Paul laughed. “He was a grump all right. Times were hard before the Great War. No one had money except the English families who lived uptown. The only thing Papa had on his mind was getting enough food on the table to feed his family. We ate meat once a week on Sundays, but only when we could afford it. There was no time for talking about feelings or taking his boys out fishing.”
“You had a twin brother, right? Grand-maman kept a picture of him on her bedroom wall with a rosary hanging alongside it.”
He swallowed hard and took a moment before answering. “Thomas and I started life together sharing our mother’s blood and listening to the drumming of her heart. We were born in different bodies but we shared the same soul. When he died in that damn war, a large part of me went with him. He was only sixteen when they shipped him overseas. He most likely got shot by a German kid the same age as him. They weren’t old enough to vote, but they gave them a free license to kill. I vowed on my mother’s head that no one would force me to kill someone who had done me no harm.”
“This is the most I’ve heard about your brother. Guess it’s a family thing. Don’t talk about the dead. All I know was that Grand-maman hated that he didn’t have his own space in the cemetery that she could visit.”
He turned off the highway and followed the signs leading to the nearest restaurant and gas station. “Talking about Thomas brings him back home to me. You’re the closest link I have to him. Just as courageous and independent as he was. My mother never mentioned him, but maybe she should’ve. Memories are what make us who we are. Without them, we have no sense of self. She took the news of his death pretty hard. We all did. But Thomas has a right to live on. It’s by talking about him that he’ll stay with us. There’s a good snack bar in the next village where we can talk. They have great coffee and it’s halfway to Saint-Roch.”
Chapter 23
Saint-Roch, Quebec
1914-1918
Paul and his brother Thomas were thirteen when they started as shoe buffers in the factory. Twelve hours a day, six days a week, sanding leather soles.
Their father snipped heavy leather hides into shoe parts in the cutting room on the first floor. He’d only let go of his scissors long enough to share his lunch with his boys when the dinner bell rang. The woody residue of tannic acid used to transform animal hides into leather, embedded into his skin and lungs, gave him the ruddy look of an outdoorsman. Yet his constant scratchy hacking in the dark of night shook everyone awake in the Brault household. A promotion to foreman seemed fitting after thirty-five loyal years of inhaling the acidic fumes and leather dust. He knew his way around every assembly line in the factory and it weighed on him that he was never considered.
Bilingual workers in most factories had a better chance of moving up. Except for the odd foreigner, low-level workers were usually French-Canadian. English was the language of money and power. An executive position offered to a foreman with a French family name was uncommon. French-Canadians who operated successful businesses in Saint-Roch moved their family up the hill to Quebec City. That’s where all the English upper class lived among the tree-lined wide avenues and well-kept parks.
Like most working-class French-Canadian boys, Roger had started putting in long hours in factories at twelve years old. No time for him to learn a second language, and no need either. English was never heard at the local Sunday Mass gatherings. Nor at the pool halls and bowling alleys where the youth met on Saturday evenings. Nor in the drafty classrooms and grimy playgrounds of poor districts like Saint-Roch. But it dominated in the large department stores, at movie theatres, at fancy restaurants and at bars. At all the big businesses of upper-town Quebec City. Getting served in French at those places was a pipe dream to some, but a thorn in the heart of many.
Fumes from the glue and the shoe polish in the factory permeated the workers’ hair and clothes. Dust from the sanding stuck in their throats and made their eyes water. Combined with the smell of unwashed bodies and tobacco smoke, the hot days of summer were unbearable. The foreman locked the doors during the day so employees didn’t waste time going out for a breath of fresh air.
The pay was low but it covered the rent, and the children’s contribution helped put meat on the table a bit more often. Paul kissed his mother on the cheek, slipping his first week’s pay into her apron pocket. She leaned forward at the kitchen table where she was peeling potatoes and sobbed. Thomas, who was never far behind his brother, ruffled her hair and pressed his pay into her closed fist. She pulled out her handkerchief from inside the sleeve of her sweater and wiped her eyes before reaching for her paring knife. They had chicken stew and dumplings for dinner that week after Sunday Mass.
In the summer of 1914, the Brault brothers had been working three years at the factory when the army recruiters came to town. Prime Minister Borden called for volunteers and promised Canadians never to impose conscription. Rumours that it was going to be a short war—over before Christmas—inspired some to enlist right from the start.
Colourful recruiting posters appeared everywhere. On billboards. On electric tramways. On the sides of tall buildings, telephone poles and restaurant walls. Thomas didn’t need to know what the slogans on the English posters were about. The images of courage mesmerized him. The brave soldier in full army attire holding a rifle over his shoulder caught his eye each time he passed by. The huge Union Jack in the background didn’t bother him. He didn’t feel the call to fight for a country whose imperial army had lorded over his people for centuries. But the lure of heroism was another story.
The poster that finally won him over was in French. Two soldiers stood with an arm resting on each other’s shoulder. A Canadian infantry soldier in his smart khaki regalia, and a French soldier in his dapper blue jacket and bright red pants—two close friends standing their rifles on the ground as if they were baseball bats. A fitting reminder of Montcalm, the French military hero killed in the 1759 battle to defend Quebec against British attackers. Though France had since then completely forgotten that Quebec existed, bringing the forgotten French hero out of obscurity served the recruiters well. The thought of foreigners invading the country of his ancestors prompted Thomas to step up to the recruiting desk. He would escape the slave labour of factory work.
He towered over the other men queued up to enlist, so the doctor checked the arches of his feet and his strong white teeth and declared him fit for battle. The recruiters turned a blind eye to his peach fuzz and the large infantile way he signed his name on his enlistment papers. They needed fresh soldiers to make up for all the losses in the trenches. All the military forms were in English. The recruiters pointed at the blank spaces, told him what to write, and he was good to go. He felt a twinge of guilt when he lied about his age, but hadn’t Montcalm also started his military career as a boy soldier?
His parents weren’t alone in their stand against fighting in a British war. Besides the unemployed, most of the English lining up to enlist at the start of the war were British-born and nurturing a heartfelt allegiance to their motherland. Most people in Quebec felt neither closeness with France nor any loyalty to King George V. Anti-war sentiment was shared by farmers across Canada who needed their sons to help with the farm work and by religious groups who refused to take up arms.
Thomas kept his plans secret and continued to work in the factory beside his brother. Paul woke up one morning to see the grey wool blanket already tucked under the mattress of his brother’s narrow bed. Placed on top of Thomas’ side of the rickety dresser separating their two cots was his most prized possession: his 1911 Imperial Tobacco hockey card of Eddie Oatman with the Quebec Bulldogs. He had penciled over the player’s hockey stick to make it look like a rifle.
Paul’s throat tightened. He’d never see his twin brother again. His knees buckled, and gasping for breath, he lowered himself back down on the edge of the bed. Hatred for those who had sent to slaughter the only one whose heart drummed in uni
son with his spread throughout his body. He swore never to take part in a war that relied on the spilling of blood to win. If conscription ever became law, he’d rather hang from the imperial gallows than join the ranks of mass murderers.
In October 1914, Thomas was part of the First Canadian Contingent arriving in Britain. The news that his son had boarded a warship sailing for England enraged Roger. Paul had waited until the ship left port before saying anything. He knew Thomas well enough. There was no stopping him. He would’ve found a way no matter what.
“Les maudits anglais.” Roger paced up and down the kitchen. “We already have our own war to fight here. Ontario won’t let our kids study in French. And they expect us to fight a war we don’t believe in.” He paused in front of the stove and stared at Paul, who sat drinking tea at the table. “For the love of God... Thomas is only sixteen. He still forgets to tie his damn shoelaces. How can they expect him to point a gun? Why didn’t you try to stop him?”
Paul averted his gaze. “By the time I figured it out, he was already heading to the training camp in Valcartier.” He looked up, a pained look in his eyes. “You know how damn pig-headed he can be. Nothing can stop him when his mind’s made up. He’d find another recruiting office the very next day. He wanted to be a hero like the ones on all those stupid war posters.”
“He’s always been the stubborn one of you two.” Roger sat on the chair across from Paul, his shoulders slumped, his head lowered. He was silent for a long moment before pushing his chair back and standing up straight. “Canadians aren’t ready to fight a damn war. Our boys are being sent off with those useless Ross rifles—damn things are always jamming and they’re too damn heavy and long for the trenches. And the army does everything in English. How is Thomas going to understand what he’s supposed to do? They’ll yell for him to duck and he’ll stay standing and get shot.”
“Don’t worry so much, Papa. He’ll have to copy what the others are doing and hope for the best. I hear a few French-Canadian infantry battalions have formed, so maybe he can ask for a transfer.”
Roger slammed his fist on the table. “That’s not how it works, son. When the French-Canadian battalions get there, they’ll break them up and place them on the front lines of the English ones.” He pushed his chair back from the table and continued pacing.
“He’s gone, Papa. Nothing we do or say will change anything.”
Roger turned to face him. “Swear on your mother’s head you won’t be foolish enough to enlist. They haven’t imposed conscription on us so far, but it doesn’t mean Borden won’t turn around and force it on us when our dead boys block up their trenches.”
Paul grasped his teacup and leaned back in his chair. “Don’t worry about that. The only time I’ll swing a rifle onto my back is to hunt for my supper. And if Borden does go back on his word, they can’t go after me until 1918, when I turn twenty. The war will be over and forgotten by that time. The recruiters will have to get up real early to find me in the woods. They’ll soon see I’m no coward when it comes to defending my right not to kill someone who’s never done me or my family any harm.”
Roger sighed and sat back down at the table. “Thank God. That’s one less son I have to worry about. This war is so wrong.”
“Not for everybody, Papa. Britain and France need this war if they want to survive. And if people here want to jump on the war wagon, that’s their choice—but nobody better come tell me I have to kill innocent people. Our Thomas got caught in that war-hero dream. He’s got to live it out. I ache for him every day, and I... hope... he comes back to us, but that’s all I can do... that’s all anybody can do.”
Roger leaned forward, folding his arms on the table. “I tell you, this war is all wrong for us. They call us cowards for not enlisting. Did you hear about Henri Bourassa’s article in this week’s Le Devoir? He accuses the Prussians of Ontario of being French Canada’s real enemy, not Germany.”
“Bourassa might be right, Papa. The more they try to stop us from speaking French, the less we want to fight their war. If they’d stop treating us like slaves, we might try to see things their way. We do all their dirty jobs in the mills and shops so they can afford big houses and shiny cars while we struggle to put bread on the table. Merde on them and their war. I don’t care what they call me as long as they don’t force me to kill.”
“You’ll see. They’ll find out Thomas is just a boy and send him home.” Roger looked hopefully at his son. Receiving no reply, he placed his two palms flat on the table and pushed himself up. “Now I have to figure out how to tell your mother about all this when she gets back from church.”
Anne clutched her heart and did the sign of the cross when Roger told her why her son had disappeared. She vowed to the Holy Virgin Mary never to eat meat again until her Thomas returned. During spare moments between her outside laundry jobs and her housework, she’d pull her rosary out of her apron pocket to recite her Hail Mary. She continued to set the table for four and prepared her absent son’s favourite meal every other day. When Paul asked her why she never made shepherd’s pie anymore, she replied that Thomas wasn’t too fond of it. He liked his mashed potatoes, meat and corn kept separate on the plate. But layered on top of each other was less appetizing to him. Roger and Paul glanced at each other in silence while she served herself a plateful of peas and potatoes.
Paul had always worked alongside his brother. He couldn’t get used to having a stranger share the same cloud of brown leather dust at the sanding station. When the cold and snow hardened the ground in November he joined the local lumberjacks travelling to the logging camps of northern Quebec. Robust and hard-working like the Brault men before him, he was a welcome addition to the rugged group of axemen. He’d swing his axe like a man possessed, stripping the bark from the heavy logs and squaring them to make them easier to transport. Each tree he cut down brought him closer to Thomas. Pine caskets for the soldiers murdered and buried overseas. The pay at the camp wasn’t any better than factory work. But the air was fresh, a luxury compared to the noxious fumes of the factories. With these woodsmen who spoke his language and shared his background, he found a sense of freedom and camaraderie for the first time in his life.
Thomas was already buried in French soil the day his postcard arrived, six months after he sailed. The picture showed him smiling knee-deep in mud on the training fields of Salisbury Plain in Northern England. Anne emptied out her cracked cup filled with coins from her laundry jobs. She asked the priest to hold a Mass for her dead son, thanking Jesus that Thomas was at least resting in the land of their ancestors. She pinned his postcard on the wall beside her bed along with a rosary blessed by the priest from the Basilica of Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré. Healed pilgrims left their crutches and braces there as proof that miracles occurred. Not that Anne expected her Thomas to rise up from his shallow grave. But his spirit would stop his surviving twin from joining the senseless carnage overseas.
Paul’s young age had saved him from being enlisted until the spring of 1918. Borden’s Military Service Act of the year before had cancelled all previous exemptions to the draft. The army was desperate for new recruits after suffering heavy losses on the battlefields. Volunteers were few. Married men and the sons of farmers now had to register for the selection process. Certificates of Exemption were given for special cases, although only certain religious pacifists were able to claim them. Spotters, or federal agents, hunted out and arrested any male they came across who couldn’t produce exemption papers.
There was a certain look about spotters. The determined way they strolled down the street, shoulders rigid, eyes darting from one side of the street to the other, ready to chase any suspicious male. Paul, like most eligible recruits, learned to duck into alleyways and slink into dark corners.
Chapter 24
Nadine stepped out of the second-floor elevator accompanied by Mrs. White. Grandma Stella’s arduous breathing, a rasping, as if she were trying to
claw her way out of a dark narrow tunnel, hit her as she entered the room. Nadine shuffled back a step, a heavy feeling in her stomach. “I... didn’t realize….”
“We’re doing all we can for her. It’s been four days since she’s been down with pneumonia. She had been coughing quite a bit for a while so we had the doctor examine her. The antibiotics haven’t worked—the immune system is pretty weak at her age. She hasn’t eaten a mouthful and we have trouble getting her to take any liquids. The family has requested she stay in her familiar environment rather than transport her to the hospital. The doctor prescribed something that will keep her as comfortable as possible. She hasn’t spoken in days so don’t expect too much from her.” She patted Nadine’s arm and left the room.
Aunt Jan had warned her that Grandma wasn’t well. She had expected to see a much older woman, but not as pale and frail as the one she saw in front of her. She pulled up a metal chair and sat down by the side of the bed, a deep ache in her chest. She should’ve tried to see her long before now. Her stubborn resolve to shun the Pritcharts had struck right into the heart of this gentle soul who had always treated her with love and respect. Aunt Jan and Papi had been kind enough to forgive her neglect but it was too late for Grandma. A high price to pay for her pride. She had wanted to punish Grandpa Pritchart, but in the end, the wrong people had suffered.
Soft Gregorian chants filled the room. She searched to see where it was coming from and noticed the eight-track tape player on top of the dresser. Aunt Jan had called this morning reminding her to make sure the tape was kept on. The staff didn’t always remember to push the play button when they came to check in on her. It was Grandma’s balm, her way of blocking out the fears that had plagued her all her life. On her nervous days, she hadn’t been strong enough to face the Sunday Mass crowd, so Nadine stayed home with her and crawled under her heavy woollen quilt. Arms wrapped around each other, they’d listen to the Gregorian chants playing on the small record player she kept in her bedroom. Listen to my heart, my little Nadine, she’d whisper, it’s rising as high as the melodies.
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