by Ryan Byrnes
“I love you, dear,” I repeated. He squatted down, not even hearing me. I pulled him to his feet and led him up the stone steps, between the red bricks and engraved grey cornerstones. After knocking on the large wooden door, so shined up I could see myself in it, a smiling man in a white suit answered it. He was maybe six feet tall, like a mountain with sloping shoulders and tree trunks stuck up his sleeves. There were red cuts on his knuckles. He looked down at us.
“Mrs. Baker?” His voice rumbled out like distant thunder. He looked around me as if he’d lost something. “Is your husband with you?”
“I am a widow.” I corrected him.
“And you never remarried?”
“Not a chance.”
He gave me a condescending frown as if living on my own was a serious character flaw.
“Very well. Dr. Newby has been awaiting you. Come this way.”
The entrance hall was rather bright, despite my expectations. Potted plants, white tiled floor, and an electrical chandelier. Nice place to live. Luther’s grip on my hand tightened, and he squirmed and rocked under the glare of the towering man.
“May I ask your name, sir?”
“Dibbs, ma’am.”
“And what do you do here, Mr. Dibbs?”
“Whatever needs doing. Sometimes custodial work, sometimes I assist the administrators.” He cleared his throat. “Sometimes I handle the patients.”
I pursed my lips.
A flight of stairs later, we were at Dr. Newby’s office.
“Welcome, welcome!”
Dr. Newby, decked out in a starched white coat and a smart bow tie, stepped from behind his desk. He shook my hand, then extended his hand to Luther, who just stared at it.
“Odd.”
“He doesn’t shake, Dr. Newby.” I gripped my purse. Surely, a doctor should not be surprised by that. No matter. Dr. Newby invited us in. I took a seat in one of the leather chairs across from his desk, setting Luther in the other chair. He tried sitting in my lap, but it was awkward, considering he weighed more than me now.
“You’re too big to sit in my lap, Luther.”
He made that squeaking sound and squirmed into the fetal position on the other chair.
“Use your words,” I whispered.
Behind us, Dr. Newby clicked the door shut.
“How were your travels? Not too much effort, I hope? Did you exert yourself?”
I laughed, much to Newby’s disappointment. His eyes narrowed as he leaned against the corner of his desk, picking up a stack of papers with one hand and pulling at his mustache with the other.
“I received your second letter and did sufficient research before your arrival. Luther’s case, I must say, intrigues me.”
“So, do you have a diagnosis?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
Oh, God. “Let’s hear it.” My voice cracked at the end, and I swallowed hard.
“There are many grades of mental defectivities discussed in the halls of medicine, Mrs. Baker. Many require symptoms present at birth or manifesting at an early age. You have described behaviors in Luther that presented early and that I have classified as stunted moral, social, and intellectual development. For instance, you report that he has limited ability to return sentiment and an inability to perform basic tasks like tying shoes or attending to personal hygiene. If he is to function at his best, he needs constant attendance and vigilance at all hours of the day. By all accounts, Mrs. Baker, I am sad to inform you that your son fits the diagnosis for an imbecile and should be institutionalized before it’s too late.”
“What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean? Too late for what?”
Luther scratched at the stitching on the chair, and I quickly closed my hand over his.
Dr. Newby exhaled, took off his spectacles, and stowed them in his chest pocket.
“Mrs. Baker, I’m afraid you and your husband—”
“In my correspondence, I informed you that I am a widow.”
“Oh, yes. Well, hmm.” He cast a skeptical eye my way, probably wondering if I could make a decision without a husband to guide me. He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Baker, I really do feel your pain. I have given this talk to many parents, some sitting in the very seat you are in now. It comes as a shock, I know, and your mind is flooded with questions. What future does the child have? Are there cures? How did the disease originate? I will endeavor to educate you on this matter, but only partially, for I do not wish to further confuse an agitated mother such as yourself with complicated physiological treatises.”
I gritted my teeth, said nothing, and nodded for him to continue.
“The works of the late Charles Darwin are under wide scrutiny these days, and this line of thinking has brought on many advances in science, such as the newfound theory known as eugenics. There are those who say that mental deficiency is a result of bodily mutation. Mutations occur all the time in nature, and some turn out to be advantageous, such as the growth of wings in birds, the ability for fish to breathe underwater. Sometimes, as is the case here, mutations occur in the mind that are of no advantage. In fact, they are a disadvantage. And in many of the cases in which a mutation of the mind has occurred, there is little hope of improvement.”
Dr. Newby motioned toward Luther, still curled in a ball in the chair.
“And when there is little hope for improvement, Mrs. Baker, a parent’s choices are limited. As your son gets older, you may be unable to handle him. You may, even, be threatened by him, by his very … physicality.”
A fly buzzed through the cracked-open windowpanes behind the desk, and Luther watched it closely. I said nothing. Dr. Newby drew in a breath and continued.
“There are a wide variety of people on this planet, some more well adapted than others. Thankfully, the European, and the Englishman in particular, is the most well adapted, as evidenced by our history. We have had great men like Shakespeare, Newton, and even Mr. Darwin himself come from our stock. To ensure this continued evolution, we must make certain future generations are also of the best stock. For this reason, institutions such as this one are seen as places in which we must segregate out from the population those who should not, shall we say, be allowed in general society and who cannot be allowed to procreate and defile future generations. Therefore, such institutions practice strict sexual segregation, in the hopes that people such as your son will not bear offspring with his same deficiency.”
“But he’s still just a boy.”
“Not for long, Mrs. Baker. It is highly recommended that Luther be placed here, within a professional, nurturing environment so he can be sterilized before he is of age.”
Sterilized. I took a deep breath. “And just what will you do to him here?”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean to say, how will he be treated?”
Dr. Newby reached into the pocket of his white coat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to me, and I took it.
“There are many treatments available to Luther. I have found that fresh air is the best. A nice walk in the open air can calm most agitations. But when he has fits, like the ones you described, we use drug therapy, electroconvulsive therapy, hydrotherapy, and the ice cure.”
“The ice cure?”
“Our nurses here will prepare a bath filled with ice and confine him to it for a few hours. Cold temperatures soothe the muscles and most major agitations, you see. The ice will clear his mind.”
“What if that doesn’t work?”
“It usually does. Mrs. Baker, I assure you, Luther will be in safe hands here.”
“I never said he was coming here. I am only inquiring as to what his diagnosis is and what his treatment might be if he came here.”
“Keeping him at home will only serve to prolong his fits, I’m afraid. It must be very taxing for you and your … for you to carry on this way, Mrs. Baker.”
“I carry on just fine, Doctor.”
“But—”
“No buts. I will take wh
at you’ve said under advisement.”
“Mrs. Baker, I strongly suggest—”
“I understand what you suggest, Dr. Newby. To use your own words, I am not an imbecile.”
I stood and Luther unfolded himself and got to his feet. With a curt nod and nothing more to say, I took Luther’s hand and we left.
CHRISTMAS EVE, 1914
THE WESTERN FRONT
~ RODNEY STOKER ~
We didn’t speak one word throughout the patrol—we knew the Germans would be listening for us. I followed Appleby’s lead across No Man’s Land, just like they’d taught us in training. He held up an open palm to signal for us to stop, and the other six of us crouched slowly, thighs burning until we’d reached a squat. From there, we lowered onto our bellies and crawled, taking care to stick to the craters, where we could be sure the mines had already detonated.
I held my rifle in front of me as we approached each crater, peeking over the edge first to make sure no Germans were trapped inside. We found one German half dead, and I distracted Luther while Wallace quietly did the work nobody else wanted to, taking care to stuff a cloth down his mouth first. Poor bloke. Once inside the next crater, we waited until all seven of us had regrouped, and we nodded at Appleby to poke his head over the edge to decide what crater we would crawl to next. I caught Luther’s eye and pressed a finger to my lips. He’d left his rifle slung over his back while we were crawling, and we could all hear it rattling as he crawled. I grabbed the gun and put it in his hands, signaling that he needed to keep it out, for his own safety. He trembled and smelled like piss. We all did. Appleby nodded and pointed over the edge, to where a tree trunk had fallen over some barbed wire, flattening it into a break we could crawl over. Beyond that was the shadow of another pit we would hide in. It looked like a good place to set up a listening post, to lay low while we waited for the German officers to give orders for the movements of troops and the timing of the next barrage.
Soon, it was time to go over. Appleby went first, then Wallace, Wright, Somers, and Nash. Before going over, I stepped to Luther and bent his arms so that he was holding the rifle properly and wouldn’t get a cartridge in his eye. I tapped his forehead to remind him what I’d said earlier: hear a gunshot, hide behind me. I put a hand on his neck, and we stood there quiet for a few seconds. Then I left.
Between craters, I dragged myself across the wet ground, imagining I could hear the Earth’s comforting heartbeat and that I was clinging to her, prostrating myself before her in the hope that she’d spare me. It reminded me what serenity was, being so close and so vulnerable to something so large and unshakeable. I knew then why the ancients prayed to an Earth Mother and not an Earth Father.
Up ahead, I watched Appleby’s silhouette approach the fallen tree, where he stopped. My heart sped up. What if there was a mine under the tree? The tree was the only unexploded object within a hundred meters. Appleby shook his head and crawled away, I guess suddenly realizing this. Instead, he crawled down the line and chose an empty stretch of barbed wire, where he pulled out his wire cutters and started snipping away.
“Oye!” German voices.
Appleby’s cutters fell from his fingers, and he covered his head in his hands. Everyone followed suit, except me. I glanced back at Luther, who was inching behind me just like I’d told him, except he sounded like a gamboling bear, and I could hear him sloshing through the mud. I signaled for him to make like a mouse, but he just kept crawling faster. I motioned for him to stop again and mouthed Stop! They can hear you!
Meanwhile, the Germans carried on their prattle, just fifty meters away in their trench. The prattle was good, I convinced myself. As long as the Germans were talking to each other, they wouldn’t be listening for us. But just because some of them were talking didn’t mean they all were. They had snipers, too. What were the snipers doing? Who were they watching?
Luther kept crawling, louder and louder. Slosh, slosh, slosh. I shushed him, but his eyes were wide with fear. Realizing that Luther wouldn’t be getting any quieter, Appleby picked up his cutters and clipped the barbed wire even faster. To give Appleby some protection, I trained my rifle on the German trench. They must have had a bonfire going because I could see sparks trailing up toward the stars. They were probably all warm in their huddle, reading Christmas letters from home. And then the singing started. Although I didn’t know much German, I knew the song and what it meant.
Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!
Lange schon uns bedacht
Als der Herr vom Grimme befreit,
In der Väter urgrauer Zeit
Aller Welt Schonung verhieß,
Aller Welt Schonung verhieß.
Some sang with a tender, broken longing. Others sang with a drunk, boisterous flair to forget such longing. For an instant, the memory of a long ago Christmastime dragged me away from the cold and the mud and the fear. There I was, all of seven years old, helping Father haul in the tree as he praised me for being so strong. Once it was up, we draped tinsel on the branches, and Mum and Granny made a new wreath to hang on the door. I remembered stomping my foot until Mum marched over to Baker’s Sweets to buy my favorite chocolate truffles. I could almost taste them.
Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!
Hirten erst kundgemacht
Durch der Engel Alleluja,
Tönt es laut bei Ferne und Nah:
Jesus der Retter ist da!
Jesus der Retter ist da!
The smell of garlic wafted on the smoke from the German trench. They were cooking … sausage? It sizzled over the embers. Further down the line, in a machine-gun turret, I noticed the pointed tips of those familiar helmets bobbing up and down. Hold on, what were those chaps up to?
All the prattle died and gave way to a terrible, shrieking whistle.
“Shell!”
Appleby sprang to his feet and took off running, right across No Man’s Land. The German line lit up with gunfire. The cornered animal sprang to life within me, and I was suddenly dragging Luther toward the nearest crater. My ears popped. My bones rattled. Blast! A flash of white, and Mother Earth left me. No pressure of the ground beneath and no sense of the sky above; no up, no down. Tumbling through the air, swept up like a wave on a beach, my body so hot it stung cold. I flailed my arms as if to straighten myself, but to no avail. The world flew by and I flew with it.
I don’t know how long I was out, but I woke to searing pain. Yet all I could think of was Luther. Luther. I’d made a promise. I said I’d keep him alive. I called his name, but only a croak escaped me. I gathered the Earth in my reddened palms and touched it to my mouth—I don’t know why—then pulled myself forward. The world was nothing but blurred slow-motion silhouettes, yet I dragged myself toward him, toward the dark body I knew must be him. Luther must live. Luther must live. I promised. I reached out my hand, grabbed hold of the edge of a wet, woolen sweater, and then everything went dark.
My eyes fluttered open, and I stared up at the sky wondering what people would say when they’d see me. A burned husk of a man, poor soul. What would Mum do with me? What would Father say? Soft white snowflakes drifted down from on high, falling on hot skin. I closed my eyes and let them fall.
~ JIM BAKER ~
The train rolled out from the Le Havre station at dawn, squealing and chugging across the French countryside—fenced-in patches of frosty white and dried-up yellow grass that quilted the hills. Occasionally, we’d cross a frozen river. We’d stop for local stations at the intersection of dirt roads where refugees hiked. Occasionally, I locked eyes with the poor souls as we passed. I could not imagine what else they’d seen. What they’d lived through. What had Luther seen? What had he lived through?
I checked my watch. If only this train could chug faster. Fate permitting, I’d be with Luther late tonight or early tomorrow morning. There’d be no sleep for me tonight.
I checked inside my bag to make sure the tickets to Algeria were still there. What would Luther say when he saw me after all these years?<
br />
For company, I had Private Roberts, an engineer who had once worked as a mechanic near Manchester. As the assigned guard, he was paid to sit all day in the train car to make sure nobody stole the post. I asked him who would want to steal a soldier’s love letter, and he scratched his head.
“A very lonely guard.”
I chuckled.
“Well, let me know if you come across one of those. In the meantime, I’m taking a nap.” I curled up on top of a couple sacks of mail and let the rattling of the railroad car rock me to sleep. Wearing my coat and extra socks—it was as cozy as being in the womb.
I didn’t sleep long, and when I woke I noticed a fine lot of identical cardboard boxes tied with twine and stacked amidst the sacks. Curious. Pulling the twine and opening the flaps, I snuck a look inside one to find it filled with elaborately engraved bronze tins, each the size of my palm. The words CHRISTMAS 1914 were engraved beneath a profile of Princess Mary, surrounded by laurels. So these must be from the Christmas gift fund Mum got the candy order for.
Popping the lid off the tin, I saw it packed with cigarettes, a little Christmas card from the Princess herself, and some butterscotch candy—little amber jewels to suck on throughout the day. I chuckled. For all I knew, my own mother made this candy with her bare hands, and here I was, across the sea, holding them in my palm. I closed the tin and put it back in its box.
I shuffled through the post a bit more and found a sack with letters from my neck of the woods. I couldn’t resist taking a peek. Probably one in ten of the blokes in Luther’s regiment were from near Leamington Spa, and as I sorted through the posts, I saw familiar names, including some from my boarding school in Rugby. While flipping through envelopes, I paused at a letter addressed to Ethyl Brand. Ethyl Brand. Reading the name woke a wound in me, like pressing against an old bruise. I picked it up and turned it over. It looked official. Ethyl. Over the years, I had often recalled the times we’d sat by the river together, often wondered where she was and how she was doing. Hadn’t seen her since the 1800s. Aunt Lavinia said she’d left Leamington to become a missionary. I lingered on that letter, wondering what was inside. And what was she doing on the front? Oh, I’d better come off it. None of my business. Awful nosy of me to be rifling through these letters in the first place.