The Canadian Civil War: Volume 1 - Birth of a Nation

by William Wresch

The security outside the National Cathedral was unbelievable. Our car was stopped three full blocks from the church, and we sat in a long line while each car was searched and each occupant questioned. Being a complete idiot, I had two large suitcases in the back of my Citroen. It had seemed like a good idea yesterday – do all my packing early, so all we would have to do after church is go to Elise’s apartment, get her loaded up, and then take off for Philadelphia. Now I could see that anyone with baggage of any kind was being asked to open it. Nobody else had any bags as big as mine, so I could already imagine how suspicious my suitcases would look.

  Slowly we moved up in line while I thought through the explanation I would give the police. Elise was silent as well. Normally she would have been talking nonstop, but this morning she sat in total silence. Of course she had lots to think about too – her new job, the developing conflict in her country, and the trip she was about to take to the United States to meet the family of a man who had asked her to marry him. I wondered what the priority order was for those three discussion topics. Was I anywhere near the top of the list?

  “I should have left earlier,” I said, as much to break the silence as anything else. After all, it was pretty obvious I should have left earlier. “I hadn’t given any thought to this kind of security.”

  “Nobody has,” she answered. “We are in Green Bay, in the middle of a country that has been at peace for nearly a century. None of us know what we are doing – not us, and not the police.” I think I would have felt better if there had been anger in her voice, or impatience, but all I heard was a deep sadness.

  I edged the car forward, and finally we reached the inspection point. Four cops ran mirrors under the car and looked in all the windows. One of them came to my window and asked for an ID, but it was Elise who answered him.

  “Officer, I am with the Interior Ministry.” She reached over me to hand him her identification. He looked at her identification and immediately straightened.

  “Yes, Doctor DuPry. Good morning, madam.”

  “Good morning, officer. Is there anything else you need to see, or may we proceed to the service?”

  “Please proceed, madam.” He made some notes on a clipboard he carried and motioned for the other officers to move on to the next car. I didn’t waste any time getting out of there. I drove the last blocks and parked in the lot at the bottom of Cathedral Hill. I was sad to see there were even more concrete blast barriers around the church than there had been two days before. How bad have things gotten when churches have become targets?

  Elise and I walked the winding pathway up the hill as we had done so many Sundays in the past, she taking my arm, and waving periodically to people she knew. Many others had made it past the police gauntlet and were approaching the cathedral from several pathways. They were all subdued in their demeanor, but, there was something else different. It took me a minute to place it. Then I noticed the women. They always wore traditional long dresses for this service, but now every dress was the same color – white. Elise’s gown was white cotton with long sleeves. It might have been a wedding dress from the past century, and I almost made a comment on it when she had put it on that morning, hoping that she was wearing the dress to tell me she had made up her mind – that her answer to my proposal was “yes.” But she had stayed busy during the last hour before we left for church, so there was no time that felt right to ask. Now I could see every woman had made the same decision. Had they called each other? Somehow the word had gotten out. Now a thousand women were going to church as if each were a bride – or a Huguenot.

  Elise’s mother and sisters – also in long white dresses – waited for us in the family pew. I was relieved to see that her father wore the traditional dark suit and ruffled white shirt, the same outfit I had worn to church. Whatever was being communicated by the wardrobe decisions of the day, men had been permitted to dress as they always did. After brief prayers, we sat back in the pew and I had a chance to look around the church. It took me a minute, but then I saw the man on the tower with the large television camera. I should have guessed the service would be televised. With Claude Jolliet now as Information Minister, the service would probably be rebroadcast for days until every person in the country had seen the service and had understood the message of the dresses. It seemed to me the nobility of Canada was extending a hand – you Huguenots blew up a beautiful cathedral in Biloxi, they said, but you are French and we are French and we will find a way to work through this.

  I took Elise’s hand and leaned over to whisper to her. “I think I understand the white dresses now. Do you think the Huguenots will recognize the gesture?”

  “Some of them will understand, I am sure of it.” She squeezed my hand for emphasis. “I hate their philosophy, but we are all French. We will keep trying until we find a way for everyone to accept that.”

  The rest of the service went on as usual. The homily was directed as you would guess – forgiveness and peace. I think the most striking part of the service was communion. As we all walked down the center aisle to receive the host we must have looked like an endless stream of wedding couples. And I wasn’t the only one who noticed. I could see several husbands and wives looking at each other, even smiling and joking quietly about their appearance. It was a nice moment and broke much of the tension.

  After the service Elise’s family and many of her friends followed us out to our car to say goodbye. We had told everyone we would be gone between one week and three (depending upon how my parents reacted to Elise it might even be less, but I never said that to anyone), so they wanted to see us off. There were long hugs for Elise and warm handshakes for me. I looked carefully to see how Elise’s parents were taking this trip with me and the possibility of our engagement, but all I sensed was affection for her and trust that she would make the best decision. Elise’s mother even gave me a small gift to pass along to my mother, as a gesture of friendship. I thought that was pretty considerate, and told her so.

  Finally we got into my car and drove back to Elise’s apartment to load up her things. I quickly learned that Elise did not travel light. She had three suitcases ready right away, and filled two more while I took her cases out to the car. I was glad I had a full-sized Citroen.

  On my fourth trip out to the car I had one of those memory flashbacks you sometimes experience. I had filled a car like this before. I was seventeen and going off to the University of Virginia. I was really proud that my folks were not taking me to college, but were letting me go off on my own. Since I was the youngest of five kids I think they were probably tired of taking yet another child off to school, but that was not how I interpreted it at the time. I surmised that they were especially satisfied with my maturity and so trusted me to make this trip on my own. I had spent all day Saturday taking things out to my car, making decisions about what to take and what to leave – what would be part of my new adult life and what would be relegated to my childhood – and then Sunday after mass I shook hands with my dad, kissed my mother good bye and headed south down I95. I was on my own, heading to a new life in Virginia.

  A dozen years older now, I was set to make another trip after mass, but that was where most of the similarities ended. This time the trip was only partly about me. It was mostly about Elise. Would my parents accept a French woman? And then there was the political situation. Had I thought one bit about the larger world as I had headed off to college? No, I had only thought about me and about my personal adventure. If there were national issues of consequence in the early 90s, I didn’t know about them. Now I knew our trip would be experienced in the context of a possible war. Elise’s country was on the verge of breakup. Two years ago, when I had first moved to Green Bay, I would have relished the prospect. Now I had more sympathy for the disaster that seemed so imminent.

  While loading the car made me more introspective, it seemed to lift Elise’s spirits. She was happier now that she was
active. She carried the last bag out to the car, gave me a big kiss, and said, “Now let’s go meet that big, beautiful family in Philadelphia.”