One Foot in Heaven

By David Waltner-Toews

First published by Coteau Books in 2005, One Foot in Heaven is out of print. Hence this e-book format from Doft Ivanovitch books.

 

From the original cover: "A brilliantly-written collection of linked short stories presenting the interconnected lives, and world views, of several Mennonite families in Winnipeg and northern Alberta. One Foot in Heaven opens and closes with Prom Koslowski, a character who flees murderous bandits in Russia, gains twin babies and loses their mother on a torturous journey through the mountains into India, and finally makes a life for himself and his children in rural northern Alberta. His children go to Mennonite high school in Winnipeg, and go on to missionary and other work in their adult lives. In various ways, they are both drawn to the South East Asian region of their beginnings. They interact with a host of other characters as they grow - the innocent veterinarian Ab Dueck, the enigmatic Jael Freed, Ab's best friend George, whose own spiritual views differ so oddly despite arising from the same roots. In the fashion of much Mennonite writing, David Waltner-Toews uses both humour and pathos to present his characters juggling matters of the flesh and of the spirit in their quest for the true purpose of their lives and the best way to serve their god."

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Waltner-Toews
• Release date: Jan 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781777297039

David Waltner-Toews

David Waltner-Toews is an internationally celebrated veterinary epidemiologist, eco-health,  and One Health specialist. He has published more than 20 books of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry

Book preview

One Foot in Heaven

stories

by

DAVID WALTNER-TOEWS

Mennolit Debut is Not Lite It’s risky murdering a child in the first pages of a work of fiction. Make it too real, too distressing, and readers will want to escape; soft-pedal it, and sentiment debases the incalculable loss. In his debut story collection, poet and veterinarian David Waltner-Toews delicately treads a knife edge, leaving us shaken and primed for more. Globe and Mail (July 16, 2005)

No Trite Endings in These Linked Stories. These mature gems are the creation of a mid-life writer who truly understands life exigencies. Let us hope that Waltner-Toews is busy at work on his next book. The Toronto Star (Aug 21, 2005).

Growing up – what a misery, what a joy, what a misery. David Waltner-Toews writes superb fiction with the eye of a poet, the hand of a vivisectionist, and the words of a Mensch—Low German for human being. And that is what these stories are: insightfully, profoundly, human. Rudy Wiebe

An ingeniously linked set of stories, by turns hilarious, irreverent, suspense-filled, and deeply moving. Three thumbs up! Andreas Schroeder

Winner of the Foreward Magazine Silver Medal for short stories (2005) and Winner, Best Regional Fiction – Canada West, Independent Publisher Book Awards (2006).

––––––––

First edition, Coteau Books © David Waltner-Toews, 2005, 2006

ISBN 1-55050-312-X

Ebook,© David Waltner-Toews, 2020

ISBN

Table of Contents

Wild Geese

Boysenberry Jam

The Miracle

Getting Saved

Catechism

The Desires of the Spirit

Mennonite Baking

The Volunteer

Three Days in the Revolution

One Foot in Heaven

Sarah in the Promised Land

The End Times

Animal Doctor

A Sunny Day in Canada

Acknowledgements

Wild Geese

My name is Prom Koslowski. I arrived in Canada, from the Soviet Union, via Kashmir,

courtesy of the British Empire, in 1948. When I arrived in Canada I was asked where I was from. I was asked about my parents. There is not much I remember from Russia that I care to talk about. But I do remember. I do not remember my official history, what is in the book in some immigration office. I remember with my whole body a different history, the one that wakes me up at night, when I can’t remember where I am. When all I can think of to do is pray. Jerry Evanko, my Ukrainian neighbour here in Plumstein, Alberta, also remembers a lot. Sometimes we hint at things, more as the years go by. We know that back in the old country Mennonites hired Ukrainians for farm labourers, and that what we Mennonites call Russia was not Russia at all, but the Ukraine. After we have talked about the lame horse and the cow whose milk has dropped off, I walk back across the field to my house - to our house, the one I share with my twin children, Thomas and Sarah, born in transit. Their mother - I don’t wish to talk about that. Not yet.

Molotschna, the Ukraine. Mutti and I are alone in the hot summer kitchen. Mutti is kneading dough. Thump thump thump swish thump thump thump swish she kneads, turns, kneads again. I am ten years old. I am sitting on a high-backed wooden chair beside her, watching. She quits kneading and sits down next to me, her hands in her flowered apron with flour on them. She is very quiet for a moment, so quiet you can hear the geese clear over by the pond. I have asked her a question. What? I don't recall. Martha, my eight-year-old sister, is playing outside.

***

I run after her and tug at her braid so hard that she screams. I'll cut it off! I cry. Shame, shame on Martha everyone will say! I can’t remember why I did this.

She stamps her foot. That's no way to treat your sister.

I make a face at her with my hand to my nose. Nya nya, you're not my real sister. I don't have a real sister. Nya nya. I could be cruel, but only as all children are cruel. Normal cruelty. There are other kinds of cruelty. They also, for some people, became normal.

Well! She puts her hands to her hips, but I am already fleeing through the gate and into the dusty lane. She shouts after me. We are all brothers and sisters in God!

Then I go into the summer kitchen where Mutti is. And the question: Why did my mother die?

***

Mutti is really Aunt Frieda, and Vater, Uncle Henry. I don't even remember my real parents. Father went into the forestry brigade for his alternative service, and never came back. Mother died. That is all I know.

She died when you were born. Mutti continues kneading.

Because of me?

No. She was bleeding. It happens sometimes.

If not because of me, then why?

Why why why. The Lord wanted to take her home, I guess. Mutti goes out to feed the geese.

Bandits! The bandits are coming! Seventeen-year-old Eric Redekopp is at the door of the school classroom. His announcement means that we must run for the door and squeeze and struggle through the splintery door frame at once. The classroom is made of stone and is cool. Outside, the sun pummels the dust. Martha is running near, but her head is running faster than her short legs. She falls. I stop to help her up, my not-sister. Later, much later, I will wonder if this cancels out my cruelties. We are standing by a wheelbarrow. There is a man lying in it. A fly is crawling into his nose. Eric Redekopp runs up behind us. Shoo! he cries. Home! Home! Quickly now! His bony fingers dig into my arm. We are lifted and bounced and dragged along, crying, screaming, terribly afraid.

Mutti is at the front door, waiting for us. Gott sei dank! she cries when Eric Redekopp throws us like packages through the gate and runs on down the street. Thank you Eric, Mutti calls after him.

Vater is leading the horses into the barn. He is pulling too hard on them. They pull back and stomp their feet. Then he is gentle and they come and Vater and the horses are swallowed by the barn. I run to help Vater. Martha clings tightly to Mutti's leg, sobbing into the folds of her billowing black dress.

A picture: Vater is sitting on a chair with his hands on his knees. He is a slender man with a bony, sharp-featured face, short black hair and bushy eyebrows, a trimmed beard and curled moustache. He sits straight up in his double-breasted black suit and stares directly at the camera. Mutti stands beside him, her hand resting on the back of his chair. She is wearing a high-necked, puffy-sleeved long black dress. Her hair is parted in the middle and brushed back from her broad forehead and open, trusting face. Her eyes, as well, do not waver from the camera.

This picture is on the dresser in Mutti and Vater's bedroom. I have no pictures of my real parents. This picture of Mutti and Vater is all I remember. The picture is resting on a white doily. Martha and I are sitting on the edge of the bed. I am holding her hand, tightly. Mutti and Vater are in the kitchen, talking while Mutti warms the borscht on the hot black stove. We are waiting for the bandits.

I'm not afraid, says Martha. Are you?

I close my eyes tightly and shake my head back and forth and my heart is pounding.

Vater says, Why don't they come and get it over with?

Perhaps they won't.

Waiting. I can't stand all this waiting! Sometimes I wish I'd joined the Selbstschutz, gone after the bandits with a gun and everything be damned!

Henry, the children.

I'm sorry Frieda. It's so terrible, just so terrible. I'm afraid.

We don't have much. If they take it...

I know. With fighting like this - Reds, Whites, Germans, Bandits - never ending, we can't put in crops anyway. Perhaps they are poor and need the horses more than we.

Martha has pushed the bedroom door open just a crack and we can see them, holding each other close. They look like one person, like a black statue, standing alone in the darkening kitchen. Steam is bubbling up from the big pot of borscht on the stove. The statue separates into two, Mutti speaks, and the strangers in the kitchen become familiar again.

Why don't we eat something at least.

I'll get the children.

Martha pulls the door shut and we scurry back to sit on the bed. The door opens. Vater opens his arms to us, crouching to be our size. Children, come. Mutti has supper for us. We run to him and he squeezes us tightly.

Hey! he says, lifting us up under his arms. We kick and laugh and scream. When he drops us down beside the kitchen table he groans and holds his back. You two sure are heavy! he says. Getting bigger every day. Why, Prom, one of these days you'll be big enough to have a farm of your own!

And me! And me! cries Martha.

He puts the face so close to hers that the moustache prickles her. And you will marry a prince, he says.

Mutti is ladling soup into cracked and chipped white bowls.

I want to be a doctor, says Martha. Mutti and Vater smile at each other. Vater pats her on the head. Well then, I guess you'll be a doctor, he says.

Girls can't be doctors! I say, I do not know why.

Can too! Can too!

Can't! Can't!

You'll be a farmer and I'll be a doctor, isn't that right, Mutti?

We'll all be skinny as a bone if we don't eat soon, says Mutti.

Vater prays: ΑDear Lord be with us in this, the hour of our need. Give us Thy strength.

Jesus blood and righteousness

These are my jewels and my crown

With these I'll be in heaven blest

When I kneel down before God's throne.

In Jesus name. Amen."

It is a going-to-bed prayer, a night-time prayer. We eat borscht and bread with one white candle burning in the middle of the dark wooden table. The light makes strange shadows on our faces. I kick Martha under the table.

Ow!

Children.

Prom kicked me!

Prom, must you always?

I am making awful faces at Martha in the flickering light. I hold my arms up like bird wings, dangling my claws. A scowl furrows my forehead. I'm a bandit, I growl. I kick her under the table as hard as I can and she yells. I will regret this for many years.

Mutti and Vater look at each other across the table. Vater reaches his hand across and he and Mutti hold hands. Their eyes are staring deep, deep into each other. I have never before seen them hold hands at the table. It is not polite to reach across like that. Their hands are resting on the wood near the candle: pale, carved fingers hooked together. Both Mutti and Vater have on long black sleeves, so the hands look separate, as if they do not belong to anyone. They are white as bone.

Mutti and Vater whisper.

Listen.

What.

Horses.

The hands tighten, then loosen and pull apart. Vater poofs the candle out. Why did we have to build right by the road? he says.

So our friends could more easily visit us. Children, into the bedroom. Mutti herds us out of the kitchen.

Horses are clopping in the yard. Men are yelling. Vater bolts the door. Mutti is kissing us, her eyes full of tears. Even Martha must be afraid now. Mutti has never cried like this. She is pushing us under the bed.

Quiet, she whispers. No matter what. No matter if you hear anything, anything at all, you never make a sound. Versteh? She is looking right into our eyes. Her brown eyes are full and round and very serious. We nod our heads. The white flounce drops between us. As the bedroom door is pulled shut, someone is banging on the front door. They are hammering at the door, and cursing in Ukrainian. A window is smashed. Wood splintering and screaming metal: the door tearing from its hinges.

You rich bastards, we've got you now.

Oh, and a pretty little woman.

What do you want? Do you want horses? (Vater)

Anyone else here?

Our geese have disappeared, but the horses are in the barn. (Vater)

How come four soup bowls?

We ... we had guests. (Mutti)

Heavy boots are stomping around on the floor.

Hey, look at this!

A crashing of glass or china.

Well, isn't that a shame. I dropped it.

We have a few cows. (Vater)

What's in that room?

I could go round them up for you. (Vater)

The bedroom door swings open. Martha and I freeze together, arms around each other, hugging as tightly as we can. We are in a small room with a low roof, the metal springs just above us, the white curtains of the flounce all around. Like a cave, and we are small animals, like mice, shaking, waiting for the wolf to find us. I look at the scratches on the wooden floor by my face. I think Martha and I shouldn't have pushed the bed across the floor when we played house.

Anyone under the bed?

Quick, light steps, and Mutti's voice. No, of course not. That's silly. You want to break some more china? Come, I'll show you more.

Damn rights you'll show me more. And I'm not talking about china.

Get your hands off her! (Vater)

The teacher strikes!

Henry! No! (Mutti)

The student strikes back!

A muffled, thudding sound.

Henry. Oh. Oh. You're bleeding. (Mutti)

It's okay. (Vater)

Let me get a wet towel. (Mutti)

Sure, go get the man a wet towel. I want to see if somebody's under the bed. A pretty little daughter maybe?

No! (Mutti)

Oh-Ho! Friedchen gets angry! Here, this should settle it.

A gun explodes several times close by. Zinging sounds. A thud. Mutti has screamed with the sound of the gun. Martha's body relaxes in my arms. She is soft against me, and wet. I am not breathing.

That should do it. Now, the other business.

Should we kill him now?

Nah, let's get a whole bunch of them together and throw a couple of grenades. More efficient that way. These Mennonite farmers, they like efficient.

Crowing laughter.

Please, I'm not a rich man. I've been a teacher many years. I only have a little land. Please, just take what I have. (Vater)

Beg!

Please. (Vater)

On your knees. You too girlie. Good. Now beg, you dogs.

Please. (Vater)

The crowing again.

Come on Friedchen, let's see your stuff.

No, please. (Mutti)

You bastards! (Vater)

Oh, the pacifist teacher strikes again! Here's A for effort. A dull thud.

Mutti screams.

Boots are shuffling, metal clattering. The bed shakes. Laughter and grunting. The horrible laughter again. The flounce is shaking in front of my eyes. The metal bedsprings creak again and again above my head, groaning and thumping down to almost touch me each time. Martha does not move or make a sound. If she can, I can too. She is helping me be brave.

Aw, let's go. There's plenty more houses to hit yet tonight. Lots of women in town.

Okay mister, off we go.

God forgive you. (Vater)

What the hell's that supposed to mean?

God forgive you. (Vater)

God save the czar. The czar is dead! (A whining, nasal voice)

Boots are scuffling out of the room. Horses whinnying. Voices outside. Everything is quiet. No. Someone is weeping softly on the bed. My hands are wet and sticky where I have been clinging to Martha. There is a pool of something on the floor by her head. When I reach to put my fingers in her hair, they are poked by pieces of bone, and there is a mushiness where her hard stubborn head should be. Martha's head is broken.

Martha, Martha, I think they are gone, I whisper. She is still. I am crying.

For months, the soldiers come through town in tattered uniforms, on horses thin as skeletons. Or on foot, limping, with dirty white bandages trailing after them in the dust. Sometimes, there is the nervous beat of horses in the night. Pale, unshaven faces at the window. Mutti gives them warm milk. We have the only cow left in our village.

Two men sit, rifles across their knees, caressing the black metal and worn wood. They eat our last zwieback. We are silent. I stand next to Mutti, holding to the heavy folds of her skirt, rubbing the coarse wool between my fingers. We are standing beside a warm stove. Mutti is very pale, so beautiful it must be a sin. I do not know that she is very sick. She never speaks of that.

I am alone by the river, empty as a dry crust of bread among the black, bare arms of trees. Among people, I have no friends. Only God, and sometimes now this place by the river, are a comfort to me. It may be that God is in this place.

The wind is cold this evening, an icy hand reaching through my old navy blue sweater. The river looks cold, too, cold-blooded and sluggish. From darkness it comes upstream and to darkness it goes downstream. So it is with my life.

Leaves are blowing, dark and crisp, around my feet. They are brittle and beautiful in their death, coming home to earth. When the wind passes among the trees it shakes a last few leaves, and they speak with the voices of old people. Mutti speaks like that, lying so frail in the featherbed, as I sit by her and hold her hand. She speaks like a dry wind rustling through her.

Be strong in the Lord, the voice whispers.

I sit here on a stone by the river and look at everything through the windows of my eyes. Suddenly I am not inside myself anymore. I slip out of my eyes into the wind; my body I leave rooted there, like a prickly shrub on the bank. I am in the river, the trees, the leaves, moving with them, flowing. There is a star where the clouds part. I am alone on the rock again, sitting as still as nothing.

Listen, the voice in Mutti says. Listen... and then Mutti is silent. She goes to her peace, me holding her hand, listening, listening. At her bedside, I hear nothing. I do not yet know I am waiting for Nettie, whom I will marry when I am thirty and she is twenty-one, in 1940, who will bring me to life. Who will bring me life. I do not yet know I will someday flee this place.

I only know high above me a faint sound, a jabbering, a light-hearted laughter. I climb back up the riverbank and walk out into the stubble field. I can see the yard light glowing softly amber, but the sound I heard is gone. Then it comes again and I remember it: geese. I look up and see them almost directly above me, some little v's and a big one in the middle. They are like a  strange charcoal handwriting scrolling across the sky, a promise of something - I do not know what.

Boysenberry Jam

Prom Koslowski’s first memory of Canada, his first real memory, the kind that makes a story later, or a secret, was centred on a one-pint Gem glass jar filled with boysenberry jam. The jar was labelled Boysenberry Jam, blue ink on white paper, and below was the scrawled signature of the jam maker and a recent date. The jam's contents were a deep, dark red, almost black, especially seen held up against the light of