The snow had departed, hopefully for good and the early May morning was pleasantly warm. The day promised to be humid later on in the afternoon, but the morning was a good one for tidying up the family plot. It was a job Elsie both loved and disliked at the same time. There was something comforting about being surrounded by her ancestors, souls who had given her family life. Blood of her blood, bone of her bone, spirit of her spirit. It was important for the young ones to appreciate the sacrifices of the ones who went before them. Some of the names on the stones were those of people she knew personally, some were older still. She missed her mother and father, her tauntes and onkels who lay beneath the prairie soil. The small family plot was surrounded by wild rose bushes which were just starting to bud with the odd early bloom unfurling delicate pink petals and sending a waft of sweet scent to perfume the air.
All the women of the family met Elsie and Agnes at the gate to the cemetery. Agnes carried a small rose bush in a bushel basket that Walter had dug up earlier in the morning. Elsie was sharply reminded of Anna doing the same on Blackie’s grave last summer. The irony twisted her heart.
Elsie set down her basket and pulled out the trowel. She attacked the weeds and grasses growing close to the markers with a vengeance. Though she tried to avoid it, her gaze invariably wandered toward the newest grave, so small surrounded by the pale green of new grass. Walter and Ike had set the headstone only a few days ago, the freshly turned earth gleamed darkly in the slanting rays of light. Tiny motes of dust and a few tiny orange and black Painted Lady butterflies danced in the air over the turned soil. The Monarchs were coming back too, flocking to the milkweed plants beginning to bloom in the verge by the road. She spared a moment to wonder how the delicate creatures could find their way to wherever they went for the winter and then made their way back.
She sat back on her heels to survey her work. One plot done, a dozen or more to go. She put her hands on her knees and pushed upright, bending to retrieve the trowel from the grass. The rose bush sat forlornly in its basket, small leaves glossy and new. Such promise of new life. Elsie pressed a hand to chest to ease the pain, of course it did no good. It wasn’t a physical ache that could be eased by medicines. It was an ache that would only become duller with the passage of time, but Elsie knew it would never disappear.
Shading her eyes with her hand, Elsie looked over the small cemetery where her family toiled in a labour of love. She knew the story of every person who lay beneath the prairie sod surrounded by blooming roses. Landmark Roses she always thought of them. Their memories lingering like the faint perfume of roses left in a room after the flowers themselves were removed. It was important that at least one member of the family knew the stories and repeated them to future generations. As long as those who were gone ahead were kept alive in the collective family memory and their stories told, they would never fade away. It brought to mind the faded petals pressed in her grossmama’s gesangbuch, a faint ashes of roses fragrance still perceptible when Elsie opened the fragile pages. The young ones would remember Anna’s story and pass it on, they would remember because they knew her when she was alive. She was a real person to them. It was important the people they hadn’t known were remembered as well. The stories kept them as an integral part of the family and the tales of their trials in Europe before they came to Canada was essential as well. It would never do to forget the persecution of their faith and the need to keep it pure.
Shaking her head, she moved on to the next grave, laying her hand in gratitude on the headstone she had just finished clearing. Some of the lettering was worn with the weather, but Elsie knew them all by heart, when she learned the names and stories from her grossmama she’d repeated them over and over in her head at night while she lay in bed. She sighed. Who was she to pass the responsibility on to? Anna had been her first choice, but as that was no longer possible, she cast about in her mind for another candidate. Perhaps Jake or Nettie’s Mary? The girl was bright as a new penny. Elsie glanced around the small area until she spotted Mary squatting by a grave near the rose hedge. The girl seemed to be in earnest conversation with someone, but she was alone. Elsie rose and made her way across the grass toward the child.
“Who are you talking to?” Elsie knelt beside her.
“The butterflies and the lady buried here,” Mary replied solemnly.
“Do you know who lies here?” Elsie was intrigued.
Mary’s forehead creased as she contemplated the question.
“I think it is Great Taunte Galina. It’s hard to read the letters.” Her fingers trailed across the engraved stone.
“That’s right. Great Taunte Galina. What were you telling her?”
“I was asking her to take care of Anna and Blackie. Make sure they found each other in heaven. I know I shouldn’t, but I do think dogs go to heaven.” She rushed on before Elsie could dissuade her from the notion of dogs in heaven. “I told her about the butterflies and the roses, how pretty they are and what a nice morning it is today.”
“That’s nice of you, Mary. How did you know who lies here?”
Mary looked around before she answered. “I come here sometimes, it’s quiet and peaceful and I like it. I read the names and wonder about who they were, you know, what happened to make them leave their homes and come all the way across the sea to Manitoba.”
“They each have their own stories and I know them all. I can share them with you if you’d like?” Elsie replied.
“Oh, Oma! I’d like that very much.” Mary clapped her hands. “Can we start now?”
“Not right this instant, no.” Elsie laughed and patted the girl’s head. “But I promise, right after we finish our work I’ll tell all of you some stories over our picnic. Will that suit you?”
Mary nodded. “I’ll stop talking about butterflies and get to work.”
Her face set in serious lines Mary got up from the newly tidied plot and moved to the next one. Elsie noted the child ran her fingers over the top of the stone as she went by.
The family cemetery was located behind the orchard and reached by a worn path in the grass under the spreading branches of the trees. At this time of year the boughs were hung with blossoms and the air heavy with the drone of bees. May snow, Elsie thought, with the promise of bounty for the winter months and a good harvest as the seasons wheeled around them.
Agnes called everyone together and with Elsie’s help planted the young rose bush by Anna’s headstone. It wasn’t usual to have the bush by the grave, but Elsie believed Anna would approve and it certainly seemed to give Agnes comfort. There seemed to be no need for words, and none were said. Elsie fought back tears, her throat clogged with emotion. Agnes wiped her cheeks with the edge of her apron, making no apologies for exposing her pain.
The sun was at the zenith by the time the work was done. Elsie straightened up from the last plot and surveyed the now neatened area. Long grasses still waved along the edges by the rose bush hedge, but that was fine in her mind. The headstones were all neat and clear of weeds and long grasses, all was in order.
The children were playing hide and seek in the shade of the orchard, their laughter brightening the serious mood of the early afternoon. Elsie picked her way across the grass to where Hank’s Frieda and Ed’s Betty were laying out a large blanket on the soft turf. Susan and Helena knelt beside it unloading the picnic basket and setting out the food before calling the children from their game. Agnes lingered at the opening in the hedge, hands on her hips. Elsie thought to call her to come join them but changed her mind. Let the poor girl say a final goodbye in her own way. Some bluebirds and golden winged warblers spun and spiraled above the fields, their song trilling through the honeyed afternoon air.
“Mome, come and sit,” Susan called from the shade of the big apple tree. Small pink and white petals fluttered down like confetti.
“We should collect these to sweeten Sadie’s hope chest in a few weeks,” Nettie teased.
“I’m not sure they’ll last that long. Rose petals will do though,” Betty said.
“I think the lavender and verbena sachets are more than adequate.” Elsie settled on a corner of the blanket and accepted a glass of lemonade from Frieda.
“Should I go speak with her?” Helena nodded toward Agnes who was still lingering in the entry to the cemetery. “I haven’t lost a daughter like Anna, but Ruth leaving is still a sore spot in my heart.”
“Let her be,” Elsie advised. “She’ll come to terms with it in her own way and time.”
“Time to eat,” Betty called to the children.
“We can’t come now, Neil’s it and he’ll find us,” a tiny voice piped from behind the gnarled bark of a tree.
“Game’s over for now. Now come,” Betty replied.
Squeals and laughter accompanied the small figures emerging from the shade deeper in the grove of fruit trees. They came and sat sedately around the blanket while the food and drink was distributed. In what seemed like no time the food disappeared. A few of the littlest ones curled up for a nap. Tiny heads in their mother’s lap or sprawled in boneless abandon in the way only a small child can sleep.
Elsie looked down at the hand tugging on her sleeve.
“Can you tell us one of your stories now, Oma?” Mary asked, eyes bright with interest.
“Of course. Let me think which one would be best.” Elsie closed her eyes for a moment, going through the well-remembered names, casting around in her mind for the proper story. “Ah, I have it.” She smiled at the family gathered around her.
“What do you have?” Pida pushed his corn silk hair back from his eyes, turning his sun browned six year old face up to her.
“A story, Pida. One about some of the people who are buried there.” Elsie nodded toward the rose hedge and what was enclosed there.
“Honest? Did you really know them?” Five year old Nita asked, her blue-grey eyes wide with amazement.
“Some of them, yes. Others, the oldest ones, I have only their stories passed down to me by my grossmama.”
“Whose story are you going to tell?” Mary fairly bounced with excitement.
“Her name was Sarah Buller and she was your great grossmama. Her friends and family called her Zara.” She paused while the children settled around her before continuing. Her daughters had heard the stories when they were growing up, but they would be new to her sons’ wives. Good, perhaps they could pass some of the stories on as well.
“To understand why our ancestors decided to leave everything they knew and make the long and sometimes dangerous journey to Canada you need to know something of the history. You’ll have heard some of this in school, I suppose. But bear with me, for the sake of those who haven’t. Our ancestors originally lived in northern Germany, but due to persecution they moved first to Prussia, and then in 1789 to Russia. They settled on land to the north west of the Sea of Azov where they established Chortitza on the Dnieper River.
“Ah, I see you recognize that name. Yes, you see we brought not only our language and religion with us, but our names from the old country as well. Now, where was I? Oh yes, After Chortitza, they went on to establish Molotschna in 1803, this was a larger colony than the original.
“Now, this is the important part to understand, and something our people have struggled many times. It is important for our religion and community to be able to govern ourselves without interference from the state or government. Our colonies were self-governing.
“Schools were taught by men of the colony, and although they were largely untrained in teaching, they did a very good job. Often they were craftsmen or herders and taught around the duties of those professions.
“Now we come to the impetus that prompted Great Grossmama Sarah and her family to come to Canada. In 1870 the Czar of Russia proposed a plan called Russification. It would end all special privileges enjoyed by the Mennonites, including the exclusion from military service and the right for our schools to teach and speak German. The Mennonite leaders sent delegations to meet with the Czar, but their petition was denied. So, in 1873 another delegation went to explore the idea of moving to North America. The men returned with glowing reports of good arable land available in Manitoba, Canada, and Minnesota, South Dakota, Nebraska and Kansas in the United States.
“In 1872 the Canadian government announced a program to help settle the western provinces, so this is why they went. It was called The Dominion Land Grant. Bloc settlements were encouraged under section thirty-seven of the Land Act and allowed groups of ten or more settlers to group their houses together and fulfill their cultivation obligations on their own quarter-section while living within a community hamlet. This arrangement suited us very well.” Elsie paused to take a drink of lemonade.
“So Great Grossmama Sarah and her family left Russia because they weren’t going to be allowed to speak German or teach it in school.” Mary’s eyebrows lowered as she struggled to process everything Elsie had said.
“Yes, that, and the fact they would be forced to take part in military service as well as losing other privileges that are essential to keeping true to our faith. It is a thing that has happened over and over in our history. It is actually part of the reason your grosspape and I went to Paraguay in the 1920’s.”
“Was it a very long way to come?” Pida asked.
“Yes, and it was a hard journey. First overland by rail on the Nikolaivesk train to Hamburg. From Hamburg they travelled to Hull, England and then Liverpool. There they boarded a ship, the Austrian No. 40, and set sail for Quebec Canada. The sea journey was horrible. The waves were high and tossed the vessel around mercilessly. Sarah was afraid they would all end up at the bottom of the sea. She was only a young girl at the time and she didn’t know how to swim. Her brother, who later died of diphtheria, thought it was a wonderful adventure. She related later that the more the wind howled and the waves crashed over the side the more he laughed. Sarah, herself, was terrified most of the time. The sight of nothing but water all around made her feel like they were lost and she would never see land again. It took over a month to reach their destination. A huge storm blew them off course for a time. Sarah recalled how she cowered in her parent’s berth, which was an upper bunk in steerage. The structure swayed alarmingly with the pitch of the ship and our Sara remembers clinging to the bed clothes and the rail of the bed to avoid being tossed about too much.
“She was homesick, they sold almost everything before leaving Russia and Sarah didn’t even have her dolls for comfort.
“When they landed at Quebec City on July 17, 1874, it was raining and very hot and humid. Everything was confusion and shouting with people pushing to get a place in the straggly line, eager to set foot on solid ground. Strange languages assailed Sarah and she could understand none of them. Tears flooded her eyes and with nothing else to hand she wiped them on her mother’s skirt which she clung to. They were herded into a great hall that echoed with voices pleading and asking questions.
A man met with her father and they went off together to take care of the necessary paperwork. At least that's what Sarah’s mother told her. Sarah was so tired she just wanted to lay down and sleep. Eventually, they boarded a train. It was again very cramped and Sarah sat squeezed between her mother and father while her brother sat on the floor between their feet, knees drawn up to his chin as far as he could. Of the journey from Quebec to Winnipeg she said all she remembered was feeling sick to her stomach from the swaying of the train and the incessant noise of the wheels on the iron rails. Once they got off the train, and boarded a steam ship called The International it was better. On August 1, 1874 they were put on shore at an uninhabited place on the river bank. It was just north of what is today Sainte Agathe. From there they made their way to the Jacob Shantz reception houses which were near Niverville. They loaded everything they had managed to bring onto an ox cart.
“The trail from the landing to the reception houses on the East Reserve—”
“Why is it called the East Reserve?” Willy wanted to know.
“Don’t interrupt your grossmama,” Agnes hushed her son.
“It’s good to ask questions.” Elsie smiled at him. “It is called the East Reserve simply because it is on the east side of the Red River, so of course, the West Reserve is on the west side of the river.”
“Oh.” Willy nodded and chewed on a stalk of grass he’d pulled.
“Now, where was I? Oh yes. The trip from landing place to here. The trail was little more than a track through the low marshy ground. It didn’t help that it was a rainy year and the ground was a quagmire of gumbo mud. It stuck to the wheels of the ox cart and was slippery as ice when everyone, except Sarah who too small, put a shoulder to the wheels to help the oxen. Another vexation was the swarms of mosquitoes. Big as swallows, Sarah often said. Just like they do now, they plagued the people slogging through the mud. Even at night they came into the tents and gave no one any peace.”
“Why did they keep going if it was so horrible? Couldn’t they go to Winnipeg?” Doris asked.
“There was no choice. The land they were given was in the East Reserve, and what was there for them in Winnipeg? Not the freedoms they’d come so far to enjoy, and they were and still are, farmers not merchants or fur traders. Winnipeg wasn’t a bit city then either. It was little more than a general store at Portage and Main and some ramshackle houses.”
“I guess.” Doris didn’t look convinced but wisely said nothing more.
“When they finally reached the land they were allotted, it was nothing but bare prairie. Some of the land was stony and not easily cultivated, and some low and too wet to get a plough through, but before they could even think of that there were shelters to be built.”
“Houses? Like your house? Is that the one Great Grossmama Sara’s family built?” Frank, Ed’s eldest son asked.
“No. Nothing so grand as that for quite a while. My father built the house your grosspape and I live in. What Sara’s people built were sod houses, semlins. They dug into the ground about three feet down, then everyone helped cut sod blocks out of the prairie grasses. Even Sarah helped carry the blocks to the house site. They were piled on top of each other to form walls at least two feet thick, the blocks were firmly wedged together and packed with mud mixed with dung to fill any gaps that were found. Once the walls were high enough, poles from trees cut down by the rivers and creeks were put across to form a solid base for more sods. The roof had a slight peak and a gentle slope to the side. A space was left for a chimney pipe and once that was installed, the hole was chinked with mud to make it as weather tight as possible. Inside the area was divided into two parts that first winter. There was no time to build another shelter for the few animals they brought with them, so they occupied the back part of the semlin. It served two purposes. The arrangement offered shelter for the livestock and also provided heat to the house.
“The inside walls of the semlin were lined with shiplap boards which they had to buy in Emerson, but the trip and expense was worth it.”
“They kept the oxen in the house?” Helena was incredulous.
“They did. Those animals were essential to the family’s survival. How could they plant in the spring without the oxen to pull the plough? The goats gave milk, the few sheep were a source of both food and wool, the chickens provided eggs, and meat if needed. Now, I’ve talked on long enough. I will leave you with one more small thing Sarah passed down to us. When the first crops of wheat were in the milk stage in the fields the birds would come in the thousands to feed on it. The men and sometimes the children if they were old enough had to ride or run around the fields all day banging pots and singing and shouting to keep the birds from stealing the immature grain. Sara thought it was great fun, it wasn’t until she was much older she understood how devastating it would have been if the birds had stripped the field bare.”
“We still have to do that, don’t we?” Frank piped up.
“Somethings never change,” Elsie said with a smile in her voice.
“Thank you for the story, Oma,” Mary said. “I’ll remember it and pass it on to my children.”
Her little face was so earnest it tugged at Elsie’s heart. “When we have time I’ll tell you more stories.” She patted Mary’s head. “But now,” she addressed everyone, “I think it’s time we cleared up and headed back to the house. The cows will need milking and there are eggs to check for.”
Elsie got slowly to her feet. Goodness, she was getting too old to sit on the grass anymore. Mary’s arms hugging her waist surprised her and she glanced down with a smile.
“Thank you again. That story makes Great Grossmama Sara more than just a name on the headstone. It makes her real.”
“You’re very welcome. Run along now and help your mother, that’s a good girl.”
It didn’t take long to gather up the picnic things. Elsie lingered in the fragrant shade of the orchard after the others left. The afternoon sun slanted across the small cemetery holding her relatives who had been called home to God. Such a peaceful scene, may it stay that way forever undisturbed by war and persecution. Agnes’ appearance in the gap in hedge startled her. Elsie hadn’t realized her daughter had returned to the graveyard. She waited for her to join her under the trees.
Agnes wiped moisture from her cheeks and took Elsie’s hand. “There was some left over water so I took it to the rose bush.” She paused. “I don’t know why, but I just had to go back and say goodbye again. To feel close to my daughter somehow. I know she’s with God and Jesus, but somehow talking to her there seems to help the hurt in my heart.”
Elsie nodded and in silence the two women made their way back to the house through the golden May afternoon bright with birdsong.