A
Father's Story
By Ivan Sysoev -Translated from
Russian by my father Theodore Sysoev
It
was the winter of 1901, and he was making his way home from Yorkton SK,
having just arrived there from
Brandon MN where he had worked as a blacksmith from early
spring until Dec. He had come to Yorkton by train,
but from here it was necessary to walk home to his village
of Nikolaevka. There was no one to hitch a ride with,
as in those days the Doukhobors were impoverished, and only
in rare instances did anyone possess a team of
oxen or horses. Trips into town were infrequent, and as it
happened, in this case there was no one heading in
the direction of his village. The train had pulled into Yorkton
at 10:00 PM so he was forced to spend the night
there. In the morning, having made his purchases, he affixed
his back-pack and started for home. The day was
frosty, but bright and calm as he walked briskly out of town.
The road was well-packed by horses and sleds and
was easy to traverse, however his village lay some 40 miles
away. Along his route, although some distance off
the road was the village of Petrovka. It was there that my
father planned to spend the night. The weather,
which had been so favorable earlier in the day, suddenly changed.
Dark clouds gathered quickly and it began to
snow. The wind picked up and began to drive the snow, and
soon snowdrifts formed on the road. About 10 miles
from the town, the wind turned into a blizzard and it became
very dificult to see anything and to walk in the deep snow.
Twilight descended, but Petrovka was nowhere in sight. Now in total darkness,
with the vicious wind and the driven snow pelting his face,
and huge snowdrifts obscuring the road, he completely lost his way
and wandered around aimlessly, not knowing in which direction
he should go. To stop was unthinkable, as he
would surely freeze to death. He was determined to push on
and perhaps with some luck, he would encounter
a farmhouse or some other dwelling. Peering intently into
the distance, he thought he saw a faint, twinkling
light. The storm had now intensified as he headed in the direction
of the light. In a few minutes, he reached an
Indian encampment consisting of about a dozen tents. Of course,
in those days we feared the Indians, with
their unkempt appearance, long black hair, and striped apparel
sewn from woolen Hudson Bay blankets. We had
heard that they were wild and savage, and this fact struck
fear into his heart. However, he had no choice, and
and so, approaching the nearest tent, he shouted "Hello!"
A male Indian emerged from the tent and motioned
my father to come in. Upon entering the tent he saw that it
was occupied by a family consisting of a father,
mother and three children. They were sitting around an open
fire in the middle of the tent, which was very
roomy. Around the perimeter there were several beds fashioned
out of thick furs and woolen blankets. In one
corner stood a table made out of rough-hewn lumber. A wooden
box was placed in front of it and father was invited to the
table. The woman quickly assembled a meal of boiled potatoes, bread, butter,
biscuits and hot
coffee which my father ate with relish. Soon a conversation
ensued, the Indians wanting to know where my
father was going and how he stumbled upon their settlement.
In broken English, interspersed with gestures, he
explained that he was on his way to Nikolaevka, but became
lost in the storm. The Indians invited him to stay
the night and he was given a sleeping bag made from rabbit
fur. In the morning, after breakfast of biscuits,
honey and coffee, he took out some money and offered to pay
for their hospitality, but the Indians refused to
take it. After saying goodbye and expressing his gratitude,
my father went out to the road. The Indians pointed
in the direction he should go to his village. The storm had
subsided, and the day was calm and not as cold, and
he reached Nikolaevka without further incident. The following
year, we moved farther north to Troetskoye, near
the border of Saskatchewan and Manitoba. Our house was built
partly of sod and partly of rough lumber. It
consisted of one large room which constituted the kitchen,
living room and bedroom. In one corner, there was a
Russian clay and brick oven, which in addition to being used
for baking bread was sometimes utilized as a source
of heat for the house. Grandfather occasionally slept on top
of this oven. A long, home-made bed, on which the
whole family slept, was placed against one wall of the room.
The winter of 1903 arrived, and it was particularly
severe with much snow and heavy frosts. During one such cold
evening, the family was sitting around, singing
songs. Indoors it was warm and cozy. Our German wall clock
chimed eleven. Suddenly we heard a knock on the
door. The singing stopped and father opened the door. Outside
were two men, with several dogs hitched to a
long sled. The people were Indians and were asking if they
could spend the night. My father told them to follow
him, but they pointed to the road, indicating that there were
others there. Altogether there were five of them.
Removing the harness from the dogs, they led them into a shed.
My father and the Indians entered the room,
and at first, he didn't recognize them. The guests greeted
us warmly in English "thank you for your kindness,"
said one of the younger Indians, "you have a warm house,"
he added. Father asked them to remove their outer
clothing, and my mother prepared a meal of borshch, bread,
butter, boiled eggs, pickled cucumbers, chicory and
sugar. Having finished supper, the Indians immediately bedded
down, and exhausted by their grueling trip, they
were asleep almost instanty. Father took two loaves of bread
to the shed and fed the dogs. Soon after, we too
went to bed, all except mother. Partitioning off one corner
of the room with an old bedsheet, she stayed up all
night mending the Indians' clothing and darning their sox
and mittens. It was only upon arising in the morning,
communicating with gestures and what little English they could
muster, that father recognized the Indians. This
was the same family that had so graciously sheltered and fed
him when he lost his way walking from Yorkton
two years previously. It was the father, his three sons and
a son-in-law. They were hauling provisions from the
town of Swan River, Manitoba which was situated twenty miles
from our village, to a sawmill 75 miles farther
north, and since there was no good road to the site, the provisions
had to be transported by dog-sled. This was
how my father was able to repay the kindness and hospitality
shown by those Indians for the time he had spent
in their camp on a similarly cold winter's night two years
before. The Indians were extremely grateful to mother
for mending their clothing. They too, offered money, but my
parents refused to accept it. This narrative was
recollected and recorded by Ivan Sysoev on May 10, 1966, who,
to that day, remembered the harsh winter
night and the visiting Indians.
|
