I.

It was fierce Canadian winter. For a goodly long time the sun had been hidden behind the white, snow-filled prairie. It was only seven in the evening, but outside it was so dark that only with difficulty could you make out anything at all. Snow had fallen all day long, and now a terrible storm was brewing.

I sat with my father in our little, cozy room. We had just finished supper. Father, by habit, had picked up some kind of a book, sitting at the table, was reading it by lamplight. Mother was in the kitchen tidying up and washing dishes with the help of my older sister. I was to be reading a Russian book under father’s supervision. I was all of about eight, I had just finished the primer and was about to begin another great feat—reading a big
book.

Everything in the house was peaceful and quiet; everyone busy with their own work. Only I wasn’t too pleased with what I had to do. Even if it was warm and comfortable, all the same, joining letters together and reading them was not exactly my interest.

Suddenly someone knocked loudly at our outside door—I got happy, hoping that father would become involved with whoever had come, and I could drop my book.

I got up, went into the cold entrance way and shouted, “who’s there?’ “It’s me, Zakhar Treschuk” came a strong voice, which I knew to be one of the Bukovinians.

I opened the door. Together with the snow and piercing wind entered Zakhar, a tall man dressed in a big kuzhukh (sheepskin coat), covered with snow wearing leather trousers, a warm cap and mittens of fur. On his feet were great felt boots edged with a decoration of fur.

Zakhar was a simple, uneducated, hardworking, serious Christian, not noted for anything in particular, but he lived in peace and harmony with all of his neighbours, fellow Bukovinians. Here was a type of simple Canadian Bukovinian.

Entering, he shook the snow off himself, and took off his cap and mitts. “Is the priest at home?” he asked in the Bukovinian dialect. “Da, doma. Yes, at home.” I answered and invited him into the room where my father sat. Zakhar entered and kissing my father’s hand, as is done, told him simply and pleadingly, that his little boy was sick. He had fallen ill suddenly with diphtheria and with no doctors nearby, at least not for a 100 versts, he had come to them for help.

At this time around was this terrible epidemic going on: the poor Bukovinians, especially small children, were perishing without any medical aid. Only a few months ago, I, too, and my sister had also fallen ill, but fortunately, we had some medicine we could employ and Mother was able to nurse us to health.

Every Bukovinian believes firmly in the strength of the prayers of the priest, and always, in a moment of need, his only hope is the All-Merciful God…he does not follow the doctors and is ready to use all kinds of herbs on the sick.

Father had gone many times to the sick and knew their customs and their faith, and so he decided to go to Zakhar’s home.

II.

The storm did not abate. The three of us went outside and quickly harnessed our horses to the sleigh. Zakhar had come on horseback. It was dark and the moon was hidden. The wind moaned.

Father wrapped his coat around himself firmly and sat in the sleigh. He often took me with him as a helper (I took care of the candles, books and censer, that kind of thing), and now he allowed me to come with him. I put on my warm coat and cap, and sat down by Father, wrapping my feet in the cloth put on top of a warm brick.

The horses lurched forward. Zakhar was riding his horse in front of us. We entered the broad prairie.

Outside of glimmer of tiny lamps, we did not see any light, but we found the road, and quickly drove through a thick forest. Snow! It covered the road and stung our faces, crept under the wraps and covered our caps.

We rode for an hour, leaving the forest and heading again for the open prairie. We rode there for several minutes and suddenly…on the wind came the fearsome scream of a woman and the howling of wolves!…

We pushed the horses on faster in that direction, from which we heard the cry. Continuing on in the dark, now we could make out a form in the snow, and driving on for a few minutes, we could see a dark outline of a figure. The horses reared and came to a stop, but we forced them closer. There was a person dressed in a coat, shouting and waving her hands about wildly. Beside her were four big wolves that darted and circled.

Zakhar and Father got together and went to the frightened woman. She cried and shouted, trying to pelt the marauding wolves with snow and any items that she had. The wolves were old, thin with shining yellowish eyes; evidently they were very hungry, for when Zakhar and my father came up, they didn’t back away.

Zakhar pulled out a revolver and shot several times. Two wolves fell on the snow, their blood running onto the white snow, froze immediately, and the other two wolves, frightened, ran off.

It took the woman some time to come to her senses, but little by little she recovered. She was of average height, about 40 years old, one of the Syro-Arabian peddlers who went from house to house within the Bukovinian settlement, selling knives, needles and other household items. It seems she was hurrying to the home of another Bukovinian when she met the wolves. If we had not come along, she would have perished.

We put the lady in our sleigh, got in ourselves and quickly got to the home of Zakhar.

It was so good to warm up in the house after that trip! Father read a prayer of healing for the sick child and blessed him with holy water, and gave what medicine he had brought, instructing Zakhar and his wife how to take care of him.

It was late at night when we left for home. The peddlar stayed behind, to sleep overnight at Zakhar’s.

By then the storm had settled. The moon was out and everything was clear and light. The horses, by now rested up, moved quickly and in two hours we arrived home safely. We were a bit tired, yes. But we were so happy with the way things had turned out.