Little Fortress

by Laisha Rosnau

  “We can’t – I can’t – don’t you see? The situation is impossible.”

  “You’ve decided the situation is impossible.”

  Hermann looked around the restaurant, tugged on his earlobe, rubbed his jaw with his palm before turning back to me. “For now. My son is here. We’re in the middle of a war. I’ll make sure you’re cared for until I can come.”

  “Oh yes, the war.”

  “The war, my business – Marie, what else do you expect me to do?”

  “And so, you’ll remain in Cairo, with her. You’ll just carry on.”

  “I’m not letting you go, Marie. I’ll come for you. It just can’t be now. You can wait, though, for me? I know how strong you are.”

  “And you?”

  He dropped his head, ran his fingers along his hairline and then gripped his forehead, his hand a small vice. “I’m not as strong.”

  “You certainly aren’t.” When I stood up, the chair scraped across the floor, caught on the bottom of my skirt, then toppled. I walked at a quick but measured pace out to the street, turned in the direction of the apartment. After a few minutes, I heard the drone of his motorcycle slowing behind me. I turned and yelled, “Don’t follow me!”

  Hermann got off his motorcycle. I moved away, but he caught my arm, pulled me toward him. “I will follow you.” His voice round with heat, filling my ear. “I will keep following you.” He pressed me into him. I told myself not to believe him. I believed him.

  * * *

  At the harbour the next morning, soldiers lined the docks. When we came to the port where I was to board, one thrust his hand at us. “Tickets.”

  “Just for the young lady.” Hermann’s tone was hurried, dismissive. “I’m seeing her off.”

  “Only ticket holders beyond this point, sir.”

  Hermann tried to ignore the soldier, push past him, his hand on my elbow, but more men stepped in and barred the way. “Admittance only to ticket holders.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’ve always been able to see my wife board safely.” When he said wife, they would assume he referred to me.

  “War measures, sir. No exceptions.”

  “It’s fine, Hermann. I’ll be all right.”

  We held each other as the crush of people knocked into us. “I’ll come for you in Italy. Wait for me, Marie. I know you can.” His face was so close to mine. I tried to look away but Hermann took my chin gently, turned me back to him.

  I nodded, pressed my lips against my teeth so I wouldn’t sob.

  He leaned forward, put his lips on my forehead like a seal of heat, then backed away and passed me my bags. “You shouldn’t have to carry these on your own.” But of course, I’d be carrying it all on my own now. He pulled me toward him, put his mouth on mine and for a moment, we each just breathed. When we kissed, it felt hurried, forced. I turned from him and shouldered my way through the crowd. I stopped to look back at him and I saw only groups of strangers, soldiers, rising steam and smoke from the boats.

  I queued with passengers to board the boat to Sicily. Alongside us were carts loaded with supplies for the naval ships, makeshift corrals of horses, donkeys tied to each other, their brays like guffaws at the indignity of their positions. When the air shifted, I could smell the animals and it reminded me, briefly, of home. The passenger ferry pulled away from the dock, the sound of its horn reverberating along the water, and I stood on deck, strained to see Hermann amongst the crowd, but it was impossible. All was uniforms, loaded carts and battle animals. I watched men strap a mule into a large harness and then fasten it to levers that lifted it toward the deck of a naval ship as our own boat lumbered into the harbour. When the animal left the ground, it cocked its ears forward and held its limbs stiff, as though immobilized. A horse was lifted next. Unlike the mule, it struggled as it was raised, muscled legs kicking air, flailing its head from side to side. I imagined its nostrils wide, huffing indignantly, but by then I was too far away to see that closely. I looked from its writhing silhouette to my hands, pink and raw on the rusted handrails of the ferry, then back to the coast, retreating. The last image I have of the port of Alexandria is the horse suspended between sea and boat, thrashing against the sky, my bare hands wrapped around a rail.

  Thirty-Nine

  Canada, 1946

  I understood that my job, in part, was to turn people away. I was reasonably good at it – adequate, in any case, as we remained alone with few intrusions. The ladies stayed in and I kept other people out. We each had our habits, our rhythms, and these became our lives. It was surprisingly easy to stay in once it became a daily routine. Newspapers, magazines and books were delivered each week, so we were not without contact with the outside world. I placed them on the table in the hall and Sveva carried them away, the papers returning to the breakfast table the next day. Ofelia read no papers. I read some, then stacked them by the fire as starter. Sveva ordered her novels and books about scientific discovery every month and read through them so quickly, she was often finished before the next arrived. She recommended some to me. Once, I’d considered myself a great reader, but I rarely had the concentration required for that kind of reading anymore.

  Ofelia’s doctors made house calls and the pharmacy sent a boy to drop off medications. Early in our seclusion, we could take delivery of milk and dairy, groceries. Ofelia became increasingly particular. Meat, for example. No longer was she fine with having it delivered from the local butcher. Instead, a farmhand collected me in his rattling truck twice monthly and took me to a narrow valley east of town where I watched as freshly slaughtered meat was cut and packaged by men in heavy aprons splattered with blood. I was not entirely sure why I should be there to bear witness to the butchery. I told Ofelia that I was no safety inspector, but she only laughed. Of course I wasn’t. The things I wasn’t had become funny, a source of humour. The drive to and from the farm was lovely, in any case – out of this small Western Canadian town to which we still weren’t completely accustomed and into a valley where the sun stained everything golden, cows lay down with horses in fields, light sparked off creek water flowing through the tall grass. Some might have called it charmed, magical. To me, none of this – our lives – was magical, but all was surreal. When I returned home, I packed the meat into an icebox in the pantry off the kitchen because Ofelia was still resistant to electrical refrigeration. I thought it would be fine – perhaps even safer, more reliable – but I followed her wishes.

  Though she’d travelled the world as a girl, the map of Sveva’s own life had become smaller and smaller until it was a blueprint of the house. I’d worked on Ofelia for years. It had been up to me to do so, after all. Sveva seemed so strong-willed, so tall and certain of herself, but when up against her mother’s wishes, she knew how to bend, submit. When I returned from the druggist downtown with prescriptions for each of them, I listed to Ofelia her daughter’s medication every time, as though to remind her of Sveva’s condition, passed through the long limbs of her father’s side of the family – the result, perhaps, of generations of noble lines marrying amongst each other. The syndrome makes joints stiff, eyes ache. I read to Ofelia articles on the benefits of fresh air and exercise and suggested on Sveva’s behalf that she be allowed outdoors to stretch her legs, give her eyes more range in the natural world. I’d even commented on how difficult it would be to have another family member fall ill. That might have been what convinced Ofelia. In any case, after a decade, Sveva was allowed outside again, though only as far as the veranda, never the property. Still, I had done my small part.

  One afternoon, I took a photograph of her on the veranda, leaning against the door, her frame statuesque in a smart, tailored suit, hat tilted at a jaunty angle, one side of her mouth pulled in a slight grin, as if she held a secret joke. She looked both confident and delighted, about to embark on a small adventure, but it was only a photograph, a way to pass the time. Sveva hadn’t gone anywhere but
back inside that day, as she did every day.

  * * *

  When I was at the Mayo Clinic at the duke’s bedside as he wavered in and out of consciousness, I began to trace my stories back to other times, other places. It had been his request, scribbled on a note when he was in too much pain to speak, that I tell him of my time in Egypt. My voice seemed to soothe him, and my words filled the time that stretched around us both in those long, bleak days. One afternoon, he turned his head slowly along the pillow and faced me. His voice came and went, and on this afternoon he could speak. He said, “I didn’t know it was him.”

  I felt my heart ricochet in my ribs. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Mr. Brandt. I had some contact with him before the war, when Italy was set on attacking Libya.” A cough rasped out of his throat. “His wife’s family’s company was to supply arms and he was the chief officer. I went to speak to him about preventing sales.”

  “And what did he do?”

  “He told me that if they didn’t supply arms, the black market would, and dirty weapons would end up in the wrong hands.” The duke’s voice lowered to a strained whisper. “His company supplied Italy, but I believe Mr. Brandt was sympathetic to our cause.”

  “What does any of this have to do with me?” I knew he wouldn’t be able to speak much longer.

  The duke closed his eyes, asked for water. “His wife wrote me a few years later, wondering if I might need household staff with experience in Egypt. She knew I was an Islamic scholar. I had no plans to return to the Middle East then, but I always felt that I might – that we might – with Ofelia and the baby. I knew we’d have to leave Italy.

  “The wife told me that there’d been an incident between a member of their staff and her brother-in-law – I took this to be more predatory than romantic.”

  I blinked at the duke, bent my head to the side as though listening for something from below, something to help me understand what he had just said. “I was that staff person?”

  “I believed that there was some danger to you, some threat from the man. She said it would be best if you were taken into a respectable family and protected, and that contact with her family should be cut off. I expected you to be younger, to be honest.”

  I laughed at this, though with no joy or levity.

  “One of the Brandt men came for you once, in Rome. I didn’t see him but I’d already given the staff instructions to turn him away. I thought I was protecting you.”

  “Oh.” It was a great strain for him to speak for so long, and part of me wanted him to stop.

  “And, I thought that you would likely have some sympathy for the state that Ofelia was in. You both needed a friend then, and you’ve been that to each other these years, haven’t you?” His voice was fading.

  “We have.”

  * * *

  The second war had ended and life carried on – for other people. In October, I went to the pharmacy to pick up some of the ladies’ prescriptions, and there were bins of candy lined up along the glass apothecary cases. The woman behind the counter apologized for my having to reach over them. “Mr. Nolan wants to supply a good variety of Hallowe’en candy for the kids,” she said in explanation. “I’m not sure we should be stocking so much, but Chester is determined. Perhaps it’s a way for us to shake off the last demons of the war.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Well, that’s one way to look at it. Mostly harmless fun, in any case, and we could all use a bit of that.”

  At dinner that night, I explained the custom to the ladies. “Children go from door to door in masks and costumes, asking for candy.”

  “They do?” Ofelia asked. “That sounds so strange. What if they get no candy?”

  “That’s the trick part – if they’re not given candy, they play a trick, but Mrs. Nolan assured me that was mostly talk, bluster. Those who don’t want to take part just keep their gates closed and lights low.”

  Sveva huffed. “Mau-Mau, I explained to you all about Hallowe’en when I was at Crofton House – you must remember.”

  “You’ll forgive me, Sveva. There are many things from that time in our life that, no, I do not remember.”

  “Well, now is our chance. I think we should take part.” Sveva looked from one of us to the other and wiggled her eyebrows, challenging us.

  “Sveva, no!” Ofelia responded. “Why would we want to do that?”

  “Oh, come on, Mau – wouldn’t it be grand? We could see some of the neighbourhood children, all dressed up, and there would be absolutely no expectation that they come in. We’ll just say hello and give them candy and off they’ll go. It will be fun!”

  “Sveva, really.”

  Ofelia stared at her daughter, mouth open slightly as though she were trying to think of a way she could refuse. Instead, she said, “What kind of candy do you imagine we should give the children?”

  Sveva looked at me, lips suppressing a smile. “Miss Jüül? What do you think?”

  “Oh, I think it can be anything really. They’ve certainly got enough at the pharmacy – hard candy, toffee, gumballs. I can pick up any of those.”

  It was Ofelia who said, “Well, we’d want to give them something quite nice, I think, some Swiss chocolates or Italian sweets.”

  “Mother, I’m sure they’re used to getting cheap Canadian confections.”

  “Yes, but we are neither cheap nor Canadian, are we?” Ofelia asked. “And wouldn’t it be nice to give them a taste of something truly special?”

  Sensing her opening, Sveva said, “It would. Of course! We’ll give them a taste of the Caetani experience!”

  “Not too much, Sveva. We don’t want vagrant children hanging around the property.”

  “Mau, I’m not sure Vernon has many vagrant children roaming the streets. We’re not in Rome.”

  “We certainly are not.”

  It was Ofelia who ordered the treats from European confectioneries in Vancouver and Calgary – chocolate from Belgium, caramel from Rome. Sveva sewed little satchels to hold them, using fabric from our basement – not her mother’s fineries, of course, but things stacked up down there that were already going to ruin – heavy velvet drapes that Ofelia had us take down because they harboured too much dust. I picked up some scraps from the fabric store on my trips to town for her to use to create little black cats, intricate stars and slivered moons.

  On Hallowe’en, we put the dogs in the kennel – not only were they bound to try to run off, they would scare the children – and opened the gates at the bottom of the drive. When the children came, Ofelia retired to her room and Sveva and I passed out the candy. We must have made such a curious pair, a looming Amazon and her diminutive companion, both of us so eager to see the children in their costumes, clapping as they roared or twirled or acted their parts. I felt just as much or more for the children who came to the door looking petrified, their eyes wide, hands trembling as they held out their bags. These children were too scared or shy to say much, if anything, beyond a squeak of “trick or treat.” There were others who chatted and carried on, and some who even asked us questions: “Are you a countess?”; “Are you really trapped in this house? My mother says you are.”; “My father can do handiwork if you ever need anything done,” and so on.

  I was patient as I answered each one: “Yes, the ladies are descended from royalty,” “Yes, we do live here alone,” and “No, no, we don’t need much help. We’ll be fine.”

  The gravel drive crunched all evening with the feet of children. When we ran out of our little satchels of sweets, we closed the gate and turned off the lights.

  Forty

  On Good Friday, I let the dogs out to run around the perimeter of the property before I called them back into their kennel. I thought I might bring them indoors later to cheer the ladies, though Ofelia might not approve on a holy day. She hadn’t yet emerged from her roo
m, though that wasn’t unusual. I was in the kitchen, setting out the hot cross buns I’d baked the day before. Aside from a light midday meal, these were what we would eat that day. We’d had nothing but tea so far. Sveva was on the veranda, drawing. I didn’t think her mother would approve. We were supposed to be engaged in dreary activities on Good Friday, though the sweetness of the buns seemed a bit too cheerful, the warmth in the kitchen not dire enough. I heard the front door open, Sveva’s steps in the hall. She came into the kitchen, shaking her limbs and rubbing her face as if she was coming in from doing calisthenics. “I was up too early. I’m going up for a rest.” She started up the back stairs. “Call me for lunch, will you, please?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  A few minutes later, Ofelia entered the kitchen without me hearing. When I turned from the sink, I jumped at the sight of her standing beside the table in a grey jacquard dress. Despite the colour, the dress didn’t seem dull enough for the day, though who was I to say? She had a way of making even the plainest garments seem regal, so it was hard to know if it was the dress or her way of carrying herself.

  “The buns are ready,” I told her. “Would you like one with tea?”

  Instead of answering, Ofelia asked, “Where is Sveva?”

  “She’s gone for a rest.”

  “She shouldn’t be napping. Christ was not able to lie down on this day.”

  “No, of course not.”

  She hadn’t answered me about the tea and buns, so I put them on a tray and took them into the front room. Ofelia followed me, then stood looking out the window to the veranda. She didn’t move her arms from her side, just stared and asked, “What are those?”