sweating terror
…steamy stills and bomb blasts…
John Ivanovich Zebroff – 1959
Zebroff Village, Grand Forks, BC
Peter Vasilyevich Verigen was assassinated in a bomb blast while travelling by train between Grand Forks and Castlegar on Oct 29, 1924. The reverberations took time to settle. Many accusations were cast regarding who incited and planted the bomb. To this day, even though the statute of limitation has long been passed, the RCMP keeps the file classified and the case remains unsolved.
‘Johnny go get Halka, there is a man coming to buy it,’ Anne Nikolayevna Zebroff yelled from the kitchen window.
Johnny was outside near his dad’s kludovka squirting some oil onto the chain of his new prized five-speed bike. He heard his mom’s command, gave a quick check over his shoulder to see how far down the hill the man was, then he grabbed a rag and wiped his hands. The oil was like liquid sunshine to him, warming his bike for an afternoon adventure. Johnny looked up the sloping hill over his other shoulder where Halka was grazing. Standing up, he dusted off his coveralls, grabbed a switch and turned to face the mountain. He took playfully lunging strides up the hill towards Halka.
Anne was in the kitchen watching through the window as she too wiped her hands clean, but not from oil, rather from vinegar, as she was canning some cucumbers with dill and garlic. Johnny’s sisters, Margaret and Lenda were helping Anne with the washing, chopping and measuring. Olga, their younger sister was lying prone on the wood floor drawing butterflies with crayons on the inside of the cardboard backing from a cut-up cereal box.
Typically, once or twice per year a local farmer would come around looking to purchase a milk cow from the Zebroff Village. There was an ongoing competition of sorts between Anne and her husband John regarding who was the better salesperson in their family. John was always very factual and forthright when pitching a sale. His approach was to explain the lineage of the cow, the cow’s basic temperament, the amount of milk that could be expected and so forth. He was an exceptionally honest man and was always truthful in his dealings with others. He was polite and kind, yet firm and flexible.
Anne tended to be the better performing salesperson if final purchase price was the metric by which they were to be judged. She typically managed to get a better deal by a few dollars for the cows that she sold. Her strategy was much simpler than her husband’s.
Anne came from Saskatchewan, where the Independent Doukhobors remained in the early 1900’s during a period when the Community Doukhobors migrated to British Columbia. Anne grew up in an atmosphere less obliged to adhere to the tenets of strict Doukhobor behaviour or even proper legal behaviour for that matter. Anne knew how to make moonshine or samogon as its analogue was called in the Russian language. Anne would make her samogon in the banya as it provided a good cover for the resultant steam and smell of the mash from running an illegal still. The banya is a Russian steam bath. It is typically a stand-alone shed that has a large kazan in the middle. A kazan is a large cauldron with a wood burning furnace underneath it. The kazan gets its name from the Tatar cooking units that were brought to Russia during the Mongol Invasions and the Times of Troubles. It is different from a regular waterless barbeque which in Russian is called a mongol. Typically, kazans were used to pasteurize milk, wash clothes or other such chores which require one to heat or boil a large volume of liquid. The newer kazans with their enamel-coating still intact were reserved for dairy and food preparations. The older ones with their exposed cast iron showing through and corroded edges were used for washing clothes and steaming up the banya.
Up on the hillside Halka herself was still a little spooked. In fact, probably everyone in the surrounding villages was still a bit shook-up. A month earlier there was a massive explosion at the B&A Bulk Station. The station held several large petroleum tanks that serviced all the rural needs such as tractors, trucks and other farm vehicles. A break-away group of radical zealots from within the Doukhobors called Svobodniki[1]managed to set a few bombs around the petroleum tanks. These random acts of terror were meant to discourage the Community Doukhobors from acquiring material comforts or from sending their children to public schools. The Svobodniki demonstrated as fanatics do, burning and bombing from a position of ignorance and violence.
This particular event was horrific as the zealots ignited a large petroleum tank that exploded in a massive fireball. The explosion was so violent and powerful that it rocked the entire valley. Windows in the Zebroff house and banya were shattered at a distance of over two kilometers from the blast site. Explosions of this nature never really leave one’s memory, especially the memories of kids and cows. The deafening ringing imprints on one’s consciousness as a bookmark to the terror that could be unleashed at any time. Being Pacifists there are only so many actions one can take to protect his family from such violent acts. It is ironic that such a peaceful and idyllic country setting could so easily shelter such explosive fears.
This recent blast at the petroleum station was also a frightening reminder of the violence that was exacted against the Doukhobor Community leader, Peter Vasilyevich Verigen in 1924 when he was murdered along with nine other people in a train explosion on the Paulsen Pass between Grand Forks and Castlegar. After this incident both John Nikolayevich Zebroff and Peter Ivanovich Makortoff, from the neighbouring village, bought German shepherd guard dogs for security. As much as John Nikolayevich didn’t like the idea of unleashing an attack dog on unwilling strangers, he always said that the idea of a bitten man was more tolerable than that of a burned child. John’s wife Anne, named their new guard dog Tootsie.
At the time of the explosion, Halka herself had bolted far up into the back reaches of Spencer Hill and had been acting spooked ever since. It had taken Johnny and his older sister Margaret two long days to find Halka in the countryside behind Spencer Hill and bring her back to the farm. Halka was now constantly skittish and they worried that her milk would be sour. Perhaps it might be smart to sell her. Johnny was particularly fond of Halka. Most of the Zebroff cows had colourful names, like Junkya, Hrunkya, Tunkya, but Halka was special because she was more spirited than the others. Often when the village kids were playing kick-the-can and the game was ebbing, some kids would try and ride one of the cows. Most of the time this was a futile exercise, but not with Johnny and Halka. He would often jump up onto Halka’s back and she would usually take him for a ride, cowbell bouncing and all. Johnny felt Halka had potential for more than just providing the family with milk, she was also a worthwhile playmate.
The Zebroff farm consisted of a few humble buildings on the eastward sloping hills north of Saddle Lake. The Makortoff Village was perched just below the reservoir and looked down on the Zebroff Village, below the Zebroff Village were the Kurnoff and London Villages. The Zebroff farm had a beautiful vista looking south-east down across the Kettle and Granby valleys. Just as in a Hollywood western, any approaching visitors could be spotted a mile away, which provided a lengthy anticipatory moment to prepare for any incoming guests.
Back in the kitchen Anne quickly grabbed a few stakans,[2] a table cloth and a canning jar and quickly stepped out, heading directly for the banya. She wasn’t planning to catch a quick steam and freshen-up before her guest arrived, rather she was going to get a quick half-litre of samogon for him to sample. Herein lay the secret of her successful technique at selling cows. She didn’t bother to use up-selling conversation, she just simply let her patrons enjoy the quality of her samogon before they paid for the cow.
Anne returned to the front porch of their modest house and set the jar of samogon and the two glasses on the wooden table. She then walked out to greet the buyer as he approached on horseback. He dismounted and tied his horse off on the hitching post in front of their porch. He was a kind man, a local farmer who respected the hard-working ways of the Zebroff family.
‘Good afternoon Anne, how are we doing today?’ The farmer inquired.
‘We are good,’ Anne replied, as she motioned for him to join her in the shade at the table on the porch.
The two of them sat at the table and soon thereafter began to enjoy a sample of Anne’s samogon. After a few minutes, Margaret brought out a dish of cucumbers, tomatoes and bread for them from the kitchen. Another ten minutes or so passed and Johnny showed up at the hitching post with Halka the cow. He was rubbing her shoulder and back, comforting himself over the pending loss of his playmate. The farmer was pleasantly surprised at the size and quality of the cow. The farmer and Anne shared a few jokes and engaged in small talk. Johnny wasn’t all that happy as he had grown somewhat attached to Halka and felt sad to see her smart eyes leave the farm. Johnny went inside to see what his sisters were up to. After a few more glasses and some gentle banter Anne and the farmer agreed on a price and parted ways. The farmer mounted his horse and with a long leash lead Halka down the road. He carried away a satisfied demeanour and an early afternoon glow. Anne returned to the kitchen to help her daughters finish the canning.
Later that evening, with the August sun still in the sky Johnny was returning from a lengthy bike ride up the North Fork, he had hoped just maybe, if he was gone long enough that the farmer might have a change of heart and return Halka. While riding home he spotted his father walking home along London road. Johnny rode his five speed down to intercept him. John Nikolayevich was coming home from a long double shift at the sawmill, where he worked. Johnny used his brake to skid his bike in a circle around his dad, they exchanged greetings and then he got off his bike and walked alongside him towards the warmth of the yawning sun.
The girls had set a table outside and they were about to sit down to an early evening dinner. Anne had coached her girls and they had formulated their blueprint on how to tease their father during dinner regarding the sale price of Halka. There was a tamped down sense of joviality among them. John Nikolayevich went inside to greet his family. After a melee of hugs and kisses they all made their way to the dinner table and sat down for dinner. A nice breeze lifted the scent of mountain flowers down into the valley below.
‘Look mama,’ Olga pointed to a dusty snake roaring up London Road.
They all turned to look at the approaching vehicle. It was a police car with its red and blue lights flashing. Immediately Anne was petrified. She knew that it was illegal to operate a homemade still. She knew that her moonshining ways often seriously worried her husband. Furthermore, John was terrified as the windows on the banya had not yet been repaired since the massive explosion a month earlier.
‘Anya the samogon is going to get us in a lot of trouble,’ John Nikolayevich exclaimed, ‘the windows are blown out they will smell the mash.’ John stood up, pulled his suspenders over his shoulders.
‘Shit the farmer!’ She decried. All of a sudden, all the planned joking over the price that she had fetched for Halka fell apart. There were much bigger problems now. She couldn’t believe that the kind farmer would betray her to the police. She shuddered with the anticipation of shame and drama her hobby would bring to her family. The terror swept over her fun-loving dinner plans.
‘Everybody, stay here, nobody moves,’ John commanded to his family.
He immediately began running down the driveway, his shoes still unlaced. He ran past the banya hoping to intercept the approaching police cruiser before they had a chance to enter the property. Tootsie their new German Shepherd sprinted after him, ready to engage in the action. They ran all the way down to Outlook Road just as the police car had begun to turn up their driveway. John nearly slid directly into the side of the approaching vehicle.
‘How can I help you officers?’ He asked, huffing hard, he put his hand on the door, as if to stop the police car from advancing up the driveway.
‘We are looking for George Kurnoff, there’s been an incident in town.’ Replied one of the officers.
‘Oh, I see. I know where he lives, quick follow me.’ With that John Nikolayevich spun around and began running down Outlook Road back towards the intersection with London Road. Comically, he kept looking back at the police car, waving his hand in vigorous animation for them to follow. His dog trailed him in hot pursuit. The police pulled a U-turn and followed John Nikolayevich as he ran in front of them, leading them in an awkward slow-motion chase to the driveway of the Kurnoff Village.
‘Here you go boys,’ he panted out of breath from the ordeal. ‘Is everyone ok?’ He further inquired.
‘Well apparently George is driving around in a car that doesn’t have proper registration,’ replied the officer, ‘Just because you all live in your villages doesn’t mean that city laws don’t apply.’ Both he and the other officer stepped out of their vehicle and stretched themselves as if to pronounce the authority of their stature.
‘Ok, well here you go, all the best officers,’ John Nikolayevich exhaled.
He and Tootsie slowly made their way back to their family which was still waiting at the dinner table outside. The sprint leading the cops away from their banya had spent the last of his energy after a long hard day at the mill. Tootsie’s tongue was five inches longer, she too had a look of satisfaction from the chase. The long walk back up the driveway was enough of an interlude for John to forget his vexation and it allowed Anne to let go of her anxiety over being caught for making moonshine. He approached the table with a stern look on his face, hoping to levy some stern lecture regarding his wife’s samogon still. He couldn’t maintain his furled brow, once he locked eyes with his wife, they both burst into a roar of laughter. Margaret and her sisters followed suit. Everybody was howling over the incident. The only person who wasn’t overwhelmed with laughter was Johnny. He smiled, but sat quietly looking out over the valley.
Halka was still gone.
[1] Svobodniki means Freedomites. They were called this because they renounced earthy possessions, refused public education, burned buildings, demonstrated naked and rejected all material wealth.
[2] A Persian word, referring to a glass cup for drinking both hot and cold fluids.