Mankiya: A Memoir

By Vee Konkin

As a little girl growing up in British Columbia, Canada, Vee Konkin loved listening to her aunt Mankiyaor Marytell stories about her fascinating life.

She kept notes from their conversations and _ led them away in a little wooden cigar box. She vowed to one day share her aunts story with the world.

Born in Russia, Mankiyas parents were Doukobours, who were pacificts from Russia. _ ey refused to join the army and were granted permission by the czar to leave Russia in the late 1800s and early 1900s.

With the help of Leo Tolstoy, the Quakers, and the Canadian government, the settlers went to Cyprus before traveling to the territories of Canadanow known as provinces. They built hovels made of turf and sod before advancing to log structures.

Mankiya and her family were among the first such settlers to make their home on the Canadian prairies in the territory of Saskatchewan. She suffered numerous medical hardships and endured rude and nasty comments from the people in her commune, but she never lost her spirit.

Today, the descendants of the Doukobours have made their marks as doctors, engineers, lawyers, and more. Celebrate their contributions and history with the amazing story of Mankiya.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532021459

Vee Konkin

Vee konkin was born and raised in the southern interior of British Columbia, Canada, where she went to school, worked, and retired. When she was younger, she spent a lot of time with her aunt, Mankiya. She kept notes from their conversations in a little wooden box and told her that she would one day write her story. This is her first book.

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Copyright © 2017 Vera Barisenkoff.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-2144-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-2145-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017905494

iUniverse rev. date: 05/19/2017

Contents

Preface

Acknowledgments

Introduction

From Russia

The Village

Teblis And Batumi

Wide Awake

So This Is Cyprus

Atlantic Ocean

Not Manitoba

Love Happens

Love Happens To Nellie

Time For Marriage

Learning English

Life Was Not Easy

Not Just Sick, But Worse

Sometimes Things Are Not What They Seem

Help Does Come

The Beginning Of A New Life

Journey To Brandon

My New Home

Operation Number One

Soon It Was Over

News From Home

It Was Time To Go

The Lordly

Our Neighbors

I Can Do It

Working Outside The Community

All Was Not Well On The Home Front

Work In Trail

Things Could Be Better

Strict Reprimands

Sad Times

Pass Creek

New Beginnings

Pass Creek

Scary Experience

Summer’s Picking

As Life Goes On

I Do Not Like Goats

Relatives

Life As Usual

Summers Picking Fruit

As Days Go By

Kinnaird

Not Too Much Change

Life Is So Short

Sad Times

Castlegar Is Growing, And So Is Kinnaird

Getting Older

The New Generation

A Trip Not So Enjoyable

Recovery?

Home Again

Trip To Victoria

Well Again

Moving Again

My First Plane Ride

More Pain

Time To Pack

Kimberley? Why?

Last Days I Remember

Nelson? Yes, Nelson!

Velda Said

About The Author

This book is a biography about my aunt Mary. I wrote this for my daughter because she was always Mary’s favorite great-niece. It is also for her husband so that he can understand where she learned some of her silliness. This is also for my sister, all my nieces and nephews, my great-nieces and great-nephews, and my great-great-nieces and great-great-nephews. To all my aunt’s friends and their children, who often wondered about her but were too polite to ask; this will answer a lot of questions.

Preface

Since I could remember, I was very curious about my aunt Mary. She had many stories to tell her nieces and nephews. I enjoyed staying with her and my grandparents, even if it was to get away from my two older siblings, who were ten and eight years older, respectively. I thought they made my life miserable. I will not deny they spoiled me, and I let them. I always told my aunt that when I learned to read and write, I would write a book about her. Since I was nine years old, as I listened, I would write little notes and file them away in a little wooden cigar box. The box got filled, but I had no story. I worked and had little time to write. I told my aunt I would write when I retired and had nothing to do.

Her remark was You will not remember me. Never mind. Write my story.

Long after she passed away, to prove her wrong, one day I got out the little box and sorted out my notes. I’d kept track of dates, people, and places. To tell you the truth, I did not know where to start. I wrote people’s names that I changed, as well as places. I did not check the dates; some may not be accurate or the most exact. Most of the people were not real. I changed a few episodes to keep things interesting. This was based on her life and how she solved her problems. These are her memories as they were told to me over the years.

It is a story about her sad and happy times. She was a kind, lovable lady and would help anyone and everyone.

It is about experimental grafting, doctoring, and midwives of the early days.

This story is about communal living and hate, jealousy, and greed.

I thought I had a lifetime to write, in my later years when I got old. There was so much to see and do, and so many places to go to, like France, Spain, Portugal, the Caribbean Islands, Alaska, Canada, and the United States of America. There were so many places to go to, and so many friends with whom to spend time. My lifetime was going too quickly. I had to make time to write this because I was now retired and might not have much time. So, here it is. It’s too bad Aunt Mary cannot read this.

Acknowledgments

I would never have written this without encouragement from my spouse and my daughter. I give a special thank-you to the people from iUniverse. To Dianne and Tammy, for encouraging me to continue and keep on. To Katie, a special thank-you for your patience and perseverance, and for helping me with all my mistakes. Without you, this would never have been written.

Thank you to Denis, my computer guru, and his wife.

Thank you to my spouse for his patience.

Introduction

This story is about the late 1800s and early 1900s. Immigrants came to settle in Canada; in this case, it was pacifists from Russia. With the help of Leo Tolstoy, the Quakers, and the Canadian government, the settlers went first to Cyprus. Because of poor nourishment, many lost their lives. The survivors came to the territories of Canada, now known as provinces. They worked hard, first building little hovels made of turf and sod; log structures were built later. All the work had to be done with bare hands. All the fields were dug manually, and after a day’s work, they still had time to sing. They were allotted land if they wanted to stay in Saskatchewan or Alberta. Some wanted to live in communes, so they moved to the southern part of British Columbia, where they lived the communal life until 1955; then they had to buy the land.

They were known as the Orthodox Doukobour, not to be mistaken for the Sons of Freedom, who were the breakaway group. They did not reside in the same area, and there was some discord between the groups; there were many hard feelings between parents, children, and other relatives because they all believed differently. The Orthodox were peaceful, God-fearing people. The Sons of Freedom would go to meetings, disrobe, and burn homes. Most had no respect for Canadian laws. They had their children forcibly removed from their homes because they would not let them go to school.

Many of the Doukobours left the communal living to be in their own homes and believe in different religions. Many still live in the southern British Columbia area. They are now doctors, lawyers, and teachers, and many have prestigious positions. They are no different from other Canadians.

From Russia

It was 1895. We were on our way to Canada, wherever that may be. The big ship that we boarded in Batumi was rocking back and forth. I think most people were sleeping, some rather fitfully; I heard snoring and groaning. Farther away I heard people crying, and someone prayed out loud. The trunk with our belongings was sliding back and forth, sometimes close to me, forcing me to go closer to my sister Nellie, who was sleeping next to our mother, Axoota. Then it was our father, Wasa; our paternal grandparents, Hryna and Misha; and two teenage daughters, my aunties Dasha and Molasha. All were sound asleep—except me.

I tossed and turned and could not sleep, so I decided I would go exploring. I was not able to do so before; I had to stay by my parents’ side or hold my sister’s hand, which she was not anxious to do.

It was a stormy night: lightning flashed, and the thunder and rain came. I could see where to go: up the ladder and through the hatch. I had a hard time lifting it because it was so heavy, and I found myself on the wet deck. I tried to get out of the rain and edged along the wall of the cabin, behind coils of wet, smelly rope. There was a dry spot and a piece of canvas that covered a pile of rope. I hunkered down and peeked out as a wave hit. I covered up more and peered out. The ship rocked and rolled in the vast ocean. This was so exciting and adventurous! I made out the water, but only when the lightning lit up everything. This was the largest amount of water I had ever seen in my six years of life. It was an exciting new experience: a beautiful lightning storm.

As I sat in my little hiding space, behind some rolls of large rope covered with a large piece of canvas, I managed to stay dry. I could hear one of the deckhands singing in a very cheerful voice.

I recalled my past, as far back as I could remember.

The Village

I was born on a bright summer day, on June 14, 1889. I was a cute, chubby, blue-eyed, blonde-haired girl. I was the second girl in the family. Apparently there were two boys, and the first born was Wasil, who died at birth. Then there was Nicola, who died before he reached age one. My parents were trying for another boy, when I came along. But there I was, cute as a button.

I was two years old, and my sister, Nellie, was eight then. I tagged along behind her wherever she went in our little village in Russia. Everyone knew each other, and one could not get lost.

Koodrick was our cute but funny dog. He was short-legged and black with two brown spots over his eyes and a little white fur on his neck. He would be right behind us wherever we went.

Life was uneventful, living in a quiet, peaceful village in the beautiful countryside. The elders tended to fields, gardens, chickens, cows, sheep, and whatever else they had. Of course, the children also had small chores. Mine was to feed Koodrick. I guessed that was why he loved me: I was the food source.

One evening when we should be sleeping, we could hear the adults talking about going to war. All seemed against it—the firearms and the army. Our father’s brother, Uncle Soma, came one evening and announced that he had joined the army and was going to Moscow for training. Everyone cried. I could not see why everyone was so sad. I was five years old and did not know about armies or wars.

One night, out of our window we could see a big fire. All the men gathered on the hill above the village and burned all their guns, protesting against going to war because it was against their religion. It was 1895.

Then one evening, a meeting was called at the village meeting hall. Leo Tolstoy and the Quakers were helping people in our village to immigrate to Canada. The Canadian government had allotted land they could farm. We were told to leave Kavkaz. We had to leave Russia because the men refused to go to war and to carry guns. I knew they burned them and did not have any.

We packed and loaded whatever belongings we could get into a trunk, tried to tie furniture to the edge of the wagon, and had many satchels packed with food and clothes. Anything we could carry, we did. I carried my doll, Kukla. It was bad enough leaving the village, Uncles Misha and Nicola, and their families. My cousins got to keep Koodrick—how I cried. As we walked, I looked back every chance I got, until through my teary eyes, I could no longer see the buildings and the people waving good-bye. I could no longer see Koodrick.

This was a big adventure for a little girl who had never been out of the village. People were everywhere as we went along, with more joining us from different villages. Many cried, some sang psalms, and others prayed. It was a sad time. We had cows tied to the wagons to provide us with milk, as well as chickens in wooden crates for eggs.

We walked and walked. I thought I would drop because I was so tired, as were the animals. I missed Koodrick and could not understand why I could not take him.

We stopped at nights and ate whatever our mother prepared. She was so tired, and so Nellie and I helped as much as we could. Then we spread the thick, wool-filled comforters on the ground under or beside the wagons, and we fell into an exhausted but troubled sleep. The cool mornings came too soon, and after a quick breakfast, we were on our way again. Oh, how I missed the peaceful life of the village. How I missed my cousins and Koodrick.

We walked for days and slept many nights. One seemed to be a continuation of another, and it was very exhausting. We went through small villages, where more people joined us. Everyone was so sad, and in a few days, the newcomers were as tired as the rest of us.

One night we stopped, and a group of people speaking a strange language came to talk to us and inquire as to where we were going. We understood some of the words, and we were told they were Armenians. They soon left, and we continued on our journey.

One afternoon, all the sky turned black, and the wind started to blow. There was no place to take shelter except under the wagons. I thought I was going to get blown away. I thought Kukla was going to get blown away, and I hid her under my arm and hung on to her for dear life; it seemed she was all I had. That night the wind blew, there was thunder and lightning, and the rain pelted us. I thought I would drown, and the animals were skittish and unsettled. By morning the storm blew over, and the sun was again shining. Soon we got on our way, all dry, and we got warmer as the day wore on.

Teblis and Batumi

Finally, we came to a bigger village. I was told this was a town called Teblis. We rested for a few days, where we sold or gave away the oxen, the wagons, and everything we could not carry. We boarded a big, noisy train—something many of us had never seen before. I was excited by the experience of riding on these two ribbons of steel.

Soon we were in Batumi, which seemed even larger than Teblis. There were lots of water, large ships, and little boats and all kinds of interesting things to see in the harbor. People milled around everywhere. Merchants were selling all kinds of goods: fish, fruit, vegetables, and many things we had never seen or heard of. What fascinated me the most were those gooey-looking beans I saw people buying and chewing. The Cossack selling them asked if I would like to try one. Fascinated, I could only nod. I tasted it, and it was the sweetest thing I’d ever had in my life. Many years later, I learned it was a carob bean. We wandered from stall to stall. At one of the stalls, I was offered a clear crystal, glasslike substance on a string; it was rock candy. How I savored that—it was the best thing I’d ever eaten! I would suck on a crystal and then wrap the rest in a handkerchief and put it in my farteec pocket. (Farteec is the apron we wore over our long skirts.) The candy lasted for a long time.

This was where I had my first scary encounter with Osiya Trofeeminko. He was an older man with a gray beard and gray hair that was thin on top. He had bushy gray eyebrows that nearly covered his beady black eyes. He was always ringing his rough hands, and he had a snide grin with two front teeth missing. He was not a nice or kind man; I heard him swearing at his wife and at his only son, who looked like he was petrified of him and would