Kaidenberg's Best Sons

by Jason Heit

  She pulled the handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress, folded it and placed it against the back of his head where she felt the wound. “Please God, don’t take him now,” she prayed. She shut her eyes. Somehow this was her doing, she knew it; God had spited her for her sins. For her selfishness. For having lustful thoughts for a man other than her husband. “God forgive me.”

  “I’ve got it,” said the voice, straining for breath. He handed her a small dark bottle.

  “Mr. Dudenhafer,” she said, suddenly aware of her helper’s name.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “What is it?”

  “Smelling salts,” said the old man, breathing heavily.

  Katherine removed the cork from the bottle and placed it under Bernhard’s nose.

  VIII

  The smell of ammonia rushed into his head and he wrenched forward, his eyes went wide and he knew he was going to hell.

  “You’re alive,” she said. The words were like hammers in his head. He had never known the world to be so loud and so dark. He wanted to close his eyes again and not know this pain, and he might’ve but the light shot straight into the darkness.

  BANG! And there was colour. Red. Green. White.

  He shut his eyes and still he could see the splashes of light behind his eyelids. Was this hell? Maybe. Or maybe he was only dying, he thought. That explanation satisfied him.

  “You must stay awake,” said the woman’s voice. Did he know her? It didn’t really matter. Like everything else, it was too loud.

  BANG!

  “Why are they shooting guns?” said his own voice. It echoed in his head hurting his eyes, jaw, and every part of him above the shoulders.

  “It’s the fireworks,” said the voice. “It’s only the fireworks.”

  IX

  Father Selz stood at the top of the church staircase looking out over his flock. As they tended to do, folks had gathered in their groups of friends and kinsmen to chat and share their thoughts. After such a very long day of games and activities, they were still a lively crowd. He, too, was filled with excitement, although there was still some time before dusk and the grand finale – the fireworks. He took a deep breath. The evening air was warm and he could smell the sweet scent of sage in the breeze. He smiled. It’d been a good day. Everything – the meals, the moving-picture show, the games – had, for the most part, gone according to plan. There had been the wrangle at the baseball game, some pushing and shoving, but even that might be expected of competitive men. Yes, it was definitely a fine celebration; and, his instincts about the moving-picture show had been right. Everyone, even the skeptics, had enjoyed it and wanted more. That was something. There was a genuine thirst for these stories and spectacles. Perhaps, someday the community might even make their own moving-picture shows; what a fine legacy that would be.

  There was something else too, he remembered. He was sure the day had kindled at least one new love: Jakob Feist and the young woman with the sweet voice. Annaliese. They seemed like a nice pair. He smiled thinking of the marriages he might be performing months from now.

  “Thank you, Father,” said a young boy extending his hand to the priest.

  He shook the boy’s hand. “It’s Lambert, right?”

  “Yes,” answered the boy.

  “Thank you, Father,” said another boy, his face sad and worried looking. This was young Frank Weran. Father Selz recognized him.

  “You’re welcome,” he said. He looked to Frank. “Is everything all right, son?”

  Frank nodded.

  “Tell me. What was your favourite part of the day?” the priest asked.

  “The Orange Crush,” Lambert said. “It was so fizzy.”

  “Yes, it was very fizzy, wasn’t it. Good.” He looked to the younger boy. Frank tensed. His mouth closed stiff. “Anything?”

  “The moving-picture show,” Frank mumbled.

  Father Selz smiled.

  “I want to see the fireworks,” Lambert said, excitedly. “Uncle Joseph, he’s really my cousin but I call him Uncle, said it’d be as loud as a cannon and prettier than a flower.”

  “Yes, well, he might be right about the cannon part,” chuckled the priest, thinking that the sound was more like a few shotguns going off at once. “Where is your uncle? I should talk to him.”

  “I think he’s that way.” Lambert pointed past the side of the church. “He’s talking with my dad and Mr. Holtz.”

  “Thank you boys,” Father Selz said. He gave them both a clap on the shoulder. It was prudent that he find Joseph Eberle and inquire about the preparations, in case there was anything Mr. Eberle needed of him. He’d been so concerned about the moving pictures – the projector, the electrical generation, shading the windows – he’d entirely forgotten about the fireworks. As Father Selz approached the side of the church he heard what sounded like an argument coming from around the corner; he tiptoed a little closer and stopped. Yes, the voices were raised. He leaned up to the corner of the wall. He’d often wondered whether the confessional was a true indicator of the state of the lives of his parishioners or whether moments like these were more insightful.

  “What’d you do to Bernhard?” said one of the men.

  “You’re joking. You saw it,” said a man with an English accent. “He hit me. I didn’t do anything.” This had to be Mr. Harrison.

  “Where is he?” said a third voice.

  “I don’t know. Last time I saw him he was on top of me. And that’s the last I care to see of him.”

  “Stay away from my sister and that might help you some,” said the first man again. That was Nels Eberle, thought the priest.

  The priest’s curiosity got the better of him and he peeked around the corner for a better look. It was a bit of guesswork to see in the shadow, but he could see that they were: Nels and Joseph Eberle, Christian Holtz, and Charles Harrison; and, Mr. Holtz had Mr. Harrison’s back pinned to the wall of the church.

  Harrison looked them in the eye, and said. “I intend to keep my distance.”

  “If you don’t, then next time, we’re not going to stop Bernhard from coming after you,” Christian said.

  He’d seen enough. He’d given into temptation. Now he should intervene.

  “But you won’t help him either,” Harrison said. He seemed to be looking at Nels and Joseph, in particular. “I can see it in your faces. You’re tired of his games, aren’t you?”

  “Shut up,” Christian said. “You disgraced him and his wife.” He slugged Harrison in the gut. Harrison lurched back against the wall and Christian punched him again.

  “Enough,” Nels said.

  Father Selz turned away from the squabble. He didn’t want to be seen, not like this.

  “I have to go,” Joseph said. “I gotta get back to the fireworks before I can’t see where the heck it was I set them.”

  “Go,” Christian said.

  Father Selz gave himself a shake and stepped out around the corner. “Ahem,” he cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Eberle. Joseph. I was looking for you.” He’d caught them by surprise. They certainly didn’t look happy to see him, even Mr. Harrison who was doubled over in pain.

  “Yes, Father. The fireworks,” Joseph said. “I’m on my way.” And he hurried past the priest.

  Nels tipped his hat, and marched off in the same direction.

  Then it was just Christian and Mr. Harrison left. Christian was silent. He didn’t look at Father Selz; instead he clapped Mr. Harrison on the shoulder and followed the other men.

  Father Selz approached Mr. Harrison. “Did they hurt you?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “What was that about?”

  “Same old thing, Father. Same old thing.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You know that moving-picture show, the one with the tramp and
the lady, it’s kind of like this place.”

  “Maybe a small reflection,” said the priest.

  Harrison sighed. “You know what goes on here, Father.”

  Father Selz looked to the ground; perhaps, he owed this man a moment to indulge his righteousness. The Parable of the Lost Sheep came to mind. If only one of his flock repented, wouldn’t that be the most joyous thing! Indeed, amid the planning and celebrations, he’d forgotten his true purpose, as shepherd. “I’m sorry, Mr. Harrison. I should have stopped those men earlier when I had the chance.” He paused, meaning to look Mr. Harrison directly in the eyes. He couldn’t. He made it as far as his chin. “Please forgive me,” he said.

  “Isn’t that something? A priest asking me for forgiveness.” Charles Harrison laughed. “You’re a good man, Father. Funny too.” Harrison patted him on the shoulder and gingerly headed off in the opposite direction from the others.

  Father Selz leaned against the wall of the church and slowly dropped to his haunches. He heard the first of the fireworks shoot out into the darkening night, as he let his legs slide out one at a time. He was alone for the first time since morning. It felt good to be alone. It’d been far too long a day.

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Fireworks Over Kaidenberg

  Whiskey and Flu

  1918

  Bernhard kissed his daughter Elisabetha’s forehead as the five-year old trembled in his arms. He shuddered to think that the worst might come. That she might shake loose from his hands and slip away to wherever it is that little angels go – alone.

  The Spanish flu had invaded Saskatchewan in October 1918, striking first in the big cities and towns where the main railway lines ran. It took some time for the news to reach the small village of Kaidenberg – it seemed too foreign a thing to be real. For the flu to poke its head around Kaidenberg someone would have to visit first, was the joke among the villagers. Yet, someone did visit, or leave and return, because by mid-November the flu had struck Kaidenberg, hard.

  Bernhard claimed it was Katherine’s sister-in-law, Teresa Weran, who’d spread it to young Frank and Elisabetha when she’d stopped to visit on her way back from town. He’d been outside doing chores, and, not caring for Teresa or anyone that much, he’d kept his distance. But there was some part of him that doubted his guiltlessness. Only a day or two before her visit he’d been to town to check the mail and purchase supplies, including whiskey; the bootleggers were now flush with it as the prohibition of spirits had been temporarily suspended so folks could imbibe its curative properties. Yes, it had been a selfish thing to do. He could see that now. He hated that he’d done it. Hated a lot of other things he’d done too.

  In the face of the flu, Bernhard felt useless. No, it was worse than that – he felt helpless. He’d grown accustomed to feeling useless since he’d been knocked on the head at last year’s church picnic and had to rely on family to help him with the farm work. His wife, Katherine, had told him he should be grateful for the charity of others, but it had only hardened him. The do-gooders. They didn’t seem to understand that their charity undermined him. Why hadn’t they gone after Kaspar Feist if they wanted to help so much? After all, it was Feist who’d stolen his strength and his memories from him. Now that’d be charity he could accept.

  When it came to nursing the sick, Bernhard didn’t know where to begin. He was too rough for this work. Give him earth to plough or a horse he could whip, something he was good at; that’d be different. But this child, his child, was something he might likely break. He knew as much. Any softness he might’ve had had gone when Feist bashed his head. No, this was Katherine’s business not his, but she was busy with young Frank. The boy was already in bed sick with the flu.

  It had come on the boy fast, with aches and chills in the morning and the fever taking hold in the afternoon. Bernhard had watched it all from a distance; it bothered him to be too close with his guilt stirring inside of him. And Katherine had her rosary beads for comfort. They’d offer her more than he could. She’d only ask that he sit and pray with her. He’d rather not. All his prayers seemed to run against him in the end – like now, with his precious Elisabetha restless with the same aches and chills her brother suffered. Bernhard rocked her in his arms and when that didn’t work he tried to hum her a tune, but the melody escaped him – another casualty of the attack – so he gave it up before he exploded in frustration, and waited for Katherine.

  Katherine wiped the worry lines from her face as she returned from the children’s room. She held her palm to Elisabetha’s forehead. “Why is it the smallest always suffer first?”

  “Why ask me? Why not ask God? What’s He telling you?”

  “Bernhard, this isn’t the time to be cruel.”

  He felt the curl of his lip snap and release. “I didn’t mean to –”

  “You can help it,” she said.

  He knew she’d grown tired of his outbursts and his apologies. The outbursts were part of the change. He’d flare up in a thoughtless, filthy anger, and he had about as much control over how or where it landed as a pig flinging off its own muck, but that hadn’t stopped her from thinking he could. Excuses, she had told him. Always the same excuse. Then he’d act kinder and she’d apologize for doubting him, and things would be fine until the next thing that pissed him off and caused her to question his ability to control his outbursts once more. Why now, Bernhard? You were doing so good.

  Her questions caused him to doubt himself. His intentions. He didn’t want to be cruel. He hoped she still believed it too; if not, how could she bear him? And her pregnant, again.

  “I’ll try,” he said.

  “I need you to do your best now,” she said, wiping her puffy eyes. “What happens if I get sick? If we both get sick? They say this flu can take anyone.”

  “I’ll try harder.”

  She went to the stove and put the kettle on. “We’re running low on wood. Can you bring some in when you go outside?”

  He nodded.

  “You’ll remember?”

  “I’ll tie a string around my finger.”

  “Good.” She ladled the last of the broth from yesterday’s soup into a cup. “Frank needs to eat something.”

  “It might come straight out again.”

  She shook her head as if to put the thought out of her mind. “A good broth is what we need.”

  “I’ll butcher a chicken.”

  “First, can you bring Elisabetha into the room? No sense keeping them apart any longer.”

  He carried the girl to the bed where young Frank ached and moaned. The boy opened his eyes for a moment and they fell shut just as fast. Bernhard set Elisabetha on the
other side of the bed and kissed the girl on her forehead. The boy too.

  “I’m stepping out.”

  “Remember to bring in some wood.”

  He nodded and left the house.

  Outside, the air was cool. Fresh. He felt drunk against its current. He’d been inside too long, with too much sickness and too many feelings of guilt and helplessness. He feared that Death had entered his home. That Death had set its black eyes on their children. While he filled the feed pails and hauled them to the troughs, his fear turned to anger as he added up the cruelties that God had visited upon him and his family. Don’t take them, God! Don’t! The words circled the air around him.

  He went to the chicken coop and grabbed a fat hen. Something had to die. Something had to appease the darkness that surrounded them. He held the bird against the chopping block and sliced its throat with his knife. This wasn’t Bernhard’s usual butcher work; he hadn’t the time or focus to be plucking feathers. So he tied the bird’s legs together with some twine and hung it from a nail on the barn wall. The dog whined as the blood poured onto the thin white crust of November snow. “Git!” Bernhard kicked the air between him and the mutt. Pressing the knife into the skin around the bird’s legs, he peeled the skin from the warm meat and pulled it down over the breast. He made small cuts around the trouble spots and tossed the skin and head in one hollow piece to where the dog sat ready for its spoils. He returned the chicken to the block and began to remove its innards but stopped and braced himself as he felt the world spinning beneath him. This was it. God wanted a larger sacrifice. Fine, he’d make that trade, so long as Katherine and the children weren’t touched. After a few deep breaths, he pulled out the innards and tossed them to the hungry mutt.