Postmark Berlin

by Anne Emery

  “And to think we complain about snow.”

  “Give me snow any day. Eventually, it melts. Anyhow, on this particular day, we were out on patrol and we could barely see the hood of the Jeep. I don’t know whether you ever heard this, but the Bedouin people sometimes helped our men out on recce patrol. The Bedouins often knew where the landmines were. And for a modest fee — cigarettes, for example — they would tell us where they were. And then a soldier would get out of the Jeep and use a mine probe to locate them. But some anti-tank mines were made of plastic and couldn’t be detected. So, the local people would go out into the sand and dig them up.”

  “Taking an awful chance there.”

  “Well, they knew that the weight of a man was not enough to set the mines off. But if you got to a place where a Bedouin didn’t venture out, you could assume there were anti-personnel mines out there.”

  “That speaks volumes about poverty, doesn’t it?”

  “And nicotine addiction. Well, that day we were rolling along, and a couple of Bedouins emerged out of the swirling sand by the side of the road. Offered to help with the mines. All fine and good. The two of them said there were anti-tank mines nearby and they started off to retrieve them. All of a sudden, shots rang out. We were pretty sure the Bedouins weren’t the targets; we were. But they were helpless out there in the sand with the bullets whizzing by them. We saw one of them go down; he’d been hit. They were civilians, and they’d been helping us. Couldn’t leave them out there. So, I went out.”

  “What about the soldiers on patrol with you?”

  “I’m sure any of them would have gone out.”

  Monty wasn’t sure of that. Some may have, some may not. And the patrol itself had to be protected.

  “The other Bedouin and I picked up the casualty, ran back to the Jeep —”

  “Through a minefield.”

  “Well, what could we do? And they’d walked out that way; maybe they knew there weren’t any anti-personnel devices in our path. We dodged the bullets pretty well and —”

  “Pretty well or successfully?”

  “Bullet grazed my arm. No harm done. We got back to the vehicle and took the wounded man to our hospital.”

  “Did he make it?”

  Patriquin shook his head.

  “That got you a Medal of Bravery, and rightly so.”

  “Well, yeah. But that’s not what I’m remembered for in the minds of the United Nations Emergency Force.”

  “No?”

  “I was known over there and known to some veterans even today as not the Desert Fox . . .”

  “No, that honour belongs to Field Marshall Rommel, and him alone.”

  “Exactly. I was the Desert Pox!”

  “Should I even ask?”

  “My wife did. The men regularly sent letters home, and didn’t one of them talk about me being the Desert Pox, and didn’t the story eventually get around to my wife, Irene. She thought I’d caught a dose of the clap, like so many other guys, after a wild weekend in the fleshpots of Beirut. Problem was I had been in Beirut. No women for me, but way too much booze. So, when I returned from Beirut, I slept like a dead man. When I woke up, I had an ugly red rash all over my face, arms, and hands. Was it something I ate? Was I bitten all over by something in my bed, and I was too drunk to feel it? There are scorpions and sand vipers — some of those snake bites could kill you. And spiders you’ve never seen the like of. Whatever it was, I was known from that day forward as the Desert Pox.”

  They shared a laugh over that, and then Monty said, “So, what will you be able to say on behalf of Alban MacNair when this goes to trial? Or is your reputation so spotty that you’ll do more harm than good for my client?”

  “Oh, I think I can present myself as a credible witness.”

  There was no question about that, Monty knew. He pictured the hero of the desert sands in his uniform on the stand, bolstering the reputation of his client.

  “Where even to begin?” Patriquin said. “A good soldier, a hard worker, a patriotic Canadian, a great family man, not a violent sort, and — you may not want to use this! — a fun guy at a party.”

  “Not inclined to, well, commit crimes of violence?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “What about moods? Fits of anger, that sort of thing?”

  Patriquin was shaking his head. “Not that I ever saw or heard of.”

  “And women? Any concerns there?”

  “I wouldn’t know that, but I’ve certainly never had any reason to wonder about Alban’s treatment of the fairer sex. Good solid family man, far as I know.”

  “Now, did you know Meika Keller, John?”

  “Oh, sure. Used to see her at Forces events around Halifax. Please don’t think because I’m more than willing to stand up for Alban MacNair that I’m in any way callous about her death. She was a woman everyone admired, as you can imagine. The dramatic escape from East Germany, and then all her accomplishments here. I didn’t know her well, but I had great respect for her. There’s no way in the wide world Alban killed her.”

  “What kind of relationship did she have with Alban, do you know?”

  Patriquin was instantly wary. Hearing something he hadn’t known about MacNair? “Relationship?”

  “I just mean, did they know each other well? Get along?”

  “Can’t imagine why they wouldn’t get along. But I don’t think there was any kind of ‘relationship’ there. I never had any reason to think they were particularly close. He probably just knew her the way I did.”

  There was more to it than that, as evidenced by those nine phone calls, but it would not suit anyone’s purposes to reveal that to Lieutenant-General Patriquin.

  “All right then, John. I’ll be off. Thanks very much for your help. If and when we get to the point of a trial . . .”

  “I’ll be more than happy to get up on the stand and tell the judge and jury what I’ve just told you.”

  Chapter XI

  Brennan

  Things had changed at Saint Bernadette’s Choir School during Father Burke’s prolonged absence from the school and parish. He had founded the choir school seven years ago, having moved from New York City to Halifax to establish the school at the invitation of some people he had met years before. He had also set up the Schola Cantorum, which attracted priests and laymen, nuns and others, from around the world, people who loved and wanted to preserve the traditional music of the Catholic Church. Initially, the children’s school offered grades four to eight, but, as the years went on, many of the students and parents requested that Saint Bernadette’s start serving the high school grades as well, so they wouldn’t have to leave the choir school. Saint Bernadette’s therefore expanded to include grade nine and later ten as the students advanced. Grades eleven and twelve would be added in the same fashion. For the first couple of years, Brennan had split the responsibilities with Sister Marguerite Dunne; she was the principal and Brennan the music director, but everyone knew it was Brennan who ran the show. When Marguerite moved on to do charitable work in South America, Brennan was the sole “higher power,” as the teachers laughingly called him. Administration bored him, and that went double for meetings. His interest was in the students, the high-quality curriculum, and of course the music. The teachers were excellent at their class work, Brennan coaxed the music of the spheres from his choristers, and there was an accountant to handle the finances, so the place ran like a finely tuned orchestra.

  Until Brennan was detained in Belfast. This emboldened a couple of hyperactive parents to catch the ear of the bishop and persuade him to implement a new system of administration. And to give the bishop his due, Brennan had been sentenced to six years in prison, so it seemed the school would be without its higher power for all that time. Fortunately, his spell in prison, as agonizing as it was, turned out to be a matter of months and not years. An
yway, in the course of events, a group of parents and a crowd of bumbógs — busybodies — in the parish appointed themselves a board of directors and installed someone called W. Langston Soames as chairman of the board. There were committees for this and subcommittees for that, and Brennan ignored them. He wasn’t a committee man. Worse than all that, though, was the Soames family’s delusions about the talents of its members. And even that, if left to the realm of community theatre or karaoke night at some suburban drinking hole, could be dismissed as a minor irritation. But it could not be dismissed when it manifested itself in Vivian Soames, wife of Langston, standing at the lectern during Mass, looking more than a little imperious with her ashy-blond hair puffed up and swept back from a pronounced widow’s peak. Vivian Soames acting during her readings of holy Scripture, making dramatic pauses and gestures with her head, raising her voice, and preaching to the congregation.

  There is something called objectivity in worship, in liturgy. The idea is that the Mass is a common prayer for everyone; it is not supposed to be an opportunity for attention-seeking by the priest or any of the other participants. Gregorian chant is a perfect example; the words and the tones are what we are to hear. The chant is done in a neutral voice; the priest or choir are not to illustrate their own individual vocal stylings to draw attention to themselves. All are to be subsumed in the collective worship of God. This is, or should be, the farthest thing from amateur theatrics and self-aggrandizing behaviour. Vivian Soames had obviously missed the lesson. Or she was so grand that she dismissed these edicts as having no possible relevance to her. And then there was the son. Chadwick Soames was new to the school, having begun grade eight in September. It was Soames family lore that the kid was “gifted” and that his gifts had not been recognized by the philistines operating the other schools the boy had attended and abandoned. So now Saint Bernadette’s had the care of his soul. If he had one. The kid was an arsehole, his academic performance as abysmal as his attitude.

  His attitude was on display Friday morning. As was his idea of what constituted a display of wit. The school choir was rehearsing the Mozart “Ave Verum Corpus” and young Chad was standing a little too close for comfort beside Kim Kennedy, Normie Collins’s best friend. Kim was without question a lovely young girl, with a classically beautiful face and long blond braids. As the choir got to the words “natum ex Maria Virgine,” Brennan was able to lipread the exaggerated way in which Chad said to Kim, “Virgin, eh?” His actions in crossing his legs and crossing his hands over his crotch removed any doubt that the context was “Virgin, eh?” rather than the prayer at the centre of the piece. Kim leaned away as far as she could and kept singing. Normie, who was standing in front of her, turned and gave Chad a look Brennan couldn’t see. But it was met by the little bastard taking that opportunity to scratch his nose with the middle finger of his left hand. Father Burke would be having a word with Chadwick L. Soames following the rehearsal.

  Brennan congratulated the choir on a job well done, and when they began filing out, he crooked his thumb at Soames, who affected to ignore him. So, Brennan moved to block his way out and said, “Stay behind.”

  “Sorry. Can’t. I have to be . . .”

  “You do not have to be. You are merely a contingent being whose existence might have occurred or might never have occurred.”

  “Huh?”

  “Sit down over there and wait till the other students have left.”

  The parade of exiting choristers slowed as, one after another, the students turned to see who was going to have to answer for offending the higher power. When the last of them had shuffled out, Brennan closed the door and turned to his captive. “I never again want to see, nor do I want it happening out of my sight, any disrespect shown to any of the students of this school.”

  “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. Don’t do it again. Or anything like it.”

  “I don’t have to fucking be here!”

  “Correct. I believe I made that point at the beginning of our discussion.”

  “I can just leave this stupid school and get my money back.”

  “You can indeed.”

  “And then, like, you lose my money!”

  “And then, like, I’ll get another student to take your place. Someone who appreciates the fine music here and knows how to treat his or her fellow students. If you know the sort of person I mean. But perhaps you don’t.”

  “Oh, yeah? How many people have the money to come to this old place? It’s like from another century!”

  “Thank you. You are more perceptive than I initially perceived you to be. As far as replacing you, to understate things considerably, you are not irreplaceable. As for money, as you may have noticed, we have students here on bursaries, those who do not come from high-income families.”

  “Noticed? Can’t hardly miss them. They’re the ones with patches stitched onto their uniforms and their shoes all worn out and they come in on the bus! My old man says he’s going to cut down on them coming here. Says the school’s losing money because of them taking up space.”

  Brennan called, as he so often did, on Saint Monica, known informally as the patron saint of patience, and he refrained from calling down the wrath of God on the obnoxious individual slouching at the desk before him. As much as he would love to see the back of Chadwick Soames, he knew he couldn’t boot him out of the school and off the grounds for the one offence Brennan had personally observed. He settled for saying, “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that crass reference to money. And when I said that you are to show your fellow students respect, that applies to every student regardless of who he is. Or she is. And regardless of the student’s background. For in this place, there is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female —”

  “You don’t let Jews or Greeks in here?”

  “Oh, God,” Brennan pleaded, “give me strength.” He put both hands on the desk where Soames was seated and leaned towards him. “Soames, there are Jewish and Greek students here, among so many others. I was quoting Saint Paul’s letter to the Galatians, where Paul was making the point that there are no divisions between people, that whether a person was Jewish or Greek, male or female, slave or free, that didn’t matter because all are equal, all are one in Jesus Christ. Paul’s great, ringing declaration of equality. Paul, of all people, proclaiming the equality of female and male in Christ. And you’ve never heard of it.” He raised his right arm and pointed at the door. “Go. And don’t let the door bang you in the arse on the way out. Oh, and don’t be skipping catechism class; you’re surely in need of it.”

  * * *

  Brennan received news of more pleasant company coming his way when he answered a phone call at lunch time from his brother Terry.

  “Paddy gave me a blast when I got home from Halifax.”

  “A blast for what?”

  “This.” At the other end of the line, Terry clinked ice cubes around in a glass.

  “He gave out to you for enjoying a drink?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What then?” As if Brennan didn’t know.

  “For going to Halifax and drinking with you.” Brennan made no response, so his brother continued, “He’s worried about you, Bren. We all are. He’s right that I shouldn’t be, well . . .”

  “Well what? Setting a bad example? Encouraging me to drink? You can tell him I need no encouragement, as he well knows, and that you are blameless.”

  “Well . . .”

  “What did he think we’d be doing?”

  As soon as the words slipped out, Brennan tried to imagine what his brother Patrick, the psychiatrist, would say in response to a question like that. A more loving man you would never meet. Brennan knew his brothers had his best interests at heart and were worried half to death. “I know, I know,” he said then to Terry. “I’ll have to cut
back a bit on the drink.”

  “A bit?”

  Brennan ignored that.

  “And you’ll have the opportunity to display that change in lifestyle for him, Bren, because he’s heading off to see you, flying in later this very afternoon.”

  “Is he now?”

  “He is. So, you’ll have to scramble to come up with some wholesome activities to entertain him.”

  “No worries. He can be my altar boy for my Latin Mass tomorrow. I hope he’s not forgotten his Latin.”

  “Being an altar boy is like riding a bike. You never forget the old lady next door growling at you for racing through her flowerbed and you never forget the old priest bawling at you to correct your Latin.”

  “Maith an buachaill.” Good boy. “I’ll look forward to seeing Paddy.”

  Terry gave him the flight number and arrival time, and he signed off.

  Patrick Burke was a couple of inches shorter than his older brother, with sandy blond hair and bright blue eyes. He was a contrast to Brennan in demeanour as well. Brennan knew people perceived him, Brennan, as a bit austere. Haughty, perhaps. Patrick was warm, open, and friendly. Dr. Patrick J. Burke was exactly the sort of fellow you’d want to tell your troubles to. If you had any troubles. And if you were the sort of fellow who told his troubles to others. In this case, Brennan felt he had no choice, given how the Meika Keller case was with him every waking hour. And given that Patrick had not quite been able to mask his reaction at the sight of Brennan, bone-weary as he was from another sleepless night. So, on the drive in from the airport, he filled his brother in on Meika’s death and his failure to be there for her on the last night of her life. He made no attempt to downplay the role drink had played in his failure.

  Patrick’s response was, as Brennan anticipated, compassionate and thoughtful. And he veered beyond the psychiatric to the philosophical when he said, “We have to look at cause and effect here. We tend to feel guilty when our actions have an adverse effect on someone when in fact we have done the very same things over and over with no harm done to anyone, and we never give our actions a second thought. All you did was go out for a meal and a drink with your brother, as you have done a thousand times before. Even with the addition of a promise and a failure to meet someone later, there is nothing innately evil or immoral or even careless about that. We all go for an evening out; we all forget things. It is only natural that the one time your actions are associated with — not causative of — harm coming to someone, then you feel guilty. Yet the actions themselves are no more blameworthy than they were on the countless other occasions you engaged in them. That’s the formal side of it. What I hope is that I can give you some comfort with the feeling aspect of it. There I go again, with that word beloved of shrinks: feeling.”