“The big house is too crowded now, Joyce,” she said. “We can’t all fit anymore.”
“But . . . Maybe you can stay in my room! We can play!”
“That’s very kind of you,” Grace said, watching the construction site. Rudi worked side by side with her brothers, his hair almost white in the sun. “But where would Uncle Adam sleep?”
Grace thought of that little complication and her heart leaped. Their own house. Their own room. Their own bed.
Just then, Harry said something that made Eugene guffaw, then Rudi and Norman joined in. The easy, uncomplicated sound squeezed her heart, almost brought tears to her eyes, and she realized what she’d missed most of all during the war was their laughter. Now she had nothing to miss.
The twins had arrived home for the final time just a month before. They’d stepped off the docks along with thousands of other servicemen and headed to the taverns to celebrate the end of the war. Not surprisingly, all the residents of Halifax had wanted to make merry alongside them. As a result, the tram service had shut down for the day, as had all restaurants, taverns, movie theatres, and shops. When faced with the prospect of a party without food or drink, some of the more determined servicemen decided they’d help themselves, and before long the situation had escalated into looting. The next day, Halifax’s already overcrowded streets went mad in what people were now calling the Halifax Riot.
“It was fun for a while, but we’d had enough of most of those fellows,” Harry said when they got home the next day. “Eugene and me dragged Uncle Mick out of the crowd and stayed at his place for the night.”
The celebration carried on after they arrived home, and no one could claim to have had a dry eye that night. Whether the tears came from laughing or crying, they were cleansing.
Since then, every day had felt like a celebration to Grace.
“He can stay with Uncle Tommy,” Joyce suggested, breaking into her reverie.
“I don’t think so, Joyce. But don’t you think it’ll be fun, having a new house to visit? You can help me decorate. I can put your drawings up on the wall, just like Grandmère’s paintings.”
“I’m going to paint one for you tonight!”
“That would be lovely.” She picked up the empty basket, rested it on her hip. “Let’s go visit the new house. Your mom’s up there, see?”
Norman had his arm around Gail’s waist and was whispering something in her ear that made her gasp, then giggle.
“Oh, you are bad, big brother,” Grace teased as she passed him.
He kissed his wife’s cheek. “I do my best.”
Norman had come a long way from two years before, though the memories still came and went. She saw the panic in his eyes sometimes, saw his hands shake uncontrollably when he heard a sudden sound, but he was learning how to fight back. Gail was stronger now as well, and she was helping him every step of the way.
“Even I know this meaning of bad is good,” Rudi said with a smirk.
She arched an eyebrow. “Yes, and you, birthday boy,” she said curtly, “are very bad.”
He bowed, pleased.
“I have something I’d like to show you,” she said. “Could you take a few minutes?”
Eugene pushed the brim of his hat up with his hammer and plucked a cigarette out of his mouth. “Lesson number one,” he said, blowing out a stream of smoke. “If your fiancée wants you to take a few minutes out of building her house, you’d better go.”
Laughing at Eugene’s suggestion, Rudi took Grace’s hand, and she led him to her parents’ house. He was still living at Norman’s place, but all that would soon change. For now she had to settle for goodnight kisses, but those were wonderful and always full of promise.
“What is this, my almost wife?”
“Oh, it’s nothing, really,” she said as they walked, though her heart sang with excitement. For his birthday she’d wanted to give him a gift that reflected how much she loved him, how much she respected his past as well as their future. “It’s just a birthday present. I hope you like it.”
Long before, Rudi had said music was his passion—at least until Grace had come along. He sang when he worked, hummed when they walked, and he had big plans of one day taking her to an opera. She’d started thinking how wonderful it would be for him to have more music in his life again, and just for fun she began perusing catalogues whenever they arrived at the store.
She’d taken the leap and special ordered a fancy Philco console, and now it stood in the middle of her parents’ sitting room in a temporary place of honour, three feet wide and three feet tall, its dark wood finish polished to a shine. Even Linda—who had been forced to give Rudi the benefit of the doubt since he refused to go away—had grudgingly approved. The console was a bit dear, but Mrs. Gardner had left Grace the general store just as she’d promised, and being the owner of a small but successful shop made it easier for Grace to pay for things over time. She didn’t regret a single cent of interest.
On the table beside the console she had set out Verdi’s Rigoletto and some records her brothers had suggested. On top of the console sat the sweet ladybug he had carved for her so long ago.
She stood beside him, her hands clenched in anticipation while Rudi stared at the console, blinking but not speaking. Then he stepped closer and placed his hands on the smooth wood. Still he said nothing. He picked up the opera record, read the words printed on the case, and she waited in suspense.
“I hope that’s the right record,” she blurted. “The Philco, well, it . . . it plays records and the radio, so you can listen to whatever you want.”
He put the record down and turned to her, and she saw tears in his eyes. “Grace, I . . . This is best—”
“Eesh leebe deesh,” she exclaimed, her eyes brimming. She hoped she’d said it right and didn’t sound as awkward as she felt. She’d practised in front of the mirror so many times.
“I love you too, Grace.” He pulled her into his arms and held her tight against him, resting his cheek on top of her head. “You are my love. You are my music.”
He had the turntable spinning in no time at all, and he selected the Bing Crosby record Norman had recommended. He held out a hand and she went to him as she had so long before, in that crowded hall shimmering with red and gold. His arm wrapped around her waist and her hand went to his shoulder, then a little past, so her fingertips brushed the smooth, warm skin of his neck. The violins played the opening notes, and Rudi led her around the room, his lips at her ear.
“Do you remember the first dance?” he asked.
She snuggled closer. “Of course.”
“You are all I see that night,” he murmured. “Everyone is dancing and talking, but I see only you. We have rules; U-boat men cannot talk to people at dance. But I cannot stay away.” He kissed the side of her neck. “You were like a dream.”
His warm hand was firm on the base of her spine, and when they whirled across the floor she felt like she was flying, careless and free. From somewhere on earth an orchestra serenaded them and a man crooned beautiful words.
“ ‘I love you,’ ” Rudi sang, his voice sweeter than Bing’s could ever be.
She closed her eyes, listened to every one of his syllables as if she’d never heard the song before. He didn’t know all the words, but she liked his version better.
Afterword
U-69 was indeed the U-boat responsible for the heinous and tragic sinking of the SS Caribou, the doomed Newfoundland Railway passenger ferry. At 3:51 a.m. on October 14, 1942, U-69’s Kapitänleutnant Gräf ordered the SS Caribou to be torpedoed approximately thirty-seven kilometres (twenty nautical miles) southwest of Channel-Port aux Basques, Newfoundland. Most of the 137 who died were women and children.
U-69 was later sunk in the North Atlantic, but it did not happen off Nova Scotia as I wrote in this story. On February 17, 1943, the U-boat attacked an Allied convoy, but depth charges forced her to the surface. Somewhere in the middle of the North Atlantic, the destroyer
HMS Fame fatally rammed and sank U-69. None of her forty-six crewmembers survived.
Who were the men in that crew? Could they possibly have been the mysterious, but very real Germans who arrived at the dance that night? We will never know.
Acknowledgements
Every story has a starting point, and Come from Away came from my readers. After Tides of Honour, I received a lot of messages asking what happened to Danny and Audrey and the rest of the Baker family. It got me wondering, too.
My husband and I live on the Eastern Shore of Nova Scotia. It’s a long, quiet stretch of coastline with rocky fingers of land reaching into the Atlantic. Houses are scattered; some have neighbours, some don’t. Lobster traps pile up during the off-season, and when the ice is thick enough, stubborn fishermen will cut holes through it and try to tempt smelt. Our little town has a library, a gym, a post office, a bank, a bakery, a railway museum, a high school, and a couple of pizza joint–convenience stores that are right across the street from each other, competing for a really tiny customer base. This summer we got our first food truck down at the beach, so that was new.
Seventy-five-plus years ago, the Eastern Shore of Nova Scotia was a long, quiet stretch of coastline with rocky fingers of land reaching into the Atlantic. Houses were scattered, but family members tended to settle near one another. They had a railway station, lumber camps, a fish plant, a school, and general stores. Switchboards and post offices were operated out of homes. Electricity was new.
We moved here in 2008. We came here knowing no one, but we were excited about the move. We made some great friends, we had a lot of fun, we learned a lot, and we are happy in our new home. (We even got chickens!) Not bad for a couple of “come from aways.” That’s the term traditionally used for anyone who wasn’t born here. To some it’s considered derogatory, but I don’t see it that way. It’s just a fact. We chose to come from away, we were welcomed, and we chose to stay. Rudi’s situation was more complicated, but I knew all would end up well. Nova Scotians have warm, welcoming hearts.
Memory Lane Heritage Village, just up the highway from me, is host to the Eastern Shore Archives, which is full of prime examples of warm-hearted people. My friend Linda Fahie told me I’d be welcomed up there if I ever wanted to know about our area’s history, and she was right. The last time I was there, I met her, along with her fellow volunteers Christine Mitchell, Pearl Turner, Bernadette Monk, Ruby Webber, and Memory Lane’s executive director, Thea Wilson-Hammond. I settled in comfortably, archive-approved pencil in hand, while they told me stories they recalled from long ago. That’s when the subject of skulking U-boats was raised, and that’s when I heard the unlikely tale of a few U-boat sailors disembarking in one of our deep harbours and joining a community dance. The moment I heard that—after they convinced me it was true—I knew where the story would come from. Sweet Linda is always receiving unexpected messages from me, asking random questions about our history, and she’s been so kind with her time and knowledge that I gave her a part in this book, but I need everyone to know that the real Linda isn’t like this one. Rudi would have been safe with my friend.
Research opportunities surface—hang on and you’ll see why I’m using that word—in the most incredible places. Just as I was researching U-boats, I discovered that my daughter’s boyfriend’s father, Petty Officer Second Class Ben Towns, had been a submariner. “Ah!” I thought, “I can ask him all about it!” but he went one step further. I would like to thank Ben for the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to tour the HMCS Windsor (submarine) while it was docked at Halifax Harbour. The experience gave me great insight into what it might be like to live under the sea for months at a time . . . and it made me extremely grateful I’ve never had to do that!
And while we’re on the subject of harvesting friends (does that work?), I met Birgit Peterson online while playing Hay Day! She’s originally from Germany, and she said that if I ever needed help with German translations, I should ask her. So I did. I told her Rudi knew some English and was trying to learn as he went along, and I asked her to remember back twenty-five years to when she was just learning English. Would she have spoken in this way? Would she have used this word or that? She cheerfully took on the challenge, and now Rudi sounds like he knows what he’s doing (in my opinion). Thanks, Birgit!
This year has been wonderful for me. Tides of Honour and Promises to Keep hit The Globe and Mail’s bestseller list, and Audible.com produced them both as audiobooks. I have been interviewed by newspapers, radio stations, and in the Costco Connection, I have spoken on panels and on my own at places like the Toronto Public Library, the Halifax Word on the Street festival, and many book clubs (in person and online). These opportunities might never have come if not for the wonderful team backing me up at Simon & Schuster Canada—in particular, Rita Silva, publicity manager. Rita keeps an experienced eye on everything that’s happening, and has made sure my name is known among literary folks. She takes great care of me.
A while ago, I made a choice to focus my writing on Canadian history, to bring back our country’s stories in a way that would not only educate but also compel readers to learn more about our past. My editors, Nita Pronovost and Sarah St. Pierre, and Simon & Schuster Canada’s president, Kevin Hanson, have encouraged me to seek out these stories, and through their editorial expertise I have learned and grown a great deal as an author. My books would not be what they are without my team’s insightful, generous guidance. My talented cover artist, Elizabeth Whitehead, has gone to great lengths to research and find exactly what my stories need for eye-catching and effective covers. I am extremely fortunate to enjoy a wonderful partnership with the beautiful Sarah St. Pierre, whose keen observations and intuition constantly show me new, amazing ways to look at what I’m doing. She inspires me to do better, and I am so lucky to be able to call her my friend. Sarah, I think you’re gonna love the next adventure . . .
Jacques de Spoelberch, my literary agent extraordinaire, has been steadfast and determined with his support for me ever since we first joined forces back in 2010. I rely on him, I trust him wholeheartedly, and I thank him so much for everything he’s done for me.
Most of all, I want to thank my readers. Of all the millions of books out there, you chose to pick up one (or more) of mine, and that means the world to me. If you’ve written me an email or a message or a letter, know that I was thrilled to hear from you. And if you’ve written a review on a site like Amazon, Chapters, or Goodreads, please know that I am extremely grateful. Those reviews really do help readers find new authors.
Of course, no book of mine would ever be written without the support of my family.
I want to thank my mother for always being there for me, and for being my biggest promoter no matter where she goes. I headed out to Calgary and the Crowsnest Pass to research my next novel, and as always she made sure I got everything I needed, including hugs. Thanks, Mom.
This summer our daughters, Emily and Piper, moved out of our house and are both attending Dalhousie University. It’s strange not having them here, and it tore me apart to watch them go. But we’re fortunate; it’s not like we’re Audrey and Danny, sending our children off to war, wondering if they will ever return. I cannot imagine the agony military parents experience as they send their grown children off. The world can be a sort of battlefield sometimes, and I guess the best we can do is give our children the tools and skills to defend themselves and get the job done. My husband and I are so incredibly proud of who our daughters are and who they are becoming.
And finally . . . More than once I’ve threatened to put my husband’s name on the front cover of my books beside mine. Without him I would most likely have had to take advanced courses in engine repair, mechanics, hunting, trapping, fishing, farming, guns, boating, and map reading (“How can you write historical fiction and not know how to read maps?!”), among other things. Even if I had, my translation of them still wouldn’t be as clear as it is after he explains things to me. He gets how my brain works,
which makes life much easier. Dwayne is the first person to read any of my books—before my agent, before my editor, before anyone, and he tells me exactly what he thinks every time. I value every one of his comments, questions, and guffaws. If he isn’t moved to tears (“It’s just allergies!”) by the third or fourth chapter, the manuscript is politely returned to sender. And that’s really great.
I’m a come from away. I grew up in Toronto, lived almost twenty years in Calgary, lived a little while in New York, and I have visited beautiful places all around the world. Now that Dwayne and I are empty nesters, we plan to travel a lot more. This life is new, and it’s exciting, but no matter where I go, I’ll always be at home . . . as long as I’m with him.
Simon & Schuster Canada Reading Group Guide
* * *
COME
from
AWAY
Genevieve Graham
QUESTIONS FOR BOOK CLUBS
1. In the mid-1930s, memories of the First World War and the devastating Halifax Explosion were not far from the hearts and minds of Nova Scotians like Danny and Audrey Baker. How does their past experience influence their reaction to each of their sons’ enlisting?
2. Grace worries that she’s not contributing enough to the war effort, but her father reassures her that everything she does helps in some way. What are some examples of how Grace contributes, indirectly or otherwise?
3. Grace describes herself as wearing a mask around those she loves. Do you think this pressure to be cheerful and happy all the time comes from others or from herself?
4. In the novel we learn that German U-boats were patrolling Canada’s eastern shores during the Second World War. Did you know this before reading Come from Away? Did it change your understanding of the lives of those on the home front?
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