Silver Moon

by Jenny Knipfer

  Socrates

  Chapter Thirteen

  November 1917

  Webaashi Bay

  The wood speaks to me. I run my hands over the surface.

  Here . . .

  I take a little more off. I put even pressure on my biggest palm chisel and remove another chip of wood. The image of a white-tailed deer takes shape on the square board of basswood before me. My hands are my eyes.

  I sit near the big window in my father’s house, facing the cliffs. I can’t see the lake, but I can hear it. It’s not frozen over yet, and the waves lightly drum against the rock cliff today. They slowly, patiently, but imperceptibly carve out the rocks as the water beats against it. I time my moves on the wood to the sound of the water. It feels like I have a partner in crafting.

  My eyes aren’t too bad today. I used my limited sight to create a rough drawing on the wood with a lead pencil, but now I turn to my hands to guide me. It requires less work. For many months I’ve learned to see with my hands, and now, sometimes, I prefer it that way.

  It feels good to have my old carving tools in my grip again. This is the most “me” I’ve felt since . . . well, since I signed up three and a half years ago.

  Has it only been three years? It feels like an eternity has passed. A whole other life.

  Ah, a little more depth. I probe with my fingers and feel I need a deeper relief to make the deer’s antlers rise up from the wood. I find a middle-sized spoon gouge and use it to pull the rack of the animal from the wood.

  This work soothes me, feeds my soul, and helps me forget the pain, the loss, and the killing.

  It helps me forget her.

  It’s not just the feel of the wood or the way a creation calls to be formed which nurtures me; it’s the smell. It brings instant comfort to me. Perhaps because the fragrance is tied to memories. I spent hours with Michael in his woodshop. He taught me to carve, and I took to it like a duck to water.

  October 1900

  “Like this now.” Michael guided my hands with a “v” gouge chisel to make a deep groove in the aspen wood. He helped me carve the edge of a table destined to be Mom’s Christmas present.

  “Yes, that’s a good job, Luis.” He smiled.

  “Why do you like to carve?” I asked him as I kept a firm grip on the chisel. The steady taps of the mallet accented our conversation.

  “Oh, I suppose for a number of reasons.” He turned to work, sanding the turned legs of the table while I chiseled at the edge. “My father taught me. After my mother died, he became a . . . sad man. His heart turned in on itself. Carving was the only thing he had to give me.” Michael paused and the only sounds in the room were our hands making the tools work. “I didn’t do much when I was your age. I fiddled now and then, but after Lucy . . .”

  I knew Lucy was Michael’s first wife, who had died of cancer. I helped him out.

  “Then you started carving as a real . . . craft?”

  “Yes. Lily and carving helped me not wish for the grave too.”

  I didn’t know what to say; his confession astonished me. We worked without talking for a while. Then he surprised me even more.

  “I think of you as my son, Luis. Oh, I know Felix has been and is your surrogate father. I won’t ever take his place, or your natural father’s either, but I care for you like my own, Luis. And I’m proud of the man you are becoming.”

  My heart soaked up his words. I needed to hear them. The last five years had been difficult. Finding out who my real parents were had changed so much, not just where I lived and whom I called mama and papa, but who I was and where I came from. My identity had been pulled out from under me. I’d done as well as I could with all the changes, but still a part of me wondered who I was, and—once I found out—if it would suddenly change again.

  My eyes held his for a moment. “Thanks, Michael.”

  “Let’s finish up here. Your mother will be coming out to find us for lunch, and we can’t have that. The surprise will be ruined.”

  He grinned, and I nodded.

  Michael wasn’t the only one to teach me about carving. At university in Toronto, I learned a few tricks from instructors and students as I worked on larger sculptures, but I love the small craft. The pleasure of turning a little block of wood into some animal, figure, or utensil satisfies me.

  I remember all the nights I carved while Hans taught me German. I littered our small apartment near the campus with shavings while we conversed. I usually stayed with Valerie and Felix on the weekends. During the week, however, it worked better for me to find living quarters close to my classes.

  Hans and I had a sketching class together. The teacher had paired off students to draw each other, and Hans and I were matched. We got to talking, liked each other, and realized we had a common need—housing. We remedied that the next day after classes and found a small flat just a block from university.

  Hans missed his family in Germany, and I liked to learn. I carved, we talked, he felt less lonely, and I acquired another language.

  My hands still a moment and I think . . .

  What would have changed if I’d never learned to speak German?

  I am not God. I don’t know. I go back to my carving. Maybe things would have turned out worse. I can hardly imagine I would have done worse things, but maybe my circumstances would have been worse. I might have died. There were times I thought I was going to and times I wanted to, but I didn’t. I’m here, blindly carving wood instead.

  April 1916

  Webaashi Bay

  Lily sat in her favorite chair, a rocker that her father had made for her. He had painted it white years ago. Some portions of the paint had rubbed or chipped off, but Lily didn’t care. She thought the worn look gave it character. The chair creaked as she rocked, but she didn’t mind.

  She had nothing to occupy her time at the moment. Lily had not gone to her folks as was her habit of a Sunday afternoon. Instead, she toasted some bread, got out a jar of raspberry preserves, a pat of butter, a pot of tea, and cozied herself in her sitting room. She had stoked up a small fire—a bit of late spring chill clung to the air yet—and she read Jimmy’s letter to her again.

  April 30th, 1916

  Dear Lily,

  I’m up for leave pretty soon, and how I wish I could come home to you, to Webaashi Bay, and to my family. Instead, I will spend a few days in some cheap French hostel pining for the kisses and embraces we have not shared yet.

  Thank you for the letter with the pictures from the children at school. I favored the colored maple leaf one. It reminded me so much of home: the taste of my mother’s griddle cakes with maple syrup, the smell of wet leaves in the fall, the bright blue (not as bright as your eyes) sky of fall days set against the golden aspen leaves, the honk of the geese overhead, the crash of Superior on gusty days, warm sweaters, and hot drinks.

  The images have helped us escape the confines and the drudgery of the days spent in a trench. The other men have tacked their pictures up in various spots to remind them of home. One of my favorite pictures was a pink, happy pig wallowing in the mud. The caption said, “Home Sweet Home.” We fellas have felt like that pig now and again. I like the idea of the pig being happy in his home of grime, then just maybe we can be too, at least in a small way.

  That got me to thinking. My father is a good man, and if I get back home, I’d be proud to work with him too. What would you say to becoming a printer’s wife? Sorry, that just spilled from my pen. I thought of all kinds of ways to ask you, but they all seemed ridiculous, and I don’t want to wait till I get back. I want to think of you as truly mine now. What do you say? Will you marry me, Lily Lucile Parsons?

  Yours,

  Jimmy

  Lily held the paper to her heart and laughed out loud with glee like she used to when she was just a little sprite. Nessa had called her that—Sprite. She had been fascinated with fairytales and often played out such stories. Those childhood games had changed a bit when Luis had entered the picture. They’d play
ed rough and tumble together as stepbrother and sister. But Luis had indulged her now and again and entered her make-believe realm of fairies.

  Come to think of it, my life has changed so much because of the men in it.

  Lily took a sip of tea and stretched out her sock-covered feet to warm her toes. Luis had been the brother and friend she had always wanted; Oshki had been like a big brother too; and now there was Jimmy—once her torment but now her fiancée.

  My fiancée. Lily had not thought she would be able to say those words in relation to herself. She had considered herself too stubborn and headstrong for any potential beau to be interested in her for too long. But Jimmy had written his way into her heart with his simple, honest charm, and she loved him for it.

  June 2nd, 1916

  Third Canadian Division

  Ypres Salient near Mount Sorrel

  Jimmy unfolded Lily’s letter once more and read it again. It never failed to bring a grin to his face. . .

  May 15th, 1916

  Dear Jimmy,

  Yes! Yes! Yes! Lily Smith has a nice ring to it. I’ve always loved the smell of your father’s print shop. He and your mother would be so pleased to see you there too. I like to think your folks like me. Have you written to them about us? I am always very circumspect with them when I ask about you. I wasn’t sure how things stood.

  Is it all right with you if I tell my father and Vanessa? They’ll be surprised, I’m sure. Well, they know I’ve been writing to you, but they don’t know the extent of my feelings. I love you, Jimmy. I can’t wait to build a happy life with you. And that’s what we’ll be, won’t we, happy? Promise me.

  I’m glad the pictures the school children sent are a welcome distraction and a taste of home. Celeste Follett helped me with the project. She’s such a lovely and kind young lady. Jenay and Jacque have raised a fine daughter. Lizzy, on the other hand, is a rascal, but a cute one.

  Do you ever see Oshki where you are? He never mentions you in his letters to Mauve. We still have had no word from Luis. Vanessa keeps hoping, but I fear he might be dead. It seems strange to think that. I want to imagine him alive, but my heart aches with the fact that I will most likely never see him again.

  You know what it is like all too well to say goodbye to people. I feel like when we remember people, they actually come back to life in a way. It’s as if we put bits and pieces of who they were back together, but the sad part—it’s just never the same as having a living, breathing soul with you.

  I sure am grateful Pearl made it through the measles just fine. She’s such a sweet little thing. Course, Maang-ikwe helped greatly with her recovery. Many of the children caught it last spring too. Most everyone recovered, thank God. Out of the hundred or so children and people of the community who came down with the sickness, two died, and one boy from school developed a fever so high it caused him to be partially blind in one eye.

  I like working with the children. It makes me think of the mother I might be some day.

  I pray for you every day. Come home to me, Jimmy dear.

  Ever,

  Lily

  “Ho, ho, what’s that? She said yes, huh?” Robbie hung over Jimmy’s shoulder reading snatches of his letter from Lily in the early morning light. “Congratulations, ol’ man.” Robbie slapped Jimmy on the back. He reached into the inner breast pocket of his army jacket and pulled out two cigarettes. “Been saving these for a special occasion. This is as good as any.”

  He grinned and handed one to Jimmy. Jimmy didn’t usually smoke, but he took it anyway and puffed away when Robbie lit him up.

  “Yep, guess I’m a pretty lucky fool.” Jimmy took a slow drag on his cigarette and tried not to cough.

  “I would say so.” Robbie, who was an essential jokester at heart, had sobered. His words came out slow.

  What is that I hear behind his words? Jimmy asked himself. Regret? Longing? Wistfulness? Not Robbie.

  “Well, we best see to it that ya make it home, then.” Robbie exhaled his smoke with a sigh and clapped Jimmy on the back. A cloud of dirt rose up as he did. They both coughed.

  Jimmy waved his hand in the air to dispel the cloud. “I’ll actually get to wash my uniform on leave. I must be carrying around ten pounds of dirt.”

  “When are ya supposed ta leave?”

  “Couple days, I guess.”

  “Lucky dog. Probably won’t have too much fun, huh?” Robbie jabbed him in the side. “Not with a fiancé waiting for ya. But just between me and you, I wouldn’t let that stop ya.” Robbie wiggled his eyebrows. “I hear tell there’s a fine-looking mademoiselle where yar staying. Give her a kiss for me.” Robbie winked and walked off down the trench to his dugout before Jimmy could set him straight.

  I’m no cheater, Jimmy told himself.

  Lily meant everything to him now, and he wouldn’t sleep with some French whore just to satisfy whatever urgings he may have. He laid down her letter in the little tin he kept just for the purpose of keeping his correspondence safe and snapped the cover shut. He caressed the scratched lid with his thumb.

  We are together here, and we will be together there.

  Jimmy’s thoughts shattered with the heavy blasts breaking over the horizon. The Germans had loaded up the big guns and hammered away with the start of the day. The slam and whiz of the shots pounded at Jimmy’s eardrums. He stuffed his tin back in his breast pocket.

  “What’s going on?” Jimmy shouted at Halbrook, the private next to him.

  “Don’t know as yet but heard rumors the Fritzes are trying to flush us from our holding.” Halbrook stuck his head above the trench to get a look at happenings. A shot whizzed past his ear. “Gee willekers, that ‘as close.”

  He ducked down and looked at Jimmy with big eyes as he checked his head with the hand not holding his gun.

  “You’re still there, Halbrook.” Jimmy patted him on the shoulder.

  “Ya, guess so.”

  Jimmy readied his rifle and leaned against the rocky trench walls.

  “We’re to hold our positions!” Private Williams, the soldier closest to Jimmy on his left, shouted.

  Jimmy passed the message along to Halbrook and steeled himself to survive the shelling. He had to be ready when it stopped to defend their positions, for surely the Germans would attack on foot after their bombardment ended.

  Minutes turned to hours. The whine of the projectiles in the air rankled Jimmy the most. The anticipation of something coming but not knowing where it would hit wracked his nerves. His leg began to shake with the stress of it. Jimmy shielded himself as best he could through the tirade.

  He saw Robbie crawling towards him along the trench to his right during a moment of quiet. For pity’s sake, what’s he doing? He should stay put.

  Robbie was about twenty yards away and then . . . whoosh. Instantly, dirt, rock, and wood blew up and fell down like a whale blowing water through a blowhole. Except this explosion contained earth and bodies made from the earth.

  Jimmy coughed and gagged. He yelled for Robbie and tried to move, but he was pinned against the dirt wall by a board.

  Dirty, blasted Huns somehow planted a mine. It was the only explanation for what he had just seen.

  Jimmy looked around for signs of life and tried desperately to free himself. His ears rang. The sound of the bell in his brain made him dizzy. Finally, he succeeded in pushing the board and debris off his shoulder and chest.

  A thick wetness leaked down the side of his face. Jimmy reached up to his head and brought his hand back covered in red. He wiped it down his filthy jacket and stumbled forward over . . . God, what is that?

  Jimmy’s eyes focused through the din and he saw a human arm at his feet. He reeled backwards, hit his head on a rock, and keeled over. He vomited and turned away as best he could.

  I got to get up. I have to check on Robbie.

  His thoughts set him upright on his feet again. He raked through the rubble and encountered more ghastly sights which were sure to become burned into h
is memory. Tears of frustration and anger blended with the blood on his face.

  He tried another location and began raking through.

  “Halbrook! “Halbrook!” Jimmy yelled, slapping the face that appeared before him.

  Private Halbrook sucked in a breath and opened his eyes.

  Jimmy saw him mouthing words, but he couldn’t hear what they were; his ears still rung. He dug more debris off his trench mate. He made it to where his legs should be, but Jimmy only unearthed one.

  “I’ve got to get you to the medic!” Jimmy shouted in Halbrook’s ear.

  Halbrook’s eyes rolled back, and Jimmy slapped him briskly.

  “Stay awake,” he yelled.

  Please God! he prayed.

  Jimmy became a mole and tunneled through the dirt, rocks, and remnants of their trench. He made a path big enough for him to pull Halbrook backwards in the direction of their supply trenches, where he could get him tended to. Jimmy used every ounce of strength he possessed to do his job.

  It’s too late for Robbie, he reckoned, but I’m gonna save Holbrook or die trying.

  Jimmy passed others maimed or dead. He did what he could to check if bodies were breathing, but his mission stayed clear—to get Halbrook to safety.

  Finally, he retreated far enough back. An able-bodied man took over his charge.

  “I got him. I got him now, Private. You can let go.” A soldier with a Red Cross on his arm pried Jimmy’s hands off Holbrook’s jacket.

  Jimmy nodded and let go. His eyes glazed over in a sort of trance.

  I’m trapped in a silent, hellish motion picture, Jimmy thought before it all went black.

  Mid-June 1916

  Near the Belgium border

  Lillie, France

  “I am happy you are back with us, Lt. Von Wolff,” Hahn the rooster commented to Luis as he stood in the dugout region of German HQ, well back from the front lines.