by Carol Matas
Le 19 décembre 1760
I have seen them! I have seen my brother and Pìtku speaking together when they went out on an errand today. Their heads were together. It must have been speech.
Le 20 décembre 1760
Not a word from Pìtku, only the same hand signs he and Chegual exchange. Perhaps my imagination overcame me.
Le 21 décembre 1760
When Mme Claire left the room to get more wool, I fear I spied. At least I spied with my ear, which I pressed against the library door. Laughter. I heard the sound of Chegual, Lieutenant Stewart and Andrew softly laughing. And I was certain I heard a fourth sound, one that was light and young, but it was at that moment that Mme returned and made a sound of her own. Get away from that door, you nosy girl, is what the sound meant.
Le 22 décembre 1760
Candles! As soon as one is replaced, it disappears. Has an army of mice and rats invaded our house?
Le 23 décembre 1760
Christmas Eve tomorrow. We are as ready for the festive season as we can be.
Le 24 décembre 1760
Tonight Andrew placed a small candle in every window of the house, explaining that it was Les Écossais’ tradition of Oidche Choinnle, which he has spelled for me. The candles will light the way for the Holy Family this Christmas Eve. They will also light our way home after midnight Mass. Chegual wondered aloud whether the candles might also guide the rats and mice to us, and we all laughed at that.
Chegual and Pìtku will not attend Mass. Instead, they will guard our meal of Cook’s tourtières so that Wigwedi and La Bave do not begin the feast without us.
Le 25 décembre 1760
Le soir
This first day of the Christmas season was a happy one, and I know that the next eleven will grow happier as each day passes. Lieutenant Stewart came to help us celebrate. He and Mme are now Claire and Jonathan to each other in the privacy of this house, and it warms my heart to see the friendship growing between them. As does my friendship with Andrew.
Cook prepared a capon that she stuffed with bread and spices. There were potatoes, of course — always potatoes, which we once considered animal food. With butter and onions they go down very well. And an apple tarte that went perfectly with the cheese Lieutenant Stewart again brought. After the meal, we all sat in the salon to converse.
Not a word from Pìtku, although I saw his eyes closely following each person — particularly Chegual — as they spoke.
Le 26 décembre 1760
La Bave has taken to sleeping with Pìtku, wrapping herself around him like a great, black bear pelt. It made me smile to see them tonight.
Le 27 décembre 1760
Several days ago, Mme received an invitation to attend a dinner party at the residence of Governor Murray in honour of the Christmas season. Lieutenant Stewart will escort her. I was included in the invitation, but I now have a streaming cold, which is quite unseemly. Andrew does not mind the streaming, and so he will keep me — rather, us — company this evening.
I loathe a streaming cold, but I do look forward to an evening with Andrew.
Le 28 décembre 1760
Andrew spoke of slavery last night. Many of his fellow Scots were sold into slavery after the Battle of Culloden. He despises the institution as much as I do, and yet he considers Pìtku to be a fortunate boy. “Until the day he is freed, he has a roof over his head, good women to watch him, an Abenaki warrior to act as his guide, and a fine dog for a companion,” he told me. When I wondered whether Pìtku was happy here, he added, “I am certain of it.”
If only Pìtku could say so.
Le 30 décembre 1760
It is odd how unfamiliar things can become ordinary, how new traditions become your own. Tomorrow night we will celebrate Hogmanay, something we had never heard about before Les Écossais arrived. We must redding the house, cleaning it from top to bottom, something of which Cook approves.
Le 31 décembre 1760
Au point du jour
Lieutenant Stewart was our first-foot visitor, as Les Écossais say. He stepped through our door just after midnight, bearing a bit of coal, a bottle of Scotch whisky, and some cups, shouting “Lang may yer lum reek!” It looks quite odd written here, but the thought is good, for if your fire smokes long, you will be warm and secure.
We served out het pint in the small cups that Andrew calls noggins, the mixture of eggs, hot ale and sugar tasting delicious. In all it was a most pleasant night, what with the sounds of revelry echoing through the town, and the quieter sounds of celebration in our own house.
1761
Le 1er janvier 1761
Mère Esther says that a tale should be told from beginning to end, and therefore I will do that here. So, after Mass, we women spent the day resting in anticipation of yet another evening of festivities. There were gifts to exchange, after all.
When the time finally came, when supper was in our bellies and the crumbs brushed from the tablecloth, Mme and I brought out the packages. Andrew, Chegual and Lieutenant Stewart exclaimed over our knitting. Even little Pìtku seemed pleased, although he only smiled his enjoyment.
Then, nothing.
The men turned to their pipes and sherry, the conversation resumed, and the evening proceeded. Mme seemed unaffected, but inside myself, I could not help but feel some disappointment that no thought had been given to gifts for us. It was followed by a wave of guilt.
I argued with myself about greed, and was winning the argument when Andrew said, “My journal, Geneviève. There is a page I wish to read aloud. Would you please get it for me?” No gift, and now I was being asked to fetch his journal. I grumbled inside myself and kept grumbling until I opened the door of the library.
There on the library table stood a simple crèche. The Holy Mother and St. Joseph leaned over a small manger in which lay the baby Jesus. A cow and a mule stood behind them. So did a rabbit and a large dog.
“It seemed right to add them,” said Andrew, who came into the library with everyone else. And then the mystery was revealed. Pìtku had been charged with gathering all our candles, since Chegual believed the crèche should be made from part of the house. Cook had been assigned the task of planting the idea of mice in my mind. The evenings in the library? Those had been spent melting the wax, shaping it and then carving the figures — Pìtku’s nimble fingers working busily — until each was exactly right. Even La Bave and Wigwedi, who had acted as models, had been part of the plan.
Nothing could have made me happier. But then something did, and my heart swelled with happiness!
“Bonne Année, Geneviève,” said Pìtku slowly and carefully, and how I longed to take him in my arms as Chegual explained. They had not spent all their time playing with wax. Time was given to learning words and to talking, as well.
Gifts. They come in many forms. Friendship, thoughtfulness, and yes, even a few words. There will be more words, and many conversations, but for today, those three were more than enough.
Charlotte and her brother Luke, a soldier serving overseas during World War I, frequently exchange letters. Charlotte fears for his safety, for the worst she can imagine is that Luke will not come home from the war. She’s still a year away from knowing how her own life will be changed when a munitions ship in Halifax Harbour catches fire, causing the largest man-made explosion in history and flattening the city of Halifax.
When War Hits Home
Whitley Camp, England
December 7, 1916
Dear Folks,
Thanks a million for your last letter. It only took 11 days to get here!
This’ll be a proper letter — no more army postcards, I promise — and it could be a long one, so I hope you’re settled by the fire with a pot of tea handy.
We thought our training was over when we left Canada in October, but no sir, we’ve had two months of it here and more to come. Gosh, didn’t we get it right the first time? Parades, inspections, drills, three forced-route marches a week (sometimes at night), shoot
ing practice, bayonet practice, saluting till your arms drop off — but heck, that’s army life. You don’t ask questions, just follow orders.
Don’t know when we’re going to France but sure hope it’s soon. We’re itching to get into the action and do our bit! I know you’re doing yours. Speaking of action, we’re pretty close to the thick of it, what with airplanes and sometimes dirigibles patrolling the coast and big searchlights watching out for enemy aircraft and soldiers at a nearby camp practising on anti-aircraft guns. On a real clear day if we get up high enough, we can see across the Dover Strait to the coast of France.
Sundays we parade to church in the morning and have the afternoons free, unless we’re on “fatigue.” That means “chore.” What Lame Brain thought that up?! Kitchen fatigue is pretty unappetizing, mostly scraping out pots and pans or peeling spuds. Sure we grumble a bit, but heck, it’s all in the game.
Saturday afternoons are free too, and I’ve had some good times in Godalming. I probably told you it’s the closest town to Whitley Camp. The High Street’s busy with Christmas shoppers and the shops are decorated with wreaths, just like at home. You can’t beat the locals, the way they go all out for the soldiers. Free concerts every weekend end with talent from London — the best darn shows I’ve ever seen — and free dances at the YMCA about once a week. Lots of pubs if you want some good grub and a couple of pints. And get this, they have barmaids! Of course there’s always some Brass-Hats on duty making sure the troops don’t have too much of a good time.
Yesterday I was “honoured” to be the stick guard man! You’re wondering, what the heck —? It means I was the best turned-out soldier on morning parade. Got a reward too! I was let off from formal parades and extra duties for 24 hours.
Just 20 minutes to go before my free time runs out, so better sign off. It’s going to be some strange spending Christmas away from home, but we’re all in the same boat over here, and we’ll make things as merry as we can. I’m counting on you to do the same!
There’s nothing beats mail from home, so keep those letters coming, take care of yourselves, and have a Merry Christmas. That’s an order!
Your loving son and brother,
Luke
Monday, December 18, 1916
Dear “Stick Guard” Luke,
We got your letter this morning and had a right good laugh about your new honour! Duncan even made a cardboard cutout of you as a Stick Guard to hang on our Christmas tree. Not on top, in place of the angel, but close enough. Mum says we need the angel watching over you.
I hope you like my army postcard. (I copied the form from the ones you sent, but made up the rest.) I wasn’t going to send anything else, but you know me, I have to write a letter too. We’re all writing to you so you’ll get lots of news.
Mum and Dad are in good spirits, but missing you something terrible. Mum’s not touching the money you send from your pay. She says if the war goes on much longer there might be food rationing and prices will shoot up. Then the extra money will be handy. “It’s for a rainy day,” she says, and when I said, “It’s raining hard enough today,” she told me not to be sassy.
Duncan’s been on Coal Fatigue since the beginning of December, bringing in extra hods of coal so Dad doesn’t have to. He’s thinking of Christmas, our Duncan, and hoping for a pair of skates from Santa, not a lump of coal. He even cut an ad out of the paper, and taped it to the icebox: SALE ON SKATES, 70¢ A PAIR.
I wouldn’t mind a new pair of skates but I’d rather have another Anne book. Anne of Avonlea is the one that comes after Anne of Green Gables, and I’ve read that book three times.
Right now Duncan’s colouring another Stick Man and guess where it’s going? All you need, Luke — another soldier in your hut!
Every night Edith and I play Christmas carols, sometimes as duets. Mum likes to sing along while she’s cleaning up after supper, and excuses me from Kitchen Fatigue. Not Ruth though, and she is some peeved! Yesterday Edith and I made maple fudge for Christmas. You’ll get some in the next parcel. (If there’s any left, ha ha!)
Have you got our Christmas parcel yet? We mailed it on December 8.
Kirsty still runs circles around Duncan and me when we take her for a walk, and her tail never stops wagging. It’s double time on her route marches!
Ruth has probably told you about her starring role in Richmond’s Christmas pageant. She played the part of Daisy with so much wringing of hands — because her sweetheart was sent to the Front — it’s a wonder she has any skin left. I have to admit Ruth was good at the role, especially since Daisy’s sweet character was so unlike her own. Ruth would as soon wring her hands around someone’s neck. Usually mine.
I sang in the choir at the pageant. All my favourite carols except “O Tannenbaum,” because it’s German. Tannenbaum is the only German word in the song, so couldn’t we just change it to “O Christmas Tree?” I asked the director and was scolded for being disloyal to the troops. I felt so guilty I’ve stopped playing that carol at home.
Is it disloyal to have a Christmas tree, since it was a German tradition to begin with? I wonder.
You might have guessed from my postcard that I’m worried about something, and now I’ll tell you what it is. Remember my friend Eva? I’ve always liked going to her place around Christmastime because her family’s Christmas is so different from ours. For one thing, they have an Advent Calendar. Remember the Christmas before the War when Duncan and I made one? The calendar goes from December 1 to 24, and each day has a door with a picture behind it, like a Christmas scene or a symbol. Mum hung it in the kitchen and we took turns opening the little flap “doors” until it was Christmas Day. Remember?
Well last Sunday I had supper at Eva’s. Her mum lit the second red candle on their Advent wreath (one for each Sunday before Christmas) and we sang carols, like “Silent Night.” Mr. Heine accompanied us on the guitar. Then we helped her mum roll out gingerbread dough and made cookies in different shapes to hang on our Christmas trees. I didn’t think I was being disloyal. But the next day at school Deirdre and Muriel came up to me and said they saw me leaving Eva’s house and what was I doing, “socializing with the Enemy?” Didn’t I know Mr. Heine was a traitor and a spy? Didn’t I want to join their Girls Against Fritz Club? I could join the G.A.F., but only if I stopped seeing Eva. If I didn’t, I’d be shunned.
The girls in the Club have meetings, write letters to soldiers and knit socks, like we do in the Junior Red Cross, and have parties. There’s one at Deirdre’s this Friday. They’re not allowed to talk to Germans or shop at Mr. Heine’s store because he sends money to relatives in Germany and they use it to buy weapons so their soldiers can kill ours.
People are always saying we have to do our bit and make sacrifices at home to help win the war. It doesn’t seem like much, giving up butter for margarine and using every scrap of food. (Mum caught me throwing out a stale crust of bread and did I get a lecture.)
Well I’m trying to do my bit, Luke. I knit socks, roll up bandages, fill Christmas stockings and parcels for the soldiers — but I wanted to do more. So after what Deirdre said I decided to make a sacrifice and stop being friends with Eva.
But it was awful seeing Eva across the playground, standing all by herself, watching us. It didn’t feel right, ignoring her like that, and the rest of the week was the same. But now it’s the holidays and I won’t need to see her every day.
The funny thing is, I never thought of Eva as being German. Actually she isn’t, it’s only her dad. He has an accent, but it doesn’t mean anything to me and I never think of him as “Fritz.” Still, it’s true what Deirdre said, Eva has relatives in Germany. She used to show me the presents they sent.
You’re probably wishing I’d sent only the postcard instead of rambling on with my troublesome thoughts, but of course you don’t have to read all this. I just hope you’re proud of me for giving up something important.
On Saturday the dockyard had a Christmas party for the workers’ children. (Ruth f
ancies herself “too sophisticated” and stayed home.) Santa Claus made an appearance and handed out candies, nuts and oranges.
This week we’re setting up our Christmas tree and decorating the house. Duncan’s offered to do your job, hanging the tinsel so it’s straight. Remember how Dad used to clown around and toss it onto the branches in clumps? There’ll be none of that!
Have to go before the Post Office closes. Write soon!
Your sister,
Charlotte
Whitley Camp, England
December 23, 1916
Dear Folks,
A million thanks for the swell Christmas parcel that arrived last week. Did I obey your orders and save it for Christmas Day? Heck, no! The shaving set and stationery are just what I need, and as for the cake, candy, smokes, socks, soap and everything, I couldn’t be happier.
All week we’ve been getting parcels and greetings from home. Talk about luxuries! We must have gotten at least 150 boxes of eatables and have been living mostly on cake and candy! And nuts, chocolate, cookies, canned meats, canned milk, tinned salmon, tins of jam and rounds of cheese. Non-eatables too, like good cigarettes, hankies — the list goes on.
The boys are swell at sharing their grub, except we’re all holding back a few items for when we’re at the Front. I reckon they’ll be a godsend Over There. And I have to tell you, Mum — that big tin box of fruitcake you sent was a hit, moist and tasty, the way it’d be in our own kitchen. It “took the cake” for being the best of the lot. Stiff competition, too! (Must’ve been the extra ration of rum that someone added to the mix, eh, Dad!) You can bet I’ve put some of that aside!
Yesterday I was on Decorating Fatigue and we strung up some wreaths and bits of greenery in the Mess Hut, even decorated a Christmas tree that was donated by the YMCA in Godalming.
Must sign off. Merry Christmas and heaps of love to you all,
