, moist soil between his fingers and let it fall loosely back to the earth. This land was fertile. If this quarter-section, all one hundred and sixty acres, was planted with wheat, Teodor would indeed be a
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