He awoke before the sunrise, weak with hunger. Every bruised muscle seemed frozen in place; when he stood, they shook uncontrollably from the cold. He shuffled toward the doorway and braced himself against its rotting frame, using his hand to shade his eyes against the sparkling snow. The snow, the trees, the sky . . . it all looked the same, and the unfamiliar landscape clearly went on this way for a long while. He needed to organize his thoughts, visualize a plan, but his attempts to think clearly were washed aside by a wave of panic. Where was he? What could he do?
His father’s words came back to him. If you are lost, find water. That is where the food will eventually go.
He would not disappoint his father. Taking a wobbly step into the snow, he followed his own footprints back to the game trail, then considered the path. In the trampled snow he saw the split hoofprints of deer, and for the first time he felt a vague hope. If he followed them, he would most likely find water, and if there was water there would be game. With that, however, came the risk that he could also run into local hunters. He would have to proceed with caution.
You must always be careful, son. You might assume you are the hunter, but you can easily become the prey.
But if the hunters weren’t around, there was a possibility he might find an unoccupied camp. Following the trail until it split, Rudi took the wider option until that path opened up as well. The forest was dense with spruce, pine, fir, and leafless maples, and everything was complicated with snow, but he felt confident that the broader the trail, the better chance he had of finding some sort of shelter.
Hours later he came upon a flat white meadow dotted with deer tracks, and farther on he discovered a frozen lake, its curving, tree-lined coast extending into the horizon. Optimism stirred in his chest; if he was right, a camp might be nearby. Using the shore as a home base, he began walking in one direction, then retracing his steps to the water, determined not to get lost. By his third attempt, the tips of his fingers were numb from the biting cold, and he was hungry to the point of dizziness. Worst of all, he was dangerously tempted to give in to his exhaustion. Darkness was closing in. He could only hope he wasn’t wasting precious time with his search.
Then, as if in a dream, he saw it: a small, snow-covered shack mostly hidden in the trees. He rubbed his eyes to convince himself it was not a mirage, and when he dropped his hands the sturdy little place was still there, huddled in the dark, the snow around it undisturbed.
Rudi stumbled across the final few yards, checking the entire way for footprints and finding none. His frozen fingers fumbled with the latch until the door swung open, and he stepped through. Holding his breath, he braced himself for an attack, afraid to trust his good fortune. But he was alone, safe.
The one-room cabin was pitch-black inside, and the air within smelled as if no one had been there for a while. When his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he could see the camp was dry and clean. A couple of bunk beds had been built against two walls, and grey wool blankets lay neatly folded at the foot of each. In the middle of the building stood a table, a couple of rickety chairs, pots and dishes, and—Gott sei Dank!—a wood stove with a box of matches set conveniently on top. Firewood was neatly stacked against the wall, accompanied by an axe.
He removed his gloves and knelt by the stove, setting the kindling clumsily with numb fingers. The dry birch caught quickly, as did its sap, and the resultant crackling warmed Rudi’s spirit. At first he couldn’t move, hypnotized by the promise of warmth, then his stomach cramped, reminding him he had things to do. He filled the pot on the stove with snow, and by the time it melted, the cabin’s dull interior flickered gold. The warmth came straight from heaven.
In the belly of the U-boat, the men were always slick with sweat, stripped to undershirts and short pants, craving cool air. The entire craft stank of body odour, months-old stored food, and diesel—among other things—and the smell only got worse under the constant, heavy blanket of heat. The difference between that life and this one was shocking; Rudi hadn’t been prepared for this kind of cold. Even though he’d grown up with winters such as this, it took a long time before the fire could slow the vibrations running through him.
As his skin warmed, something trickled down the side of his face, and when he touched his brow, his fingers came away bloody. A long cut over his right eye still seeped blood, but after he’d cleaned his face with snow he determined the wound wasn’t serious. He was more concerned about his shoulder. The joint was back in place now, but the muscles around it were so tender he held his breath as he slid his arm from his sleeve to inspect it. A furious red-black bruise spread across his swollen shoulder. There was nothing he could do to soothe it, and it would take days before his shoulder and arm would function at normal strength. But other than that, he was remarkably sound.
He sat on the bunk and surveyed the cabin, appreciating how fortunate he’d been in finding this place. After the last day of running blindly, he felt it almost unreal to be in a place like this: warm, dry, and safe—at least for now. The camp was a veritable treasure trove as far as provisions: traps of various sizes hung from one wall, and a couple of skinning knives wrapped in a burlap bag lay on a high shelf. Food wouldn’t even be much of an issue, because beside those tools stood large tins containing staples: flour, oats, salt and pepper, even sugar. He could not have asked for better. When he’d first lit the fire he’d been concerned someone might spot the smoke rising from the chimney, but for now it was too dark for anyone to see. And really, he had no choice—he could either take a chance with the smoke or risk freezing to death.
As long as no one came along, he would be fine, and judging by the amount of dust in the place, he had nothing to worry about.
Rudi craved sleep, but his body needed food first. He boiled a cup of oats on the stove, then sprinkled some sugar on top. The first spoonful eased the furious cramps in his stomach. In the morning he would set a trap or two.
When the bowl was empty, he lay back on the bunk and closed his eyes, drifting. He let his thoughts go, followed them as they reached out to the men with whom he’d been living just a day before. Their faces already threatened to fade from his memory, but Rudi couldn’t let them; they were all he had left. In his mind, he called each man’s name, and their faces appeared. Grief and guilt swelled in his throat, then gave way to an unfamiliar flood of apprehension. Throughout his life he’d been part of a larger unit, had depended on others and proudly shouldered their reliance on him. But his world was different now. No one would come to Rudi’s rescue out here.
He might be the only one who had survived, but now he was caught. Like the rabbits he had hunted so many years before.
It panics, you see, his father had said. Its attempt to escape the snare hurts it the most in the end.
Calm. He needed calm. I am safe, he reminded himself. I am warm and fed. I am alive.
The crackle of the fire, the silence of the night, comforted him. When he couldn’t hold sleep off any longer he said a prayer, thanking God for protecting him, begging for peace for his lost comrades. And before his final Amen, he added one more plea.
Please, God, help me get home.
SIX
Rudi awoke after the sun had risen and was greeted by a silent stream of dust motes dancing in light—a far cry from the usual clanging of metal, foul breath, and clammy air. Every muscle rebelled when he tried to sit up, but lying motionless wasn’t an option. With a groan he staggered towards the cooled ashes from the night before, hugging his injured shoulder against his chest. He relit the fire, then set a pot of melting snow on the still-warm stove, wishing fiercely for a cup of coffee. The closest he was going to get was hot water. Clear tea, he thought ruefully.
But man could not live on hot water and oatmeal alone. Grabbing a roll of snare wire from the wall, Rudi stepped outside and squinted against the blinding reflection of sun on snow, letting the door creak gently shut behind him. It was the lone sound in the forest. Naked winter branches criss-crossed over hi
s head, the only barrier between him and the vast blue heavens, and the sight took his breath away. For so long his sky had been a curved metal ceiling, its clouds the endless paths of pipes and wires and knobs. At times, confined for so long beneath the surface, one could forget anything existed beyond the steel. Now all that was gone, and his soul rejoiced. He inhaled, inviting the cool, clean air to suffuse every starved cell in his body.
He had imagined Canada would be like this: an untamed, sparsely inhabited, desolate beauty. From the submarine he’d not been able to witness the mountains as they passed Cape Breton, but he knew they were there from the map. Now that he actually stood here, the snow underfoot, the sleeping trees, the quiet wilderness—all of it was balm for his soul. Almost as if he were back home. At that, guilt seeped back into his thoughts. As a highly trained U-boat officer, he was a valuable cog in the German war machine. He should not be here, so far from his duty.
They’d had their first contact in these waters just three months ago, in October, while Rudi had been overseeing the radio room crew. The encounter was burned permanently into his memory, and its shadows still flitted through his nightmares. For weeks they had been hunting for convoys on the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and nothing had come their way. But on that day, at nearly four o’clock in the morning, Kuefer leaned in, concentrating, his hand held up for quiet. He froze like he always did when he thought he heard an anomaly running through the tiny, silent sounds of the sea, and the crew members held their breath in anticipation. Pressing his earphones firmly against his head with one hand, the radioman started moving the other with deliberation, turning the wheel on his hydrophone.
“Propellers,” he whispered to Rudi. He listened again. “Yes. Small convoy. Seven ships. Ten knots. Fifteen hundred metres off port side. About sixty kilometres off Newfoundland, sir.”
“So close,” Rudi muttered. “A gift.”
“Periscope depth,” Kapitänleutnant Gräf said calmly, and the order was called down the voice tube to engineering. When they stopped the ascent, Gräf flipped his cap around, putting its peak behind him, and stared into the scope. He rotated the pipe all the way around to seek out possible enemy ships, then backed away, satisfied.
“It is not the grain convoy we wanted. Doesn’t appear to be heading to Montreal, either. But it is good enough.” He righted his cap and addressed Rudi, keeping his voice low. “Battle stations!”
The U-boat’s tomblike atmosphere became an organized frenzy of activity—except no one spoke, no one made any sound at all; it was imperative they maintain silence so the target wouldn’t pick up any noise that could give them away. Every man knew where he had to be; they emerged soundlessly from bunks, the toilet, or dinner, pulling on pants or life jackets as they ran.
“Surface,” Gräf ordered.
Once they were on deck, Rudi and the other watch operators had a 90-degree zone to monitor. They pressed binoculars to their eyes, breaking contact with the view only when the sea washed over them like a giant, fluid hammer. Freed of the restraining water pressure, the U-boat coasted swiftly past the convoy, giving the crew better visual access and taking them out of range of the navy escort ships’ sonar equipment. Here, above the surface, they could be easily spotted by a keen eye, but they hoped the darkness of night would hide them.
The captain lowered his binoculars and scowled. “Where are all the escorts?”
Rudi scanned the convoy, then pointed. “There, sir. One off the port side, thirty degrees. Minesweeper, Bangor class.”
“Right. What is the target? I can’t make out her lines.”
Rudi agreed. “Too much diesel smoke to tell exactly.”
“I think . . .” Gräf took a deep breath. “I see a sixty-five-hundred-tonne passenger freighter and a two-stack destroyer. Close in to four hundred metres. Prepare torpedo bays one and three.”
When all was ready, Gräf issued the command. “Loose torpedo one!”
It was always a thrill, watching the phantom shape break from the ship and speed towards the target. When the missile was out of sight, Rudi’s binoculars scanned ahead, following the path it would lead, and his heartbeat soared. Their patience was about to pay off. This was what they were here to do: win the war for Germany by ridding the Atlantic of enemy ships and by blocking essential trade routes.
The torpedo blasted into the side of the ship like a giant fist. Direct hit. The night flared orange, outlining the black profile of the vessel they’d just destroyed—and Rudi’s stomach filled with ice.
“Sir, that ship—”
“I see, Lieutenant Weiss, I see.”
The officers stared in horror; they were close enough now to see the fallout in the light of the fire. The target was about half as large as they’d estimated. Between the flames, distant profiles of passengers ran to lifeboats, even leaped into the frozen depths when they saw no other way out, and their screams were audible over the fire’s roar. Another explosion cut through the noise, and the distinctly shrill cry of a panicked child calling its mother travelled over the water.
This was no merchant ship. The ship they had just sentenced to a watery grave was a small passenger ferry.
“Herr Kapitän! Destroyer!”
“Tauchen! Tauchen!” the captain roared as the four men dropped down the tower, water splashing to the floor with them. “Dive! Position the ship under the target!”
The U-boat plunged deep below the surface, safely out of reach of the depth charges booming overhead, and moved rapidly from the scene. Minutes later, they were invisible again and back on the prowl. Later, in his report about this attack, the captain would say the target hadn’t been the ship they’d thought it was, but it was still an enemy ship. The German crew had done their job and lived to see another day.
Why, then, had no one cheered? Why was Rudi still haunted by that night’s conquest?
Now was not the time to think of that. He must concentrate on the here and now, not the past. Crouching in the snow, he pushed the ghosts away and surveyed the small tracks on its surface. There was plenty of small game here; he would not starve. After brushing the area clear, he set a snare and moved on.
The forest around him was silent, and without a breeze not even the shadows moved. It was ethereal in its stillness; still, Rudi was uneasy. There was an eeriness to the calm, a reminder that he was completely alone in an unfamiliar world, and it made him feel exposed like never before.
Rudi knew fear. He knew the deep, bone-wrenching terror that came from being inside a submarine that almost didn’t dive quickly enough or barely escaped a minefield. When the only barrier between him and the bottomless void of the sea had shuddered, blasting freezing seawater through weakened metal seams, he hadn’t been able to breathe. He and the others had been like mice trapped in a giant metal fist, and the fingers were closing, squeezing the life from them. He had heard grown men weep and pray with everything they had, certain they were about to die. He had even been one of them. He knew that kind of fear, and he’d learned to live with it, because it was his duty to fight for his country.
But what he felt now was different, and in a way this was the most frightened he’d ever been. Rudi was utterly alone. His parents were most likely dead, his comrades as well. There was no one he could contact for help. He was lost and alone in the Canadian wilderness in the dead of winter—and here, he was the enemy. The silence which had delighted him at first now threatened to suffocate him. How long could he survive out here on his own?
Grace
SEVEN
For a while the sunken U-boat was all anyone could talk about, but the sudden, decisive arrival of winter meant life quickly got back to normal. After one particularly savage storm that buried the roads in snow, Mrs. Gardner said she wasn’t sure it was worth the effort to open the store, but it was a Wednesday, two weeks before Christmas, and people had errands to run. Grace gave Tommy fifty cents, and he shoveled the road outside the store for her.
Days like this were Grace’s favourites.
Sure, it was freezing outside, but icicles hung like tinsel from every branch, putting to shame the silver foil namesakes people draped over their Christmas trees. The sky beyond the window was a sea of joyous blue, and the aroma of burning maple rising from the wood stove made her feel warm from the outside in. Grace turned on the radio, treating herself to music while she swept dust from the corners. The bell over the door jingled and a customer walked in.
“Good morning, Mrs. MacDonald,” she said.
Her customer rubbed her mitts together, shuddering with cold, then tugged off her hat and tucked it under one arm. “Not a day for the meek.”
“No indeed. I’m glad you could come keep me company.”
“I’ve come to see if my Eaton’s order arrived. I ordered one of those Little Angel dolls for my granddaughter, and I’m so afraid it won’t be here in time for Christmas.”
“Oh yes. It just came in yesterday.” Grace retrieved the parcel from the back room. “She is going to love this. Is there anything else you need today?”
“Why yes, please. I’d like some cranberries, if you have them. And some of that V8 juice. Just put it on my account, if you would be so kind.”
Grace packaged up the goods and recorded them in the daybook. She’d changed the accounting columns, made them easier to read, and she was pleased with the result. Even Mrs. Gardner had agreed it was better than her husband’s ancient system. That reminded Grace that she had meant to stop over at the widow’s house. Mrs. Gardner hadn’t come out to the store in a week or so, which was unusual. Grace wanted to make sure she had everything she needed.
Come from Away Page 5