Other than missing home and you all, I’m fine. In the few quiet moments I have to pen my letters, my thoughts tend to turn towards things of home.
I hope and pray you are well and that the baby grows strong and healthy. Have you thought of any names yet? I dream about her, our child, sometimes at night. I dream of holding her in your rocking chair and telling her stories of woodland animals. I remember the story Maang-ikwe told me as a child on her knee of Turtle Island. This is how it goes . . .
Gitchi-manidoo repented of making the first people, the Anishinaabe, for they had turned to disharmony and strife. Brother turned against brother (sound familiar?). Gitchi-manidoo decided to cleanse the earth of the people’s foul ways and sent water in a great flood—mush-ko-be-wun—to cover the earth. Only Nanaboozhoo survived. He called to some of the animals of the earth to take refuge on his floating pile of sticks.
Makinaak, the turtle, spoke up. “I offer my back as a foundation to build a new earth.”
Then Nanaboozhoo had an idea. “I will dive into the water to try to find mud to help form this new land.”
But he could not complete his task and rose to the surface barely able to breathe.
“I dive in the water for my food. I will try,” said Maang—the loon.
He dove down and shortly came back the same way Nanaboozhoo had.
Many other animals tried the same feat. Makwaa—the bear, Amik—the beaver, and Maa’ingan—the wolf. All attempted to dive in the deep waters for earth, but none succeeded.
Then Waszhask, the muskrat, spoke up in a timid voice. “I will try.”
Well, the other animals laughed at him. For surely if they had tried and were stronger then he, how would muskrat accomplish retrieving the mud they needed?
“You must let Waszhask try. You are not his judge,” Nanaboozhoo reminded the animals.
Waszhask dove down, down, until he reached the bottom and scooped up some mud in his little paw and paddled back to the surface. He was limp with his effort and nearly drowned. The other animals cheered, and he was roused by their enthusiasm.
“If Waszhask can get the mud, we can too. Let us try again. Gitchi-manidoo will help us, and we will help each other,” Maang wisely told the other creatures.
So, one by one, they dove and retrieved what mud they could by working together. They began to pack the mud onto Makinaak’s back, which was slowly transformed into an island. The island grew until it became a new home for the animals and a new generation of Earth’s First Nations Peoples. To this day the muskrat builds his home in the shape of the mud ball he retrieved from the bottom of the flood waters, and all are thankful for the turtle’s sacrifice . . ..
I will tell our daughter this story and many others. Perhaps you can read it to her now as she grows within you, and she will recognize the story when I get to tell it to her in person. This thought keeps me going when the hard days come, the promise to come home and tell her myself.
Consider yourself kissed.
Always,
Oshki
Mauve folded the letter up, kissed it, and tucked it back in its thin envelope. She placed it back upon the table. Her hand stroked Silvy’s silky, wavy hair. The puppy’s slight, warm form on her lap comforted Mauve. She rocked and thought of the future.
Owner and pet sat together quietly for some time until Silvy decided to instigate playtime. Mauve placed her on the floor. Silvy went after the trail of pink yarn hanging down from the chair. They played catch the yarn for a while until Silvy started to squat.
“Oh no!” Mauve reached down, picked the puppy up, and transferred her to the outside to finish her duty. When Silvy was done, Mauve petted her head. “We’ll get it figured out, won’t we?”
Mauve smiled at her. It will almost be like preparation for a baby, training Silvy.
The thought made her glad in a different sort of way for her father’s gift.
Early April
Near Metz
Luis sat at his makeshift desk, put his pen down, sighed, and stared at the second false letter he’d penned since arriving as a faux German officer. Marcus had told him it would look normal if he wrote to his made-up family. Writing to his real family as Lt. Von Wolff, of course, was out of the question.
He had kept the letter short and sweet, his written German not as good as his spoken. If the letter was intercepted and read, let them think him just a man of few words. Marcus had rented a post box in Düsseldorf for him to use under Luis’s supposed father’s name so the mail would be able to be delivered. A letter with no true destination might just find its way back, which would cause a great deal of suspicion.
I wish this letter was headed to Mom, Michael, and Lily.
He sealed the envelope and pressed a stamp in the right, upper corner.
“You want me to take that for you?” Rooster, as Luis had taken to calling him in the privacy of his own thoughts, poked his head through Luis’s tent flap. “I was headed that way myself.”
He waved a letter in one hand. His head tilted a little like a hen eyeing a grub as he waited for Luis to respond.
“Ah, Captain Hager. How considerate of you.” Luis took the few steps to his tent opening and handed his missive over to Rufus the Rooster.
He still hadn’t found the right vantage point to get him to talk.
What is it? Money? Power? Immunity? Love?
Time would tell. He’d read in his father’s own words that every man had their price.
“No bother, Lt. Von Wolff.” Rooster grinned sideways, snatched up Luis’s letter, and took himself off to the main building, which housed some offices, the post, the mess hall, and a medical unit. He kicked up a little cloud of dirt as he went.
Luis heard him whistling as he strode away. He watched Rooster for a moment out the gap in the tent before sitting on the edge of his cot. A strange, dusty smell hung in the air, and it made Luis remember the day he’d discovered who his father was—who he really was, not the romantic version his mother had told him about.
When he was twelve, he had found a diary in the desk in the study outlining how his father, Renault La Rue, had been blackmailing Mme. Cota’s father. It had made him sick, and the golden image he’d built of his natural father had been cut off at the knees. It had made Luis determined to be a better man. He prayed to God he wouldn’t be a worse one.
Luis put away his thoughts and his writing things. He prepared to meet Karl again at the Biergarten. I can get him to spill more details this time.
He could tell Karl liked him, trusted him. In a corner of his heart, Luis did feel bad for misleading the man, but it was his job—what he had to do for the greater good.
It neared the arranged time, so he threw his overcoat on, turned down his kerosene lantern, and exited his tent. He didn’t have far to travel to the Biergarten. The place was quiet as he approached. Luis assumed the local crowd might be slim as the war put a strain on a working man’s ability to dispense of their Reichsmarks in the depths of a stein of beer.
Luis lingered a moment, enjoying the scenery of the historic town and the Moselle at it flowed by. The architecture was older than anything Canada had to offer. The city’s history spanned back almost 2,000 years and had changed hands numerous times. The brickwork of the buildings around the Biergarten shone saffron in the golden hour before sunset. He regretfully turned from the view and pulled the heavy door open; the hinges creaked out a protest.
Scanning the room, he saw Karl waiting for him at their usual table with a stein of beer. Luis waved to him and ordered at the bar before he sat down.
“Hallo.” Karl turned his weary eyes up at Luis.
“Gestartet ohn mir?”
Luis was glad Karl had started without him. All the better for Karl to be one drink in. Primer for the pump.
He decided to play up his angst, hoping as they teeter-tottered their grievances information would spill out of Karl as well.
“Ack, another day of drudgery, eh?”
“Ja. T
he same as always, but soon I will be done with this place.” Karl looked sorrowful as well as happy. He toyed with his mug and looked at Luis and confessed. “I will miss our drinking times. You have been a good friend, Gunther.”
“That is too bad. You complete your job soon, then?”
“Ja. I am finishing the final stage now. You see, the delivery system was the problem.” Karl’s eyes became big and scared. He visibly swallowed.
“Well, you must be proud to have completed your task.”
Luis eyed him over his beer and waited to see if Karl would talk about how he really felt about his secret job. He had the inkling it repulsed him.
“Ha! That is a joke. Shame might be a better fit.”
Ah, this is something I can work with.
Luis watched the concerned look on Karl’s face. “You are a smart man and have completed a task I wager not many men could do.” He ventured a question. “What is this . . . system you work on? Will it be deployed soon?”
Karl sat quietly and took a large gulp of his beer. He slowly set down the stein and took a deep breath. He looked around the room while keeping his head still. “You must not say. You must not tell . . . anyone.” He whispered the last word with his dark eyes focused on Luis.
Luis leaned closer across the table. He painted a worried look on his face. “Of course . . . what is it?”
“A compressed canister for . . . gas.” Karl whispered to Luis. A sudden tinge of pain made him look like someone who had just had a tooth pulled.
Luis shook his head and whispered back, “What kind of gas?”
“Deadly,” Karl revealed.
Luis tried not to look too alarmed. He had to be cool and think.
I need a sample.
“How long will you be at the lab?”
It would probably be hard to sneak in. He knew it was watched heavily at night, but maybe if he had a legitimate reason, he could enter it. Perhaps he could manufacture an excuse for General Ostermann. If he played his cards right, the general just might agree to an inspection.
Yes! That’s it.
“A week maybe.”
“I see. This is a weapon to be used against the enemy, I take it?”
“Ja. The poor devils in Flanders.”
Karl hadn’t noticed his slip-up. He enjoyed his drink.
Luis ordered another beer and got Karl talking more about how they stored the gas. He wanted to determine how he could acquire some. He needed a small vial. Karl made it sound like they kept some of the gas in metal tanks with a crank and a rubberized nozzle for filling airtight containers.
But where will I find the right container? He could stop by a chemist.
“So, this gas . . . is headed to the western front?” Luis wanted to make sure where they would be deploying the lab’s secret stash.
Karl sobered up a little. “I must go. I have an early morning. You understand?”
“Ja. Do you want to meet next week?”
“I may not be here next week so I will say auf wiedersehen. Maybe we will meet again.”
Karl extended his hand.
Luis met him with a firm grip. “Goodbye, friend.”
In a real way, Luis would miss his drinks with Karl.
1st Canadian Division
Ypres, Belgium
April 1915
I have become accustomed to recording my thoughts—like mother, like son, I guess. Lenny and I hunch entrenched in the ground like rodents now. I often did wonder how a mole felt underground; now I know. Thank God the sun still shines on our heads some days. If I were truly only ever in a tunnel encased in dirt, I think I would perish for the sheer grief of the darkness.
We spend eight days in the frontline trenches and four in the reserve before we get a rest in camp, unless there is serious fighting. Lenny and I are stationed in the front today, and relative quiet reigns. A few random firings but nothing major. For the most part, Lenny and I keep our posts and watch for enemies who might try to sneak across the gap between our opposing sides.
Lenny, the lads, and I prepare for our “spit and polish parade”, what we’ve come to call the general’s inspections. We clean and oil our firearms, polish our boots as best we can, and groom our persons, which amounts to a wiping of hands, a shave, and a combing of our mashed-down helmet hair.
I’m told soon the Canadian troops will be moved to a bulge in the line to the salient. This will put our quiet days to rest, I suppose, as we’ll be open to attack on three sides and not just one. But I am convinced, if this battle must be won and this is the ground we must take, then we are the men to do it.
Be strong and courageous.
Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed,
For the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.
Joshua 1:9
Chapter Seven
June 1917
Victoria General
Halifax
“Ack . . . it’s hot.”
I try to spit the hot soup back out into the spoon, but I miss. Instead, it scourges a burning trail down my chin. I lean back, frustrated at not being able to feed himself.
“Where’s Rose?”
“She’s busy elsewhere. I’m your nurse today, Nurse Hanson,” the woman tells me in a very stiff and businesslike voice.
Drat. It’s Rose who understands me. I want Rose to care for me, not some other woman.
“I’m not hungry. Take it away.”
“Now, we cannot do that, Lieutenant. You need to build your strength and nutritious food will help. You must eat up.” I imagine her gripping the spoon like a gun, prepared to do battle. “I will cool it off more, but we’re getting this down you. Do you understand?”
I meekly sit back against the pillow positioned behind my back and do her bidding. I don’t have enough gumption to argue.
Maybe yesterday has something to do with why Rose isn’t here. She reacted so strangely when she took off the dressing around my eyes. Perhaps she finds me hideous.
I think about what happened . . . I try to recall her words . . .
One day prior
“Now sit still so I can unwrap this bandage,” her soft voice commanded.
I obeyed. I felt a fluttering of fabric, a slight pull now and then, and smelled her fragrance of lavender water once more.
“Am I on the mend?”
“I can’t tell yet. Be patient.”
The last wrap came off. The cool air felt good on my skin.
“Your skin looks heathy. Just let me dab a bit of cleanser on it.”
Something cold and wet touched the area around my eyes. I wanted to open them, and so I did. All I saw were shapes, colors, lights . . .
“No, you must not try to see, you . . .”
I heard her suck in a gasp of air, and then she went quiet.
“What, what is it?”
It was as if she was startled by something. Surely, she would have seen much worse injuries than mine.
“I . . . it’s nothing.”
She continued dabbing and drying. A loose layer of gauze swirled around my head.
“The doctor wants the air to get at your skin, so I won’t wrap this too tightly, but you must not strain your eyes. Try to keep them closed.”
She told me as if distant from me all of a sudden, as if we had shared nothing special, as if we had not become friends.
“I must be going. Someone will check on you later.”
“Wait, Rose . . . Rose?”
I reached out for her hand, but she had gone. Her absence left me wondering what troubled her.
I still can’t fathom what it might be. What shocked her so? Maybe she recognized me.
But how can that be?
As far as I know, we’ve never met before. It’s a mystery and it has left me with questions that I have no answers for.
Mid-April 1915
About two years earlier
Metz
Three days after Luis’s last meeting with Karl, Luis had convinced Ostermann the
lab he’d previously investigated had a leak, and that he should check on things. Ostermann had consented. Luis supposed there wasn’t much the man missed, but he thoroughly hoped the general missed his subterfuge.
When Luis had taken the place of the dead German Lieutenant Strauss, he’d come with the general’s knowledge of his supposed degree in science from Berlin and experience in investigation. And now, here he was with an armed officer, a driver, and a mission to investigate anything suspicious. Luis had the driver and the armed man wait for him. He wanted to tour the lab alone.
He stepped into the cold, stone building. A guard stopped him at the door, and he showed him a document from Ostermann verifying Luis’s visit.
The guard folded up the papers and handed them back to Luis without question. “Go ahead, Lt. Von Wolff.”
Apparently, General Ostermann was not a man to displease.
“Danke.”
Luis proceeded into the building and down a hall to the right where he’d been told the man in charge of operations would be. A sharp, sickening stench made Luis cough and cover his mouth. Through a set of glass doors, he saw a room containing a number of workers, counters with beakers and burners, and lab materials of all kinds. Luis knocked on the glass. A gray-haired man wearing a white lab coat, round, tortoise-shell glasses, and a curious look on his face came towards the door and opened it a crack.
“Ja. How may I help you?”
“I am here by General Ostermann’s command to search the premises and ask questions. We fear a leak in information.”
The man paled noticeably. “I don’t understand. How could this be?”
He blocked the door still.
“Sir. Out of my way, so I may complete my directive,” Luis said in a commanding voice. He held up the signed document granting him access to the lab.
“Ah . . . of course.” The man stood aside and allowed Luis entrance. “But you must be careful.” He looked very nervous. “You must not touch any of our work. It is . . . temperamental.”
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