A 1895 Journey Across the Atlantic Through the Eyes of a Ukrainian Farmer

I had never been afraid of traveling on water. Although I had never had a chance to experience a ship journey, I had to travel by boat. Oddly enough, the more the boat rocked and the water swirled around it, the more I felt a strange sense of excitement. The ship was scheduled to depart in the evening, so I went to sleep with a German companion and soon fell asleep. I woke up early, around half-past two, and noticed that the ship had stopped. Quickly dressing, I went up on deck and saw that our ship was passing near what seemed to be a maritime guard post. A small boat was following alongside; after rounding the post, it joined the guards, and the ship moved on. I went back to sleep.

Around six o’clock in the morning, I began to feel unwell. I knew that anyone traveling by sea for the first time had to endure this weakness. The crew had already placed small basins next to each bed for passengers who felt sick. I had nothing to give, as I had skipped dinner while asleep and hadn’t eaten breakfast, yet the nausea persisted stubbornly. I spent half the day in this state, much like a woman in labor—but with nothing to expel.

As the ship sailed, it tossed from side to side, and anyone feeling weak would notice this immediately. When it rose on the waves, it was bearable, but when it dropped into the troughs, a wave of faintness would overcome me. Around noon, the ship’s bell rang. My German companion woke me, urging me to try lunch. I felt too ill to eat, but he insisted it might help. I tried, but just looking at the food made me nauseous, and I had to flee.

My companion was suffering even more than I was, so he suggested mixing wine with water in a cup. I did as he said and gave it to him; he drank it and then told me to do the same. This helped me regain a little strength. By evening, I was able to eat some bread with butter, drink coffee, and even walk around the deck a bit. Our ship finally arrived at the port in England at three o’clock in the morning.

My German companion and I got dressed and waited for the morning. Early in the day, the authorities inspected our belongings and then escorted us to the railway station. At six o’clock on the morning of July 31, we departed for Liverpool. Our travel documents, which had validated us for the ship, were taken, and we were given standard railway tickets instead. As we traveled through England, we passed fields full of thriving crops—wheat, oats, rye, and barley—which gave us a good chance to talk along the way.

Friedrich Konrad had left his estate in Russia in 1889, which was worth about 60,000 Austrian gulden, to his grown children—a son and a daughter—while he, with his wife and three children, moved to Canada. In Canada, he acquired one homestead and bought two more, giving him a total of 480 acres, or 339 morgs, of land. He owned a steam-powered threshing machine and about 60 head of cattle, though his main income came from interest on capital. He gave the cattle to his other son-in-law in Canada. In January of that year, he went to Russia to visit his children, and was now returning to Canada. He advised the children who had stayed in Russia to sell the estate and move to Canada, arguing that there was no need for them to suffer in Russia.

Indeed, he acknowledged that they had good land in Russia from which they could survive, but, he said, there was no freedom. A man had to bow to every authority, send his sons to the army, and pay high taxes. “Here in Canada,” he said, “we have freedom. Even the highest officials, even ministers, try to treat people fairly. Our sons are not drafted, the army exists, but joining is voluntary, and our taxes are low. I’ve been managing my land for seven years and haven’t paid a single tax yet.”

I asked him about crops, pastures, livestock, winters, and so on, and he told me everything. They had plenty of cultivated land, mostly used for wheat, followed by rye, barley, and potatoes, though the latter were primarily for feeding livestock, since they baked their own bread only from wheat. There were thousands of cows, mostly left unmilked, and nobody thought to milk the sheep. Pastures were sufficient, and clover had not yet needed to be sown. Potatoes were planted sparingly, as they had enough fields and most livestock overwintered on bare land. Occasionally, heavy snow required feeding the cattle indoors, as they could not find grass, though the horses could find sufficient fodder in the marshlands.

The winters were harsh, but wildlife did not threaten the livestock. Wolves were smaller than those in Europe and only attacked sheep; other livestock were left alone. A German from Edmonton once wrote to them that he had supposedly killed 25 hares with a club, though he noted that the hares there were smaller than those in Europe.

I asked whether theft or hooliganism ever happened, and he told me that it did not. In fact, he went further: when he first lived there, he sometimes transported many belongings by cart, which occasionally got lost along the road. When he returned along the same route, he would find the items a little off to the side. Things used in daily life were always left in the same place, nothing was ever hidden.

This is what the German, who had been managing his property in Canada for seven years, told me. I had no reason to doubt him, and in any case, Oleskiv and I would verify everything in person.

Amid such conversations, the train carried us further into England. The land became increasingly hilly, and the railway frequently ran through tunnels. In Manchester, we transferred from one train to another, but had to use an omnibus for the transfer, paying a shilling each. From Manchester, we continued to Liverpool. Due to the smoke from countless factories and the tunnels we passed through, we had to keep the windows closed in the railway cars during the day. Everything inside the car was covered in soot.

We arrived in Liverpool at noon, where a servant from the emigration hotel, which was owned by the shipping company, met us. He led us to the hotel, and shortly afterward, my professor Oleskiv also appeared. At the hotel, we had lunch, an afternoon snack, and breakfast for June 1, and spent the night there. We met several German families from Russia, who had sold their estates and were moving to Canada.

On August 1, our belongings and we were taken by omnibus to Alexandra Station. We waited for the ship to be loaded from noon until six in the evening. At five o’clock, we had an afternoon snack, and at six, two smaller vessels towed our ship, the Sardinian, out to sea. By that point, the ship was able to navigate on its own, and the smaller vessels detached.

Our ship departed at six o’clock in the evening on August 1 from the Liverpool harbor, bound for the Canadian city of Montreal. We passengers watched the ship glide through the water for a long time, until the rain drove us inside. Among the passengers were people of all ages: some elderly, who could be said to be at the end of their lives, some in the prime of life, older children, and even very small children who could not yet sit on their own. I asked how such small children handled seasickness, and I was told that, in any case, it was easier for them than for the older passengers.

The rain began to fall steadily, so we retreated to our cabins—the professor in first class, and the German and I again in second class. On the first night, the ship sailed calmly between the coasts of England and Ireland, so quietly that one could barely hear any movement.

Early on August 2, in good weather, the passengers went out on deck after breakfast. The children amused themselves by running about on the deck, much like at Easter on a cemetery back home. Around noon, our ship veered slightly to the side and dropped anchor to collect mail from Ireland bound for America, which arrived around three in the afternoon. The weather was calm. Once the mail was collected, the ship immediately continued on its journey.

But now the wind began to whip the ocean waters, lifting the ship upward and then letting it drop into the troughs. My German companion fell ill from seasickness, and the professor, offering me his hand, said, “Be well, perhaps we shall not see each other again.”

During the night, the wind battled with the ship, and by then many passengers had begun to suffer, though I had not yet felt weak myself. The alternating wind and rain allowed passengers little opportunity to go out on deck. Most passengers stayed hidden in their cabins, and traces of seasickness were visible across the deck. I did not go out for breakfast in the morning, ate around noon, and by evening finally vomited what little I had eaten. The professor did not become weak, but the German companion did not leave his bed.

The wind lashed the waters, and the ship, rolling on the ocean swells, sometimes buried its bow in the waves, sending water crashing across the deck. The water spilled over the deck as it would in a millrace, and when the ship rose on the waves, it made a noise like a thunderstorm. I was completely exhausted, lying in my cabin on the bed, unable to tell whether I was breathing or not.

Lying in my bed, I reminded myself that that day was Sunday. Slowly dragging myself out of bed when the bell rang for breakfast, I began to get ready, but had barely moved when I had to vomit again, though there was nothing left. I made some water with wine for my German companion and went out on deck for some fresh air, because the rocking of the ship was less noticeable there. On deck, we met with Professor Oleskiv and walked back and forth for a long time, talking, especially about food.

The professor said that although he had vomited, it was not due to seasickness, but because of the food, which we could not tolerate; even the smell alone made us feel ill inside. I could only dream of our Ruthenian-style stuffed cabbage with cornmeal, or borscht, or sour milk with rye bread—but all of this existed only in my imagination. If only I had taken a bottle of red wine with me in Hamburg! Indeed, the German asked me whether I had eaten that day, and if not, he suggested I pour some wine for myself to gain a bit of strength. But seeing that the wine was already too little for him, and that he was feeling worse than I was, I said that I had eaten, though in truth I had not had a thing all day.

By evening, feeling weak from hunger, I dared to ask the German to let me mix wine with water, but sensing that he might ask, I simply allowed myself to do it. After drinking it, I felt somewhat stronger. Naturally, I confessed my misdeed to the German, and he did not take offense. I recalled the words of a Jew who had said that he would only go to America if the devil took the sea.

(…) The wind gradually began to die down, and the ship’s rocking became less severe. In the evening, I lay down on my bed, and even in sleep I felt unusually lazy and sleepy.

I had already decided that if our Ruthenians were to colonize in Canada, they should be instructed not to rely on ship food, but to bring their own homemade provisions—even cabbage and our bread with sausages made in our own way, to which we were accustomed. I must note that although I do not smoke myself, during my seasickness I was strangely comforted by the smell of tobacco smoke.

I woke up early, completely weakened; my body was in desperate need of nourishment, but where could I get it? The ship’s crew was busy preparing breakfast, yet the very smell of the food made me feel unbearably ill. I asked my German companion to request a bottle of wine from the ship’s steward. I stayed in bed, and shortly afterward, the steward arrived. The German ordered the wine, but it cost about one and a half dollars—4–5 Austrian kronen. What could be done? I knew my stomach could digest nothing from the ship’s meals. I desperately needed something alcoholic; there was indeed a remedy in the bottles, intended to aid the sick—it was called “nigres” or something similar—but just the smell made me shiver. I paid for the bottle, which held no more than three-quarters of a liter, and the German remarked that in Canada one could buy four such bottles for the same money. Following his example, I diluted the wine with water—and felt slightly stronger. From then on, I always drank water mixed with wine after meals.

A Ruthenian proverb came to mind: “If not by oxen, then by heads.” The ship carried me for free, so it was only fair that it should at least earn a little from selling me the wine. My seasickness began to ease, and I felt somewhat stronger. For that reason, I often went out onto the deck, where we usually met with Professor Oleskiv. This time, Oleskiv asked me to take him to our German companion, who still had not left his bed. I did so, the professor spoke with him, and then we went out onto the deck to talk.

When I wanted to return to the cabin, one of the Germans traveling with his family from Volhynia to Canada called me over and asked me to take him to Conrad. On the stairs, he said: “Poor man, my old wife has fainted twice today; I thought I would lose her. Ah, if I had known I would suffer like this, I would not have left Ruthenia; I would have eaten bread only every three days.” He went in to see Conrad, who reassured him that there was no real danger, that although the weakness was unpleasant, it would pass, and that once they arrived on land, they would forget their troubles and not regret leaving Ruthenia for Canada.

(…) It occurred to me that even if Canada were the best country, it was still suited to an Englishman or a German, for it was practically next door to them. By the time a Ruthenian arrived in England, he would have already lost money and health, whereas the Englishman would feel at home in Canada, and our Ruthenian would be completely foreign. For example, I had not eaten Ruthenian borscht, cabbage, or porridge for only three weeks, and yet I already feared starving on the English food served on the ship. I sympathized with the people in Moldova who, working only with bryndza cheese and porridge, could not endure and were scattered across the land; for a cabbage head, they would gladly have paid a rynsk. I also agreed with my father-in-law, who said that if Canadian land were nearby at home in Sopiv, we would already have been exploited by all nations, and now we had to expose ourselves to the exploitation of America with our own money.

I thought deeply, but then realized that our land was too cramped. To prevent future emigrants from suffering, they should be advised to prepare differently for the journey: bring their own bread, dried into rusks to prevent mold; take their own salted meats and sausages; and, if possible, coffee and tea. True, I was enduring hunger, but I blamed my German advisor, who had recommended buying nothing for the voyage, claiming that food would be provided. True, it was provided—but the meals could only have been eaten by dogs, if at all.

Reluctantly, I had to go to lunch and managed to eat a little meat and some soup. Afterward, returning to my cabin, I was surprised not to find my German companion in bed, as I expected. Soon I found him sitting on the deck. After resting a bit, he offered me his hands, and I helped him—barely managing—to the cabin, as I was still quite weak myself.

I went out onto the deck again and met the German who had earlier lamented that his wife was near death. I visited their third-class quarters to see how they were faring, and it seemed to me that they were not suffering much at all. I felt that we had more reason to emigrate than they did. They were not far from the Austrian border and spoke Ruthenian, so we conversed about our possessions. One of them owned 24 morgs of good land and was selling it to move to Canada. Another had about 20 morgs under lease, had cleared forest land to use for 26 years—13 of which he had already completed—and was selling the remaining 13 because relatives had written to him about life in Canada. His father lived in Brazil, his brother in the United States, and he was traveling with his family to Canada, leaving his daughter in Ruthenia. If conditions in Canada were good, the daughter was expected to join them in the spring.

(…) Still unable to tolerate the ship’s meals, I did not rush to get up. After breakfast, I tasted a little wine, served some to the German, dressed, and helped him onto the deck for a short walk. He rested while I returned to my cabin. He later joined me for breakfast and shortly afterward came down to the deck. When the bell rang, we went to lunch and managed to eat a little. Afterward, I met with Professor Oleskiv, who complained of stomach upset. I was already feeling stronger, and Conrad the German reassured us that once we reached land and ate rye bread and German ham, we would forget the discomfort of the sea.

(…) I asked Conrad what he charged for his threshing machine. He said that he provides the machine and workers for it, and takes three cents per bushel of wheat and four cents per bushel of oats. If needed, he can attach a mill for grinding grain, which has steel plates and grinds efficiently, taking ten cents per bushel. He added that one could buy flour for about a dollar per 100 pounds—either wheat or wheat-rye blend.

Conrad went on to say that his son-in-law, speaks better Ruthenian than Polish, and that there are many Germans from Russia in Canada who can speak Ruthenian. For that reason, he felt that if a Ruthenian could somehow reach Canada, he would not be lost among the German-speaking settlers.

In the evening, Oleskiv told me that he had seen whales at sea, though I had not, as I had been chatting with the German in the cabin. Later, I walked the deck for a long time; the weather had warmed a little, and the children played happily on the deck. At dusk, I went down, undressed, and went to bed.

By morning, we were all feeling well and went properly to lunch at noon. In the afternoon, it was quite cold, with clouds and a northwest wind, so the German and I spent some time talking. Oleskiv told me he would return to Europe via Pennsylvania, and he already had arrangements in place. I would either return immediately or later, making my way to Montreal.

I began talking with Conrad about the possibility of work. He told me that he would check in Winnipeg to see how the harvests had been in his area. If they had been good, then with his steam-powered threshing machine, which he lent to local farmers along with workers, he might need extra help. He could potentially employ me as a “bushel man,” the person who puts the bags under the grain, ties them when full, sets them aside, and continues the process, keeping track of how many bags were harvested for pay purposes.

My wage would have been $20 per month, including food and lodging. The machine was expected to thresh 1,200 bushels per day, with each bag holding two bushels—so 600 bags in total. Working 12 hours a day, that meant about 50 bags per hour, and accounting for breaks, roughly 60 bags per hour, or one bag per minute. It seemed like grueling work to me. Granted, $20 per month with food and lodging would have been equivalent to about 50 Austrian crowns—but the labor! By comparison, millers in Ruthenia earned only 12 crowns per month without food or lodging. These thoughts kept me awake for a long time that night.

Meanwhile, in third class, the Swabians were singing in the night. I had regained my strength but, paradoxically, I could not fall asleep quickly. Perhaps it was also because, as Oleskiv had told me, there was a concert in first class that evening. The captain announced that on the night of the 7th to 8th, we would encounter icebergs.

After the first unpleasant days at sea, a sense of calm began to return, which made life on the ship more bearable and ordinary. Days became routine, indistinguishable from one another: rise early, get ready, go to breakfast, then lunch at noon, and dinner in the evening. The rest of the day was either spent on deck if the weather permitted, or in the cabin if it did not. Our journey, however, coincided with bad weather. The relentless northwest wind, cold clouds, and rain kept us confined to our cabins. Only when the nausea became unbearable did anyone venture out onto the deck. By Friday evening, nothing could be seen except the restless sea, seabirds circling above or resting on the water like crows in a field, and two or three distant ships passing by.

But the ship did not stand still; its ceaseless groan testified to its progress forward. The middle of the ocean was behind us, and land was beginning to approach. With the proximity of land came warmer air, which allowed passengers to venture onto the deck like flies emerging after a storm. The icebergs we had been following were gradually disappearing; by morning, only two remained visible.

After breakfast, the German and I began a conversation about yarn, cloth, woolens, flax, hemp, and wool. He explained that they sowed flax for seed to produce oil, burning the rest. Shirts could be made from cloth costing five cents (12½ Austrian kronen), which meant it was not worthwhile for the women to spin. Instead, they spent their time near the kitchen, using bran and butter, while selling the wool.

From home, I had been warned that once among strangers, unable to communicate, I would become a subject of mockery. However, my experience was quite different. I could speak only with Professor Oleskiv, Conrad the German, and the Germans traveling from Russia to Canada. Even at meals, I noticed that my neighbors—all English except for Conrad, with whom I always sat—tried to anticipate my needs, providing me with bread, sugar, water, coffee, tea, and other things. Even when these items were not at hand, I could not read any resentment on their faces; although they talked and laughed among themselves, they never left me out.

I discussed this with Conrad, who said that in America or Canada, it would be the same. Even the wealthiest man, upon seeing someone in need, would try to help. There was no room for slackers there, because anyone found shirking would be sent to compulsory labor, and such people became “useful.” For example, in Canada, grain is harvested and tied with machines. The machine cannot operate by itself—it requires twine, which had once been very expensive. To address this, the government established a factory to produce twine and employed those who had previously avoided work. This benefited farmers, who could obtain needed labor at lower cost, and society as a whole, which was not burdened by useless idlers.

Conrad continued: if a man has a wife and children but refuses to care for them, he is sent to work in a special institution. The products of his labor go to support the institution, and the remainder is given to his wife as a kind of pension for her support. In Canada, he said, everything possible is done for the good; wherever something good can be done, it is done.

At one point, we began talking about sheep. The German suggested that I buy some, provided I could find someone to tend them. Earlier, he had mentioned that thousands of cows remained unmilked on their farms—and as for sheep, that was an even greater issue—so I asked him what use sheep could possibly have if they were not milked.

“Oh,” he said, “there are many benefits to sheep. There is plenty of pasture. When sheep graze on it, even if they are not milked, they raise their lambs well. In the fall, lambs can be sold for three dollars each (7 florins 10 kreuzers). In this way, the profit from sheep can be as good, if not better, than from other livestock.”

Around eight o’clock, two icebergs became visible. One was closer to the ship, the other farther away. I could clearly see the nearer one, while the other was visible only indistinctly through the light mist. Professor Oleskiv remarked that the first iceberg resembled a tall castle in Lviv.

By ten o’clock, an islet appeared on the ship’s starboard side, and soon after, the coasts of Newfoundland and Labrador came into view. Around noon, the weather was warm and calm, though lightly overcast. The older passengers walked about cheerfully, while the younger ones and the children amused themselves in turn. By evening, a heavy rain had fallen. Near the threshold of our cabin, a concert was held, where passengers enjoyed themselves merrily until three in the morning.

At home, I was accustomed to having my beard shaved by a barber, paying two kreuzers for the service. I had not brought a razor with me. My beard was already growing, and the English barbers were not generous with razors. Conrad said the barber charged twenty-five cents (2½ Austrian kreuzers). I was concerned about this, but my little red knife saved me, serving as a makeshift razor. I must admit it performed its task well; I had bought it in Kolomyia for three kreuzers. I had used it once in Hamburg, and now for the second time. Since the English shaved daily, I too had to maintain my beard, at least, if not my head or tongue.

Unable to sleep well at night, I caught up on sleep in the morning and rose early only when the bell called the faithful passengers to breakfast. By now, the passengers were obedient and punctual. In the first days, it took nearly half an hour for everyone to gather in the dining room; now, within five minutes, everyone was seated, waiting for the next instructions, which the ship’s steward distributed on familiar plates. By the time I dressed, half the passengers had already eaten, and the rest followed, so we had to hurry.

The ship was now entering what was called the St. Lawrence Gulf. The land, covered with mountains, appeared closer or farther from the ship. The air became milder, and passengers filled the deck after breakfast, especially as ships, probably heading to Europe, passed by. Only two or three whales came close to the ship, but at that time I had already gone to my cabin and missed the chance to see them.

I later met the German traveling with his family. He told me how, in Russia, the last 75 rubles he had were stolen, and he was now sailing to Canada penniless. From noon until evening, I spent time walking on deck, and in the late afternoon, Conrad described how he had managed his affairs. He had built in four different locations, selecting land for himself. He lived in Winnipeg and wanted to resettle in Oregon, but his colleagues, after spending two years there, returned and told him that winter was endlessly dark and damp, so Canada was the better choice.

He explained that gardening was not always successful in his region because blossoms often froze. If a settler had more than 25 acres of meadow or forest, the excess could not be claimed for free; he would have to purchase it. For the purchased land, 25 dollars were due immediately, and the rest in installments over two years. In the evening, we sat for a long time on the ship’s deck, enjoying the gentle air.

We were sailing through the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The day was lightly overcast, but the wind blowing against the ship was strong enough to chill us. Appetite had returned to all the passengers. Early in the morning, our ship drew close to another, which paid its respects and handed over its mail, while ours collected it. In the afternoon, on deck, passengers amused themselves with various games under the guidance of the older travelers. In the water, small white animals appeared, and smaller and larger ships crossed past us in increasing numbers.

At one point, I began talking with a woman traveling from Ukraine to join her husband in Winnipeg, who had left four years earlier. Our “Sardinian” was scheduled to arrive at the Quebec station that night, so by evening, cards—like identifying tags—had been distributed so passengers and crew would know where everyone was supposed to go. Passengers who were to disembark first went to sleep early, uncertain of when they would be called, while others lingered on deck. My German companion, Conrad, was to leave at Quebec, so he went to bed early. Feeling weak myself, I followed, hoping to fall asleep—but I could not.

I cannot say exactly when the “Sardinian” reached the pier. I know that early in the morning, I was awakened by a great clatter caused by unloading packages, which happened right outside our cabin. By the time there was a faint light, Conrad was already dressed, and the ship’s steward hurried me along. I had not yet finished dressing when breakfast was announced, around 5:30. After breakfast, passengers began disembarking. I escorted my German companion, bid him farewell, and asked for his address, which he gave me. The ship was emptying of passengers in a disciplined, military-like manner after a leave.

The signal was given to launch the “Sardinian” into the water, and it continued upriver toward Montreal, sailing against the St. Lawrence River’s current. At first, we passed high, steep mountains, and then broad plains, which at places were flooded by the river to a mile and a half in width. Involuntarily, we recalled the words of a song: “The little river flows, I will leap across.”

By evening, after dinner, passengers began gathering their belongings. The ship’s crew, reportedly numbering eighty, started unloading the heavier packages from inside. Around seven o’clock, the ship docked, and passengers began leaving. On the way, Professor Oleskiv and I discussed that this early arrival was not entirely convenient for us. If the ship had arrived a bit later, we could have spent the night on board; now we would have to leave the ship and go to a hotel, which was terribly expensive. I joked that if there were nearby haystacks, I could sleep in one—but that was just fantasy.

At the Montreal pier, a Galician Jew approached us. Though he claimed not to be from Galicia, we still felt he was a typical Galician Jew and almost forced us to go to a hotel. We did, and though the rooms were small and dark, we had little choice. We only managed to have dinner before a storm began—thunder, lightning, and rain. I thought to myself how nice it would be to hide under a haystack in the field. What a costly, expensive leech, I thought.

Professor Oleskiv and I were traveling like representatives of the Galician Ruthenians to Canada, scouting for suitable areas to establish colonies for our people, who were already cramped at home in Galicia. Because of this crowding, efficient farming was impossible, and no amount of communal labor could produce the success we desired.

(…)

Source: Kacharaba, S. “Diary of Ivan Dorundyak (On the History of Ukrainian Emigration to Canada).” Visnyk of Lviv University. Historical Series, vol. 37, no. 2 (2002): 128–17