Silver Moon

by Jenny Knipfer

“Ja. I am happy to be back.” Luis tried to be believable. “I took my chance when I saw it. Those British . . .” Luis seasoned his speech with a few German curses to make it sound real to Rooster.

  “Ja. It is amazing how you escaped.” Rooster eyed Luis shrewdly.

  “Lucky, perhaps, how I escaped. It all happened so fast, and, like I said, I took my chance.”

  Rooster nodded. His gaze relaxed a little.

  “So, my friend, tell me about things here. General Ostermann has told me details, of course, but it is the men I want to hear from.”

  Luis wanted to gain a closer footing with Rooster. He needed an accomplice here in the ranks.

  “Oh, you know . . . we seem to be holding the strategic points around. The enemy tries sporadically to wrench us from our post, but so far they’ve been unsuccessful.”

  “Ja, gut, gut.” Luis looked at his watch. It neared the time for the evening meal. “I feel magnanimous today. A celebration is called for. What say we take a truck into Lille and eat at a real restaurant tonight? My treat, of course, my friend.”

  General Ostermann had given Luis a free night to settle in before he spent his first weeks in the trenches again.

  Rooster’s beady eyes perked up. “Ja? That is most kind, Lieutenant.”

  “Very good. Come, then, we will get a truck.”

  Luis left a message for the general, and he and Rooster made their way to a reserve vehicle. Luis found a driver to transport them to town in style.

  Once they got to town, Rooster smoothed down his cock’s comb of hair with his hand before he jammed his hat back on. Luis straightened his uniform as he stepped out. One button on his coat had gotten a tad rusty from its burial in the earth waiting for Von Wolff to rise again from the hands of the enemy.

  “Come, my friend.” Luis signaled with his arm for Rooster to walk beside him.

  As Luis walked, he felt his Luger, thick against his side in its holster. He never moved without the gun now that he was back as Von Wolff. He never knew when the moment might come when the jig would be up.

  An old man dressed in a black suit acted as the maître d’ and opened the door for them as they approached the fancy restaurant. The Germans had occupied Lille for some time and had taken over the best of the town. De Crouronne, The Crown, was one such business, catering mostly to German officers in the evening.

  “A seat by the window, please,” Luis requested of the hostess in French as he and Rooster entered.

  “Oui, monsieur.” The waitress led the way.

  Once seated, Luis started in. “Now, you must tell me. Are we winning the war?”

  Rooster coughed into his hand. “I don’t know such things, Lieutenant. It is not for me to say.”

  “Oh, well, you know enough, I’m sure. I want to hear from you what the men have been doing, and . . . saying.”

  “Ah, I cannot deny there are some . . . stirrings, but we hold fast. We do our best.” Rooster spoke defensively.

  “You mistake my questioning. I only wish to glean an accurate picture, nothing more. I’m not here to inflict judgment on you or any man.” Luis breathed out a sigh. “Truthfully, I’m weary of it all.”

  That is the truth, Luis realized.

  “Ja . . .” Rooster stretched out his neck to say more but was interrupted by the waitress.

  She did not speak to them. She simply poured red wine into their glasses and laid down a paper menu of items. She bowed slightly and left them to decide. Luis supposed French girls who spoke German were not wanted in a place serving Germans. It would be too easy for nationals to pass on juicy tidbits of information that way.

  Luis scanned the offerings and passed the menu to Rooster.

  “I don’t read French,” Rooster said.

  Luis helped him. “I recommend the Boeuf Bourguignon.”

  He eyed Rooster across the table. The man loosened his collar with a thin index finger.

  “Danke.” Rooster set the paper down.

  He looked uncomfortable and out of his element. Luis had him where he wanted him.

  The girl came back, and Luis told her their choices. She nodded, backed away, and turned in one fluid movement. Luis felt sorry for her. She looked thin as a reed, probably because the Germans sucked their food supplies dry.

  “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, the weariness.”

  Luis took a sip of wine. Rooster followed suit.

  “Ja. I didn’t even get leave to go home to my family.” Rooster paled and swallowed another drink.

  “For your regular leave?”

  “Nein. My wife gave birth to a son.” Rooster smiled and looked less scrawny to Luis.

  “Your first?”

  “Ja.”

  “Congratulations.” Luis toyed with his wine glass. He had found disgruntled feelings worked before in this game. He tried the same tactic. “Too bad you did not get permission to greet your son and congratulate your wife. The general did not let you go? What a shame. I would have thought he’d reward you for your . . . loyalty.”

  “Nein.” Rooster had a bitter look about his mouth. He plucked his wine glass from the table and guzzled some down.

  Luis snapped his fingers in the air.

  “Plus de vin,” he told the girl when she appeared.

  She nodded and soon refilled their glasses of wine. The food came shortly after. They ate in silence for a few moments.

  “The war is grating on. Some work on a way to draw it to a close.” Luis gauged Rooster’s reaction. He looked to be all ears, so Luis kept feeding him bait. “I spoke with another prisoner who overheard the British tell of tunnels circling back around the ridge to take us by surprise. Instead of gassing or shelling us, they plan to take prisoners.”

  Luis knew he leaked a vital piece of information to Rooster, but he had to give him something to chew on. Rooster needed a reason to help.

  “If some of these spots could be taken over, the war might be over soon and . . . lives would be saved.”

  Luis chewed his meaty stew and watched Rooster’s face. He’s thinking . . . good.

  “Things could go back to the way they were before this whole ruckus started.”

  Rooster didn’t look up but kept his eyes focused on his food, which he carefully ingested. “It can’t be that simple.”

  “Nein. But it would help if the British had . . . inside information.”

  Luis hoped he hadn’t taken too big of a risk in thinking Rooster borderline in his allegiance to the cause.

  Rooster’s utensil stilled. He gave Luis a wide-eyed look. “I imagine so.”

  Then he went back to eating, slowly but steadily, until he cleaned his plate. He used a crust of bread to mop up the broth.

  Luis kept quiet and wished he could read Rooster’s thoughts. He didn’t want to ask him to do it, to help him. Not yet, anyway. He just wanted to test the water and allow the thought to grow in his crop.

  “Well, that was . . . excellent.” Luis grinned warmly at Rooster as he wiped his mouth on his napkin. “I suppose we must head back to the front.”

  Luis allowed his face to be grieved by the fact. He tried to keep his voice even. He didn’t want to lay too much on the table the first time.

  “Ja.” Rooster only laid his napkin aside, nodded, and stood when Luis did.

  Luis left some Francs on the table, and they left quietly.

  When they got back, Luis walked Rooster to his hole of a room near Ostermann’s dug out. “Lots to think about, Hahn, lots to think about. Guten Nacht.”

  Luis left him and prayed Rooster wouldn’t crow to Ostermann about his traitorous lieutenant. Luis had a good sense about people, though.

  Nein, he thought, Rooster won’t tattle. He wants to be done, just like me.

  He truly hoped his intuition was right.

  July 1916

  Webaashi Bay

  “Does anyone need more dill?” Natalie held up a large handful of the green pungent herb.

  “Me, I think.” Nora Smith raised her h
and as she fit her last head of dill in a clean, empty canning jar. A head of dill spread out its florets in a fan-shaped pattern at the bottom of each of the four jars in front of her, save one.

  Several of the other women clustered around a group of tables in The Eatery, which Natalie had closed for the occasion, raised their hands.

  The Webaashi Bay Women’s Club was hosting their second meeting of the year. Lily had asked Natalie last month about the possibility of hosting a home canning session at The Eatery. Natalie had told Lily she could hardly refuse the woman she called one of her best friends.

  Natalie passed out the dill. Once every lady had their jars filled, Lily readied them for the next step.

  “Now ladies, I’m sure you’ve noticed the pans of cucumbers in front of you. We are going to have a little competition.” Lily saw several of the women looking a little nervous, but most of them smiled and winked.

  A bit of healthy competition will be good for us all, she thought.

  “When I say go, pack your scrubbed cucumbers into the jars. Big ‘uns at the bottom. Little ‘uns at the top. Ready?” Lily looked around the room. “Set.”

  She saw Mauve mouth the words, “I’m gonna win.”

  She just might, Lily realized. Mauve’s skill set in the kitchen leaned toward proficient.

  “Go!” Lily shouted.

  The bustling of bodies, the squeaking of wet cucumbers against glass, and the good-natured laughs and giggles of the ladies could be heard throughout the group.

  Lily had determined whichever lady filled their jars first would win a book on home canning, donated by the town shop, Booksellers: Simon & McMann. It had previously been known as Taylor’s Bookshop, owned by Jeremiah Taylor and his wife.

  “What if ya got too many?” Rowena Martel, Job’s wife, complained and held up a couple of stray vegetables. “They ain’t gonna all fit.” Her chocolate-hued hand rested on her outstretched hip as she spoke.

  “You might have extras,” Lily said to Rowena and all the women frantically stuffing green cucumbers in their jars. “Just fill your jars to the ridge of the glass. Raise your hand when you’re done.”

  She smiled. It only took several minutes for hands to be raised.

  Ellie Murray’s hand shot up, but at exactly the same time so did Althea Aimes’s.

  Rats, I didn’t think about what I’d do if there was a tie. Lily rolled over her predicament in her mind. How do I decide who gets the book?

  Ellie and Althea looked at each other. Ellie tucked a strand of her graying, red hair, which had escaped her bun, behind her ear.

  “Wall, don’t really need t’ book now. Give it t’ Althea,” Ellie graciously offered as she continued to smooth down her unruly hair.

  “Oh, no. That wouldn’t be fair,” said Althea.

  Lily knew Althea liked to stick to the rules. She was the constable's wife, after all. Lily considered her a sweet woman, with just a smidge of plumpness around her cheeks. Although she hosted a fit figure, Althea had an eternally cherubic face which made her appear heavier than she was.

  “We could share the book,” she offered graciously.

  Her round, pink cheeks pushed up as she smiled, giving her even more of an angelic look.

  “Oh, what a lovely idea,” Lily said.

  Whew, she thought, grateful for Althea’s suggestion.

  “Ellie, what do you say?”

  Ellie nodded. “Fine by me.”

  “Well, there you have it, ladies. Our winners are Ellie Murray and Althea Aimes. They’ll be sharing the prize. Congratulations!” Lily clapped and the other ladies did as well. “Now that we have filled our clean jars with clean cucumbers, we must add the brine.”

  Natalie came from the back kitchen with a steaming pot of vinegar, water, and pickling salt and spices. She set it down in the middle of the long table on a towel.

  She gave the group further instructions. “Now, ladies, take a ladle and fill your jar with brine up to the glass ridge.” Natalie gave an example with an available jar. “Be careful; the solution is hot. Hold your jar with a towel if you need to.”

  While she spoke, Renae Waters had come from the back with a pan of hot rubber rings and lids.

  “Next, take tongs and place a rubber ring on the lip of the jar, fit the glass lid down and anchor it in place. Now,” Renae held up an example of the lid in each hand, “some jars will have the zinc tops which will screw onto the threaded glass jars. Some will have a rubber gasket attached to the lid and a separate ring. If you don’t know what kind of top you need, just ask.” She looked around. “Any questions?”

  “What’s this do-jiggy?” Rosalind Tremblay asked. She was the daughter of Vincent and Mary Tremblay who owned the chandlery and light shop in town.

  “That, my dear, is the wire latch that will hold your glass lid in place,” Maude Montreaux pointed out to Rosalind, who stood on her left.

  “Ah,” Rosalind moved the wire clamp up and down, “I see.”

  Celeste Cota raised her hand. “Are we placing the sealed jars in boiling water, then?”

  “Right you are, Celeste,” Lily confirmed and made the announcement to the group. “After your jars are sealed, stack them in a crate, which we will bring back to the kitchen where several large kettles with hot water are ready to receive them.”

  “How long d’ey have ta boil?” Rowena asked.

  Lily was ready to answer, but Jenay, who stood by Rowena, beat her to it.

  “About fifteen minutes.” Jenay smiled at her neighbor. “I’ve been canning things like this for years with my aunt. Did you and your mother do any canning?”

  “Yas, done some with my mam, but it’s been quite a while. I ‘as jist little, don’t ‘member all the steps.” Rowena shrugged.

  “Well, now you may can them with your daughter,” Jenay suggested as she finished tightening her last lid.

  “Yas, that I can.” Rowena flashed a white, toothy smile Jenay’s way.

  “Ladies . . .” Lily clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Time to bring the jars back to the kitchen. We need get them in the water as soon as possible.”

  “Why’s that now?” Rowena questioned Lily.

  Renae jumped in and schooled Rowena. “Sterilization. The heat and the brine will do the job of killing bacteria.”

  “Bac-teer-i-a? What’s ‘at?”

  “The no-see-ums that will make you sick and spoil the food if they’re not gotten rid of.”

  Rowena just widened her eyes, raised her eyebrows, and shook her head with puzzlement.

  The ladies all worked together to carry their jars to the kitchen. They took turns canning the pickles, because not all the jars would fit in the flat-bottomed kettles in one batch. It took about an hour for all the pickles to be complete. Everyone pitched in and cleaned up, and at the end of the afternoon each lady took home their canned pickles.

  Lily felt exhausted but like she had accomplished something worthwhile. The ladies of the town had learned or refreshed their skills at food preservation, and Lily knew from the chatter and laughter of the afternoon that they had had a pleasant time doing it.

  It feels good to make a difference, no matter how small, Lily reflected as she stowed the last jar in her buggy and headed home.

  August 8th, 1916

  Dear Oshki,

  I have news of home which I am reluctant to write about. I cannot hide from the fact of it, because it is etched here in ink before me. Frances has passed away. I cry as I write this. The splotches on the paper are my tears. I cannot describe clearly to you how much that dear woman has meant to me . . . to us all.

  She left peacefully in her sleep yesterday. Thinking back, I noticed she seemed pale at dinner, but she didn’t mention anything. She never liked to be the center of attention. But then Frances always fussed over someone else, not the other way around.

  Frances had been slowing down of late: not as many walks with Maang-ikwe, duties around the house, sewing projects, or playtime with the gir
ls. I figured her entitled to be a bit slower in her eighth decade.

  How horrible it is to say goodbye to those we love. It is a pain beyond bearing, yet we must. As we cared for Frances’s body, Maang-ikwe wept. I had never seen Maang-ikwe cry before. It was like watching a mountain melt. It unnerved me.

  I think of you, my dear son, who must have to greet death often. May God give you the forbearance. How indescribably painful it must be to watch those you have lived with and fought with pass from this life. But I tell you things you already know.

  I wish we could be together as a family to grieve our loss. Your father and I think of you always and start our day with a prayer for you. We will light a candle for you at Frances’s visitation here at home. The internment will be early next week. She will be laid to rest next to her Elmer.

  Missing you dreadfully,

  Gimaamaa—your mother

  Late August 1916

  Western Front

  Near Lille

  Oshki tucked his last letter from home in his rucksack, threw it on his shoulder, grabbed his rifle, and followed the soldier in front of him towards another web of trenches. Part of his company, or what was left of it, were on their way north to beef up the line where an Allied attack was being planned. He and Lenny were the only ones left walking from their small squadron. The rest had been sent home, shipped to a field hospital to recover, or they had died. His mother was right when she told him he had to greet death often.

  Like an unwanted guest come calling, he thought.

  “On our way ta the next paradise.” The soldier ahead of him turned back to Oshki. “Been here long?”

  Oshki eyed the man before him. Golly, he looks like he’s fifteen.

  “Been here mostly since last spring.”

  “Me, I shipped in couple o’ months ago. Been pushed up the line some. Name’s Daithi, by the way. Daithi Sharney. Yers?”

  “Oshki.”

  “What kinda name is ‘at?”

  “I’m Canadian. It’s Ojibwe.” Oshki rolled his eyes, kept walking, and took the lead.

  “Injun, huh?”

  “Anishinaabe, of The First People. My mother was a little less than half. Got some French and English floating around inside too.” Oshki gave the lad another look over. “What kinda name is Daithi?”