by Joan Boswell
The buzzer sounded; they had returned.
“Your mother says you have a locker. Show us.”
Oh, God. Had they tortured her? Or had it been a routine question? Where was she? How would I locate her?
Apparently, they didn’t find anything in the locker, but back in the apartment they continued their search. I was shaking and hoped most people did this, whether they had anything to hide or not. Planted in the middle of the living room, I watched them.
The smelly one strode into my bedroom, where he kicked the file cards into even greater disarray and smiled at the mess. He bent down, picked up Grimm’s Fairy Tales, thumbed through it and tossed it on the floor. I stared, mesmerized, as he chose two of my favourite dolls, wrenched their heads off, held them upside down and shook them. Finally, he drew a knife from his pocket and faced me as he eviscerated my dear old Teddy. Stuffing leaked out as he tossed the disembowelled bear on the floor.
Finished with the books and toys, he pulled the covers off the bed, slashed the mattress and flipped it on top of the stew of books, toys and file cards. Back in the living room, the two men smashed five of Mother’s treasured Royal Doulton figurines, slashed the cushions on the sofa, flipped the chairs and slit the fabric covering the bottoms.
The balcony was next.
All I could think about was the buried aluminum-wrapped package; the grenade with the power to destroy.
Systematically, the smelly officer destroyed Mother’s tranquil oasis. He chose randomly; tipping two geraniums out of their jardinieres—leaving three untouched; pulling one climbing vine off the trellis—ignoring the other; upending Mother’s basket of gardening tools—passing up the opportunity to smash a shelf stacked with terra cotta pots.
I couldn’t avoid thinking about the fig tree; in fact, I could think of nothing else. Resolutely I fixed my gaze on the building opposite and considered how ironic it was that tigers running around a tree had comforted, while buried tigers terrified me. Distracted when he dropped a hanging basket of fuschia on the floor, I turned. Noticing me staring, he tramped in the spilled dirt before he stomped into the living room. The balcony was a shambles; the fig tree untouched.
As I waited with a sense of inevitability for the order to go downtown, I worried about my resistance to pain, my inability to safeguard Father’s secret if they tortured me. I visualized electric shocks, fingernails ripped off, sensitive parts of my body burned and wondered how long I’d hold out. Absorbed in my thoughts, I failed for a second or two to take in the smelly one’s words.
“We’ll be back. Your mother will tell us where to look.”
Poor Mother. She couldn’t reveal what she didn’t know. I was glad for that, but the thought of what they might do to her filled me with horror. The best way to help her was to get the book out of the apartment and to make absolutely sure I passed the notes hidden in Little Black Sambo to the right woman.
I’d heard that every Thursday, when the women arrived at the Plaza de Mayo, soldiers with cameras sat in the windows of the Casa Rosada, the pink building at the end of the square housing the offices of the Generals. Also, the gossip was that the Generals’ spies had infiltrated the protesters. If a soldier noticed me passing something to one of the women, or if I chose the wrong woman, not only would Father’s sacrifice be pointless, but also I’d make the situation much worse for Mother and be in terrible trouble myself.
Every time I thought of Mother I wanted to stop and begin my search, my trek from official to official pleading for news of her or her whereabouts. But I couldn’t stop now; I had to deliver the book.
So many names on Father’s lists, but to locate a relative in the square I would focus on one or two particularly distinctive ones. I excavated Little Black Sambo, chose Alexandria Michielsen and Sharon Browne, two young women whose European ancestors had not come from Italy or Spain, and resolved to find a woman carrying a sign with one of the names.
How to camouflage the book? A Missal wouldn’t draw attention. I collected Mother’s from her bedside table. It was the perfect size—slightly larger than Sambo. After removing the Missal’s cover, I slipped father’s notes inside and secured the cover with an elastic. Once I’d rewrapped and reburied the parcel I went for a walk and disposed of the tell-tale pages of the Missal in a public waste bin. Back home, because every woman in the square wore one, I made myself a white headscarf.
On Thursday, dressed in nondescript clothes, I hooked a shopping bag containing the Missal and white scarf over my arm and rode the subway to the Plaza. When I arrived, I crossed to the Cathedral and mixed with the throngs of worshippers who flowed in and out throughout the day. Kneeling in a pew, I prayed that the Church would intercede on the people’s behalf—a request unlikely to be answered as, so far, the Church had supported the Generals.
Outside, with the white scarf in place, I wandered over to the Plaza and stood with other onlookers as I scrutinized the placards. A woman of my mother’s age with dark blonde hair tucked under her white scarf and blue eyes reflecting deep sadness walked past carrying a sign with a graduation picture of a serious, dark-haired girl and underneath, printed in bold, black ink, “Where Is Alexandria Michielsen”. I slipped into the slow-flowing stream of women and caught up with her.
With my head bent to prevent the curious from noticing that I was talking—the vigil was done in silence—I said in a low voice, “I have information about your daughter and other young women who’ve disappeared.”
The woman stopped as if I’d shot her.
“Alexandria, you know about Alexandria,” she said in a thin high voice.
“I think we should continue to walk,” I murmured and, indeed, several soldiers stationed on the edge of the Plaza had glanced our way.
“Yes, yes, of course. Is she alive?”
Impossible to say the terrible words; I remained silent.
“Oh, my God. In my heart I thought she was dead, but unless you know for sure, you have hope.”
“Alexandria had a baby, a son.”
Her mother clutched my arm and sagged against me. I supported her as well as I could, but our staggering lurching gait was sure to draw the soldiers’ attention. Out of the corner of my eye I saw another woman size up the situation and quicken her step to join us. With each of us holding an arm, the Samaritan whispered, “We must keep going.”
After we’d made a complete circle of the square, Alexandria’s mother thanked the unknown woman, removed her supporting arm and, still clinging to me, walked on.
“What happened to my grandson?”
“He’s been adopted.”
“How do you know this?”
“I have lists written by my father, who was an army officer himself. They killed him because they suspected he’d made a record. I’ve hidden the lists of women and their babies inside a Missal. In two hours come into the Cathedral. I’ll be on the right in the fourth pew from the front. The Missal will be on the seat next to me.”
I stopped whispering as we walked past a phalanx of soldiers.
“Please move the information along quickly. If they pick me up, I don’t know how brave I’ll be.”
“Thank you for doing this.”
“Pray for me and for my family.” Only God could help my father, but prayer might miraculously protect my mother from the wrath of the Generals.
I gently detached the woman’s arm, increased my pace and drew ahead of her. After four more turns around the square I drifted to a street leading away from the plaza. With my white scarf tucked in my shopping bag, I wandered along studying displays in shop windows.
One hundred and twenty minutes later, after I’d visited a dozen stores, bought a pair of gloves, checked at least fifteen times to assure myself no one was following me, I walked to the Cathedral. In the fourth pew, I knelt and prayed for the safety and health of my mother, for the souls of the women and for my father.
Surely he wouldn’t go to hell when he’d been brave and put himself in great peril to recor
d the terrible deeds of the Generals’ regime. Surely God would forgive anything else he’d had to do.
Alexandria Michielsen’s mother slipped into the pew, picked up the Missal, crossed herself and left.
I made my way home, content that I’d done what Father wanted; that he would have been proud of me. Now, I’d begin my search for Mother. Optimistically, I told myself that she might even be waiting when I returned.
As I walked up my street, I saw the green Falcon parked in front of our building.
Since visiting Argentina, the plight of the “disappeared’ ” has haunted Joan Boswell. A member of the Ladies’ Killing Circle, she has had stories in their four previous anthologies as well as in magazines and books in Canada and the U.S. In 2000 she won the $10,000 first prize in the Toronto Sunday Star Short Story contest.
When the Red, Red Robin
R.J. Harlick
He sucked in his breath at the sound he’d been waiting for, a faint, almost flute-like trill. Perhaps it wasn’t a trill at all. But just in case, Harry raised his binoculars. It never hurt to be too prepared. Boy Scout Harry. That’s what his buddy, Sam, called him. He even had his notebook handy to check off another species. Fifteen was his count so far this summer.
One more sighting, and he’d tie Sam’s record from last summer. Two more and he’d win.
The new bird guide he’d got for his thirteenth birthday said ferns were the preferred habitat of the shy Hermit Thrush. So he focused the lens on some big ferns growing in a small clearing beyond the next line of trees. A long, feathery frond wavered. Harry waited, not quite believing his luck. He knew the wind hadn’t moved it, since the breeze seldom got this far into the Mont Orford forest.
A single flute note sounded again, followed by the thrush’s familiar spiralling scale. Although Harry was sure it came from behind those ferns, he didn’t want to leave his hiding spot for a better view. He might scare his target away. A sighting in flight didn’t count. Instead, Harry shifted his position behind the fat spruce so he could focus his binoculars on a gap through the ferns.
If it really were the Hermit Thrush, Sam would turn green. Even eagle-eyed Sam hadn’t checked off this species yet.
Harry’s pulse quickened at the sight of a brown flash behind the emerald green fronds. He could swear it was the same rusty brown colour as the picture in his guide. If he saw brown spots, he would be golden. Only problem, in order to see the spots, the target had to face him. Trick was how to get the target to turn around without sending it into flight.
But if Harry was anything, he was patient. He’d proven it last summer, when he and Sam were going after the Eastern Bluebird. His buddy had spotted the streak of blue near a flock of male American Goldfinches by one of the Arts Centre studios. But that sighting didn’t meet the rules he and Sam had laid down. The target had to be alone, away from buildings and most importantly had to be making its distinctive call.
Sam had read in a book at school that the Eastern Bluebird liked open fields. So for most of that blistering afternoon they’d hidden in the shade of the red pine plantation they called the Telephone Pole Forest, next to Farmer Moineau’s cow pasture. Eventually, Sam had given up. But Harry had hung in. Even passed up a boat ride on Lake Memphrémagog in Sam’s uncle’s new inboard.
Finally, with dinner time fast approaching, his patience had been rewarded with the unique song of guitar-like twangs. Then he’d sighted the telltale blue plumage. Despite his growling stomach, he’d remained hidden in the underbrush watching the Eastern Bluebird preen herself. And that was another rule. Only the female of the species counted.
The ferns moved again. Harry held his breath. He thought he saw a couple of brown spots, but couldn’t be sure. He had to get closer to see over the ferns into the hollow where the Hermit Thrush remained hidden. He inched silently forward. One step. Two steps. Three. A brief flutter stopped him.
As the scale of warbling notes filled the clearing, he slowly brought his binoculars back up to his eyes. He pointed them to where he’d seen the movement, directly into a narrow trench at the edge of the fern patch. He almost chortled out loud when he saw the characteristic brown dot markings against a white background.
Point scored for the good guys. One more, and he’d beat Sam.
But his sighting was almost ruined by the abrupt appearance of the American Robin.
What’s going on? Same thing happened last year. Harry had no sooner checked off Eastern Bluebird in his book than out bobbed this red-breasted menace. This time the intruder bobbed again, straight towards the hollow where Harry’s present sighting roosted. But, since their rules didn’t say how long the target was supposed to be alone, Harry figured this one still counted, like last year.
Halfway back to the Arts Centre residence, Harry decided to go to Sam’s place instead. He couldn’t wait until music camp next morning to gloat over this new sighting. He wanted to see the look of disgusted envy wash over his friend’s freckled face.
He trudged along the tree-shaded lane to the large stone cottage where Sam spent his summers with his aunt and her Russian husband, the director of the Orford Arts Centre, a fussy two-story building whose wrap-around verandah covered more ground than the tiny bungalow where Harry, his mother and kid brother lived in Sherbrooke. But Harry didn’t care if Sam’s uncle was a “big” name in the music world. His buddy was just a regular guy and treated Harry, the musical prodigy, like one too.
As Harry stomped up the stairs of the verandah, he could hear the strained notes of a violin. Sam’s practising, he thought. He banged the brass door knocker. The violin continued screeching. Too bad Sam hadn’t inherited any of his uncle’s musical genes.
When no one came to the door, Harry followed the sounds of the violin to the back garden, where he didn’t find Sam practising. Instead, he whistled under his breath. Next to the roses stood a Baywatch babe with bright blonde hair.
Bummer. If only he were old enough to date.
With her eyes closed in concentration, she dragged the bow back and forth over the strings of the violin. A shame her playing didn’t match her looks.
Too shy to interrupt, Harry waited, hoping this prime-time knockout would open her eyes. He glanced back at the empty windows of the cottage and saw no sign of Sam, his aunt or his uncle. Deciding Sam wasn’t home, he turned to leave.
At that moment, Sam’s uncle came rushing around the side of the building. Harry was always surprised by the man’s size. Looked more like an NHL hockey player than a violinist. But Harry knew no self-respecting hockey player would be caught dead in a red lacy shirt like the one Mr. Malinovka was wearing.
“Sorry I am being late, Zoë darling,” the maestro shouted in his thick Russian accent. Then he directed his intense gaze at Harry. “What you doing here, boy, pestering my protégée?”
Zoë stopped playing and looked at Harry with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. “Please, sir,” she said, “he wasn’t bothering me, only listening to my dreadful music.”
“Nonsense, my dear. You playing marvellous. Only need practice.” He turned back to Harry. “Now go, boy.” He shooed Harry away with his long musician’s fingers.
But Harry stood his ground. He’d tangled with Mr. Malinovka before. “I’m looking for Sam, sir. Do you know where he is?”
The maestro glowered. “Looking for silly birds. Better he practise. You too, boy.”
As Harry walked away, he turned for one last glimpse of the beautiful Zoë. Her golden head shimmered against the red shirt of the maestro. While one of his thick arms enclosed her bow arm, the other circled around her slim back to grasp her slender hand on the violin’s neck.
Old lech, Harry muttered to himself. Above their bowed heads, Harry caught sight of another flash of gold, flitting from branch to leafy branch.
The rare Yellow Warbler. First sighting. Too bad the building ruled it out.
Next morning, in anticipation of wiping the dimples off his buddy’s laughing face, Harry crammed his notebo
ok into his cello case. Sixteen sightings, he was going to crow, one more and I beat you.
But he wasn’t able to dish out these words, for Sam wasn’t in the first class.
So Harry fidgeted through the boring music theory lesson that neither of them liked. He fully expected to see Sam at orchestra practice, the one class his friend really enjoyed, even if he was only a member of the violin section because of his uncle. Sure wasn’t because of his musical talent.
But instead of Sam whizzing elastic bands at the timpanist’s Jello bum or whatever else Sam had thought up to get a rise from the fat man, Harry found his buddy’s chair vacant and the other orchestra members in an uproar.
“What’s up?” he asked a fellow cellist, a boy several years older who’d also been at the music school last summer.
“The flautist, Yvette, has gone missing.”
The image of the older girl with cinnamon hair and a freckled ski-jump nose popped into his mind. Harry snorted. “Probably run off with some guy.”
“Maybe, but don’t forget about Chantal last summer. They never did find her.”
How could he forget big boobed Chantal with the weird hair? The guitarist had gone missing the day after Harry had finally been rewarded with his magical sighting of the Eastern Bluebird. He started to ask when Yvette was last seen, but was stopped by the conductor raising his baton.
For the next couple of hours the Mont Orford Chamber Orchestra practised its signature piece for the coming festival. Although their rendition of Tchaikovsky’s Rococo Variations was almost as good as any recording by the Montreal Symphony Orchestra, it was missing a couple of ingredients, the fourth violin and the second flautist.
Curious to know what had happened to his buddy, Harry stopped again at the Malinovka cottage. And since Sam was keen on Yvette, Harry also wanted to see what his friend’s reaction would be to her running off.