Letters Across the Sea

by Genevieve Graham

  He indicated where Ian should park, and once he had, the four of us set off at a brisk walk toward the main building.

  “Can I answer any of your questions while we walk?” Griffen asked.

  I asked about the fields and the cows, and he told me they had ten acres for farming. “Cows, chickens, pigs, whatever you want. The planting fields are out back. Why waste such glorious land?”

  “Indeed!” Ian replied. “And you’re saving the government money by feeding yourselves, to a certain extent.”

  “Exactly,” Griffen replied.

  I took in his white hair and moustache, surprised to see someone his age guarding the camp. I’d assumed guards would have to be fighting age. “How did you come to be stationed here?”

  “We’re all members of the Veterans Guard of Canada: veterans of the last war. Too old to fight, but fine for guard duty.”

  That explained his age. “There’s not a lot of outside security, I’ve noticed.”

  “Why leave? Most of these fellas have it better here than they’ve ever had it before. Bacon and eggs for breakfast, fresh bread every day, full, hearty suppers…”

  “Jeez. They eat better than us. Can the public come for supper?” Ian asked. “What do you think, Miss Ryan?”

  That was my cue to say something witty to lighten up the conversation and keep the guard talking. I smiled. “Mr. Collins, if you ate here, there’d be nothing left for the rest of the men.”

  Griffen chuckled and continued the tour, pointing out the nine guard towers and the separate, well-maintained barracks for prisoners, as well as the ones for the Canadian guards. While Ian asked questions, I took notes, and Mo snapped photos of the camp.

  Griffen pointed past the barracks. “Sports field over there, then they have the lake during the summer, and even a pool.”

  “Lake Ontario?” Ian asked. “That’s pretty wide open. Don’t they escape?”

  “You might think it’s crazy—I did at first—but the prisoners are required to give their word of honour that they’ll come right back, or else they can’t go.”

  “Their word of honour?” I exclaimed. “From Germans?”

  Griffen shrugged. “Like I said, they have it good here. Plus, where would they go? We’ve never had even one try to break out. Right now, of course, we’re having some problems with them, but it’s under control. Usually they’re out in the yard, playing soccer, baseball, whatever. The games are pretty competitive. Reminds me of my old days in service: navy versus army versus air force. In the evenings, some of them put on weekly plays. We even gave ’em musical instruments. Their band performs every Saturday night, both classical stuff and jazz. They’re not bad. You might want to come back and hear them sometime.”

  “Seems you run a pretty comprehensive ship out here,” Ian said.

  “Oh, we’ve got even more than you see here. We have professors from the University of Toronto coming out here to teach the men,” he said, looking proud. “I’ll admit I doubted it at first, but the facility is in great shape, and so are all the men. It works real well.”

  My thoughts went to poor Arnie Schwartz with his messy black hair and wide smile, dying of an illness in a filthy Hong Kong camp. “We’ve been reading very different things about POW camps overseas,” I said. “I didn’t expect to see something like this.”

  “Well, that’s good old Canadian hospitality for you.” Griffen’s smile faded. “Not all the camps in Canada are as nice as this one, but every one of them is better than what our men are suffering in over there.”

  Ian glanced at me, and I gave him a reassuring nod.

  “Here we are,” Griffen said as we arrived at the main building. “Now, I must warn you to stay back. The prisoners have armed themselves with sticks and iron bars and whatever else they can find. One of our own men is in hospital with a fractured skull from a flying jam jar. This morning was pretty rough, so we’re taking a break now. Regrouping. We have the situation under control—about five hundred of our own soldiers are here too—but I don’t want you getting too close, just in case. Especially you, Miss Ryan.”

  From outside, I could hear a ruckus inside the building, and adrenaline prickled through me. “It must be difficult to make them bend to your will, considering they’ve been given such royal treatment,” I said.

  “Yeah. Our men have guns, but the Germans see through that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The guns aren’t loaded. We don’t want to turn this into an international event.”

  We stepped through the foyer, then stopped at a set of closed doors. Through the windows in the doors, I saw the prisoners pacing, talking to one another. Griffen asked us to remain there while he went to retrieve a few of the senior prisoners for us to interview. Before he left, Mo spoke up.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said, startling me. He waggled one finger at the closed door. “Can I go in? I’d rather not shoot through the window. I promise to stay out of the way.”

  Corporal Griffen hesitated then gave a quick nod. “I’ll have a guard posted to you.”

  Mo followed him through the doors, and within seconds I could see his trigger finger shooting away.

  I scanned the room, taking in the angry faces, then paused, caught by a flash of red hair. I was staring at a German soldier, about the same age, same build as Richie. Same everything, save for his nationality. And the fact that he was alive. I blinked, remembering that awful fact, and I quickly looked away.

  Griffen returned with one of the prisoners. “This is General-Major Georg Friemel,” he said. “He’s the German spokesman.”

  Friemel nodded coolly at us. Like Griffen, he was older, perhaps sixty years old, with just a few wisps of white hair covering his head. He stood before us, arms at his sides, waiting. Ian jumped right in, asking questions about the attitudes and health of the POWs, all of which Friemel answered in sharp, disciplined English.

  I screwed up my courage. “And what’s your general opinion on the matter at hand? Considering the shackling order has been put into place as a result of your führer’s orders.”

  Friemel studied me. “We are in the service of the führer and obliged to follow his orders, not Churchill’s,” he said simply.

  I knew what the Nazis were capable of, but with Friemel standing basically defenceless before me, I couldn’t help but regard him and his men in the same light as our own POWs. They’d been following orders, nothing more. Though Friemel said nothing of the sort, I thought about how humiliating it must be for him and the rest of his soldiers, spending the duration of the war in a camp, unable to fight. I know how frustrated my brother Mark had been all along, waiting to join in the fighting.

  But at the same time, seeing Friemel in that light brought back the reality of what was happening at other POW camps, and indignation swelled within me. How dare these men complain, when they were being asked to withstand a small inconvenience while basically living it up at the Ritz?

  “How long do you think this standoff might go on?” I asked.

  Friemel scowled at Griffen before he answered my question. “We will not be surrendering twice.”

  Interview concluded, Friemel was escorted back into the mess hall, and Ian, Mo, and I were asked to step out of the building. Griffen informed us that the guards had a new plan and suggested we watch through the outside window. As soon as we were out, the guards rushed in with high-pressure water hoses and soaked the POWs, pushing them to the back of the room. Through the glass, Mo tried to get photos of the soggy prisoners, slumped in defeat. I felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for their humiliation.

  “What now?” Ian asked as Corporal Griffen accompanied us back to Ian’s car. “Will they have to wear the shackles?”

  “Oh, I think we’ll probably have another day of disagreements, but in the end, they’ll put them on. They don’t have much choice. If our boys have to wear them, so do they.” He handed Ian a card. “You can telephone tomorrow for an update, if you’d like.”
/>   The three of us climbed back into the car, lost in our own thoughts. Ian lit a cigarette, and when he saw me watching, he offered it to me. Still annoyed by what I’d seen, I nodded, surprising us both, then inhaled. I coughed, unfamiliar with the feel of the smoke in my lungs, but then I tried again. Something about the act of breathing in the smoke seemed to soothe my nerves.

  “That was not at all what I imagined for a POW camp,” I said, passing the cigarette back.

  “Me neither.” He glanced sideways at me. “What’s going on in that busy head of yours? You’re angry about something.”

  “I am. The Canadian POWs at Stalag VIIIB are suffering without food or any kind of comforts, plus they’re surrounded by Nazis at all times—Nazis whose guns are loaded—and then Hitler up and decides that they’ll be shackled for twelve hours a day. On the other hand, the German POWs we just saw have everything they need and more. Even if they are shackled, I doubt the guards will make it hard on them. It’s all ridiculous and unfair. Hitler’s too mean and we’re too nice.”

  “Now, now, Miss Ryan. Truth and Accuracy. Fairness—”

  “And Impartiality,” I finished for him. “I know, I know. I’ll stick to the code, don’t worry. But don’t forget the other one: humanity. I mean, think about our men over there. Can you imagine how demeaning it would be to have your hands tied behind your back all day, every day?”

  “I imagine demeaning prisoners is only part of the plan. But I agree.”

  “Monsters,” Mo muttered from the back seat.

  “True,” I said, turning to face him, “but now we’re hosing them down with water and shackling them. I don’t think anyone, in war or not, has the right to become monsters. When does humanity go out the window?”

  Ian looked over at me. “You take the byline on this one,” he said, surprising me. “And consider that longer form piece idea as well.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “You seem to have it all figured out. Just keep your journalistic distance.”

  Smiling, I held out my hand and took his cigarette again. “Yes, boss.”

  We arrived back in the city after five o’clock. I was tired but still energized by the experience, and I was anxious to get my first draft down on paper. Ian dropped Mo off, then he gave me a ride home.

  “Thanks for the lift,” I said.

  “You know, we’ve been working together for a few years now,” he said as he turned onto my street.

  “But who’s counting?” I teased.

  “Best years of my career. Maybe of my life.”

  Heat rushed into my face. “Oh, you’re being silly.”

  “I mean it.”

  His expression was soft, and I felt a rush of affection for him. “I’ve really enjoyed the past few months, too. I mean, after I came out of my daze. I needed time last Christmas, and you gave me all I needed. I really appreciate that. Even before then, when I wasn’t being all that nice to you, you let me lean on you. And now, with Liam and everything, I mean.”

  I looked away, the weight of memories wrapping themselves around me. In two months it would be Christmas again. A year since Richie had been murdered. I doubted that would ever get any easier for me to accept.

  He stopped the car in front of my house. I reached for the door handle, but he turned off the engine and faced me. “I was just glad I could be there,” he said. “And I understood, you know, when you withdrew. You had so much going on. I just waited. I’m stubborn that way.” He took my hand. “I’m very fond of you, Molly Ryan, as you well know.” His thumb slid over my knuckles, raising goose bumps all over me. “And I was thinking that maybe it’s almost time for me to meet your parents.”

  The air between us hummed, and my eyes lowered to the soft line of his mouth. “Why?” I asked, unable to look away.

  The corners lifted in a smile. “Because I’d have to ask your father’s permission if I’m gonna ask you what I want to ask you.”

  nineteen MOLLY

  Please, Mum!” I said, leading her to her favourite spot in the living room. “Honestly, you’ve been fussing around the kitchen like a chicken with its head cut off.”

  “But do you think he’ll like the casserole? You know, the one with the noodles. Oh, it’s so difficult to make anything special with all the rationing.”

  I placed her knitting in her lap. “Ian will eat anything, Mum. He’ll love it.”

  “You’re the best cook I know,” Dad assured her.

  I turned to Dad. He had shaved and dressed in his nicest suit, and seemed to be standing a little taller. “You’re looking handsome,” I said.

  “I thought the occasion required me to clean up a bit,” he replied, giving me his lopsided smile. “You don’t often bring men home for supper.”

  After so many years, Dad was finally doing better. It had started when Liam came home, ruined in so many ways. Mum had been tired all the time, caring for them both, then one day Dad had gotten out of his chair, put on his hat, and walked around the block. Every day, he went a little bit farther, relying on his cane less and less. And recently Liam had joined him, wrapping his poor face in a scarf before leaving the house. They’d given me hope.

  Outside, the fat, eager flakes of snow were piling up on the street. Of all the nights for me to invite Ian over, now we were being buried in the first snowfall of the year. Ian had said he was going to drive over regardless of the weather. I knew he wanted to make a good impression, but I was nervous about the slippery roads. Still, I had learned a long time before that there was no changing Ian’s mind when it was made up.

  “Do you think Liam will join us?” I asked.

  “He thought it would be best if he didn’t,” Mum said. “It’s a special night for you, Molly. He didn’t want to take away from your big moment.”

  My heart sank. “He could never. I’ll go talk with him.”

  “No, dear. Let him come around when he’s ready.” She brightened. “Your father and I are very excited about tonight. We want you to enjoy yourself.”

  I could practically hear wedding bells in her voice. Beside her, Dad shifted. “Molly,” he said, his voice soft. “I know we haven’t always done the right thing, but we love you. You’re our only daughter, and we just want you to be happy.”

  Christmas 1941 had put the pain of my parents’ betrayal behind me. I still grieved what might have been between Max and me if I’d received his letter, but that was years ago. As I’d told Hannah, I’d moved on.

  “I know, Dad. You’ve always wanted that. And I am.”

  I turned to the window, my heart pattering with nerves. A couple of weeks ago, after Ian had made his intentions clear, I had lain in bed a long time, thinking about the decision before me. For so long, I had felt sad and alone. Then Ian had come into my life, a bright sun spreading energy and excitement. Once more, I had someone to talk to about the news, politics, and my ambitions. He had taken me under his wing and never once looked down his nose at me. After Max, I’d never expected to open my heart to anyone ever again, but Ian had found a way in. He was funny, smart, and unquestionably handsome, and he doted on me. What more could I want? I was twenty-seven years old. It was time. Hannah was right. If I wasn’t careful, I would waste my life waiting.

  At last, Ian arrived, his black coat sparkling with melting snow. When I opened the door, he filled the whole entrance, and his broad smile brought a new level of warmth to the room. I took his hat and coat while he stomped snow off his boots, and when he leaned down to give me a kiss on the cheek, Mum and Dad stood back, glowing like children seeing Santa Claus.

  “So glad you’re here,” I murmured.

  “Me too,” he said.

  “Did you really drive?” I asked, hanging his coat on the hook.

  “I did.” He grimaced. “The way it’s coming down, I’ll admit that might have been a poor choice.”

  I watched with appreciation as he greeted Mum, complimenting her on the kitchen’s wonderful aroma and the general “beauty” of our t
ired old house. Then he turned to Dad, who had straightened to his full height. I smiled inside, recognizing the sergeant in him, still so proud.

  Ian wasn’t daunted. “Sergeant Ryan,” he said, offering his hand. “It’s an honour to finally meet you.”

  After a few minutes, Mum went to our brand-new white refrigerator to get her favourite cabbage and pineapple gelatin salad, then she ushered us all to the table, saying dinner was ready. Ian, Dad, and I took our seats, then Mum dished out the casserole. Ian was a perfect gentleman, saying, This is delicious and Thank you so much for having me, until those niceties were out of the way. Then Mum poured a little wine, and the conversation wandered into more uncharted territory.

  “Why don’t you tell us about yourself, Ian,” Dad said.

  Ian patted his mouth with his napkin then set it down, always happy to talk. “What is there to tell? You’ll be glad to know, Mr. Ryan, that I’m of good Protestant Irish stock. My grandparents came over from Dublin in 1868, and they settled in Bowmanville, where I was born. Molly and I actually went there to research a story the other day.”

  I sat back, watching him in his element.

  “Molly’s told me about her seanmháthair and a few of her wonderful stories,” he continued. “I recognized some of them from my own grandmother, God rest her soul.”

  “What about your brothers and sisters?” Mum asked.

  “I’m an only child, I’m afraid.”

  She gave him a sympathetic look.

  “That’s all right,” he said, flashing that contagious grin. “I make friends easily.”

  “He’s a charmer, all right,” I agreed, touching his toes with mine under the table.

  Dad lifted a censorious eyebrow. “Is that right?”

  “I believe it,” Mum said, obviously warmed up to Ian already.

  “And your job,” Dad said. “You seem content there, are you? Writing for a living? Why is it you never enlisted, I’m wondering.”

  Ian’s smile faded. “I would have if the doctor had allowed it,” he said, sounding disappointed. I felt for him. He’d told me before that he was ashamed about being turned away by the military doctor. “I have a heart murmur. It’s never once given me cause to worry, and I tried to tell the doctor that it wouldn’t impede my abilities to fight, but he was adamant. So I’m doing my bit as well as I can, I suppose, by writing about the war. I started at the Star fresh out of school, and I was promoted to assistant editor recently, right around the time Molly became a senior reporter.”