In January, the cold bit deep. It created perpetually frozen patterns on the edges of the window and chilled the cabin despite the hot fire that burned in the stove. Lea watched Pol and Lilian play quietly with their toys, wearing thick sweaters and slippers, and hoped they were warm enough. Wondering what it was like back home in Belgium, she realized it had been a while since she’d written to her family. Taking out a sheet of paper and a pen, she sat down and composed a letter.
Dear Maman, Papa, and family,
I so miss all of you, especially now that it’s winter and we can’t go outside except to care for the livestock. It’s so cold we dare not even attend mass on Sundays and instead stay home to pray the rosary. How I miss the days when I could just wander over to the Gilbert’s house and spend the day puttering about with Madame Gilbert and Cécile. It’s not quite like the excitement of summer when we had that bumper crop and Napoleon decided I could finally travel to Belgium. I was so excited back then. Ah, but it’ll be so good to see you all when I go. Nap and I have cleared and broken another seventy acres, and when that crop comes in, that’s when I’ll board the train to come home.
It’s not easy work clearing all the rocks and breaking the sod. There’s one really huge stone that’s just too big to move. Pol enjoys climbing it, but I worry that one day he’ll fall and crack his little head. Then there are the circles of rocks where the Sioux Indians once built their camps. Nap says he doesn’t want to touch those, that somehow they’re sacred, and I agree. I oftentimes wonder what it must have been like seeing teepees long ago. Memère Emma once told me she remembers natives traveling across the prairie on their travois. Travois are kind of like carts only they have no wheels, just long sticks attached to the horses that they bundle their supplies on. But the Indians don’t come around anymore, although there is one Métis family that lives in Val Marie.
Nap has found a job building a school in the next town. We’ll use that money to order new clothes from the Eaton’s Catalogue. I love Eaton’s! It’s so easy, just picking and choosing what you’d like to order instead of making it all by hand. And it’s like Christmas when it arrives, opening up the boxes to take out the things we’ve dreamt about for so long. This year, we ordered pants, dresses, jackets, toques, mittens, and plenty of other things for winter. Perhaps when I come to Belgium, I’ll stop in Winnipeg and shop in the real Eaton’s department store. Can you imagine?
Palma, congratulations on the birth of your little boy, Roberto. I can’t wait to meet him. And Mathilde? Courage. I’m sure you’ll soon have a child to join our little throng. It’ll be so fun when the children all meet each other.
Leopoldine
Lea folded the letter, placed it in the envelope, and sealed it. She’d get Nap to take it to town when he returned from Rosefield on the weekend. She sighed. How lonely it was when he was gone. Thank goodness she had the children to keep her company.
Pol swooped his toy bi-plane down from above, nearly grazing the floor before sweeping it upward again. Lilian rocked her doll in the wooden rocker Nap had built for her.
She marveled at her husband’s woodworking skills, how he could dismantle the dirty slats of barrels, soak them, and straighten the wood to make polished toys for the children fine enough to grace the window of any Belgian toy store. Christmas had been wonderful. She was glad she’d insisted on keeping the traditions of the old country this year, celebrating on December sixth, St. Nicholas’ Day instead of December twenty-fifth. The children’s excitement was worth it as she wrote their names on slips of paper and laid them on their Christmas plates awaiting Bonhomme Noël’s visit. After they had fallen asleep, she’d made fudge and cut it into squares, placing an ample piece next to a Christmas orange and a shiny red apple in each child’s place. How their eyes had sparkled when they awoke the next morning to the treats and the wooden toys Bonhomme Noël had brought them.
Lea let out a long, sorrowful breath, her warm feelings evaporating. Writing the letter home had made her feel more alone than ever. She gazed out the window to the darkness that surrounded the cabin, the light of the coal oil lamp a small comfort against the vast expanse of prairie. How she craved conversation with another adult. What she would give to have Madame Bourlon, the blacksmith’s wife drop by for a cup of hot tea or even better, Cécile, or Madame Gilbert.
She clenched her teeth at the thought of her friend’s dilemma. Though Claude had won the pot that day of the social that summer, he’d squandered it on more poker games. Yet Cécile hung onto his empty promises of a life of luxury like a naïve little girl waiting to see what Bonhomme Noël might bring her. But what else could Cécile do? She was so unlucky in love.
But is it really a whole lot different than what I’m experiencing right now? A pang swept over her at the thought of her husband’s absence. If only he didn’t have to live in the next town during the week, she wouldn’t feel so isolated. A stray tear fought its way down her cheek. She attempted to wipe it away lest the children see, but against her wishes, more slid down her face. Before she knew it, she was sobbing.
At hearing her cries, Pol stopped and watched her for a time, his eyes as wide as saucers. Laying the biplane down, he crawled over to her and placed his hands on her knees. Lea reached out and smoothed his hair, then caressed his cheek. Lilian followed, climbing into her lap and throwing her arms around Lea’s neck. Soon, all three were crying. Far in the distance, a lone coyote let out a long, sad howl. His companions joined him, and humans and animals lamented together. Lea cried until there were no more tears. Then she laid the children down to sleep and curled up in her own bed, wrapping the blankets around her head to keep warm.
***
When the darkness of winter changed to spring, Napoleon ploughed and seeded the fields for the upcoming season. They waited with anticipation for the much larger crop they’d yield, since Napoleon had broken so much more land. As expected, acres of green sprouts shot out from the earth filling Lea’s days with dreams of when she would board the train and make the journey back to Belgium, stopping at Eaton’s in Winnipeg, or in Quebec City where she might run into her old friend Marie-Ève and her husband Guy, or passing through Halifax where surely the city had been rebuilt. But more than anything, she dreamed how wonderful it would be to see her family again, to introduce her parents to their two grandchildren.
“Maman and Papa,” she’d say, “this is my son, Pol, and my daughter, Lilian.”
Maman would sweep her arms open as the children dressed in their newest Eaton’s clothes threw themselves into her embrace while Papa stood by, proud of Lea’s success.
One of the neighbours passing by would exclaim, “Why, those are the most beautiful children I’ve ever seen!” So enthralled would that neighbour be that everyone on the street would pay a visit just to glimpse the fine, healthy Canadian children their little Leopoldine had born.
They’d be celebrated each night, invited to a different home where food would be set out on delicate plates.
But in June, the weather turned hot, dashing her dreams. At first, it hadn’t concerned her. She knew it changed often, hot one day, a lightning storm the next, but by July the wheat had dried up into limp, brownish threads.
She waited a few days to see what her husband would do, but when no solution seemed in sight, she approached him. “Is there anything I can help with, mon homme?”
Napoleon pressed his lips together. “No. We need irrigation.” He glanced at the meandering water of the slough close by. “But that would be a huge project in itself. All we can do now is save the garden.” He patted her shoulder. “That’ll feed us through the winter, and then I can get more work to support us.”
It was difficult hauling water each day from the slough to the garden, carrying bucket after bucket while Nap cleared more land hoping next year might be prosperous. If only the children were old enough to help. But Pol wasn’t quite seven yet, and Lilian had only recently turned four.
Still Lea managed to can her fruits and vegetables, make her butter and cheese, and fill the cellar. The only thing that was lacking was the usual store of buffalo berry jam. The dry earth had withheld its usual bounty of the bright red fruit, and Nap had felt it was more important to use what he could to make buffalo berry wine, much to her chagrin.
“We need it for when company comes,” he had said.
“But what if the Mounties come instead?”
“Lea, we’re French. It’s not our fault the Canadian government has decided we can’t drink wine. The French have been making it for centuries.”
Lea had grudgingly agreed.
In the autumn, he let four of the horses go. “They can look after themselves,” he said. “We won’t be able to feed them over the winter anyway.”
“But won’t they go wild?”
“Probably, but it’s okay because in the spring, I’ll find them and break them again. We can use Dick and Belle to get us to church and to town since it’ll be too cold to run the Maxwell.”
“Okay,” Lea said, pressing his hand in hers.
On October thirtieth, Nap returned from town, his walk brisk, his face twisted with consternation.
“What’s wrong?” When he didn’t reply immediately, Lea’s voice grew frantic. “Nap, answer me!”
His eyes reluctantly met hers. “The stock market crashed.”
“The stock market?” She shook her head in puzzlement. “You mean in New York? What does that have to do with us?”
Nap took a huge breath. “You see, in America, people invest in the stock market. The idea is that they put in so much money and their investment grows so they get far more in return.”
“Yes, I understand. A lot of people have made their fortune that way. But isn’t it like gambling?”
“A little, but the problem is that many people were borrowing money they didn’t have from their brokers and letting them invest it on their behalf.”
“But wouldn’t they be able to pay them back once the stocks rose in value?”
Napoleon shook his head gravely. “No, because it turned out that a lot of the investing going on was speculative.” When Lea gave a blank stare, he continued. “It means that what they were investing in didn’t actually exist yet. And because of that, there were some huge fluctuations in the market. Investors panicked and tried to sell everything all at once…and the market crashed.”
Lea frowned. “So how will that affect us?”
“They say the brokers will call in their loans. And if they do that, it’ll wipe people out. They’ll have to sell their businesses to pay for it. Then there’ll be far less jobs.” He shook his head in despair. “This is a disaster. It could mean I won’t find any work either.”
Lea pondered his words before straightening herself. She dug her hands in her hips. “But we’re farmers. We grow crops. We make our own food. Our garden survived, plus we have the pig and the Jersey.”
“But we had no crop this year.”
“There’s always next year. The rains will come again. You’ll see.”
Napoleon cleared his throat. “Except that I won’t be able to send you home.”
Lea’s spirit fell at the truth of his words.
“And I know how much you wanted to see your family.” Napoleon draped his arm over her shoulder and pulled her closer. He pressed the tip of his nose against hers and kissed her. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. It can wait a year or two,” Lea finally said.
Holding each other close, the autumn winds blowing their hair, Lea felt little arms wrap themselves around her legs and waist. She reached down for Lilian while Nap hoisted up Pol. Together, they walked back to the cabin.