Bleak Landing

by Terrie Todd

  I couldn’t help grinning as I pulled out of her embrace and stepped up into the bus. “Right about now,” I called over my shoulder, “I’d say he can have you!”

  I waved to Maxine through the window as my bus pulled away. On the short ride home, my thoughts turned to Victor Harrison. I tried to picture him in a soldier’s uniform, but my memory of the skinny kid with straw for hair just didn’t fit. I wondered what he’d thought when he saw me in the lobby. Was I easy to recognize? Did he still see me as the gawky little carrot he’d always called me? I was glad I was wearing the quality woolen coat Miss Caroline had passed along to me. It was a gorgeous shade of cobalt blue and fit me even better than it had fit her. I brushed the thought aside. Did it matter what Victor Harrison thought?

  I wondered how his mother was handling her son going off to war. It was not the first time Mrs. Harrison had crossed my mind since I left Bleak Landing, although I supposed she had forgotten me long ago.

  As I approached the Weinbergers’ house on my way back from the bus stop, I looked forward to seeing Miss Caroline again. She’d become almost a friend to me—as much of a friend as she could be, given the nature of our relationship—and had confided that she was anticipating a marriage proposal from her beau, Captain Rodney Phillips. I expected I’d be coming back to exciting news on that front.

  As I approached the house, though, an ominous feeling nudged out my optimism. I slowed my pace. What was different? The sky was overcast and daylight was waning on this late afternoon, yet no lights appeared through the windows. Though the Weinbergers didn’t celebrate Christmas, their home typically gave off a warm and welcoming glow all its own through the winter. Now it stood quiet and gray, looking almost deserted. The front walk had not been shoveled, though several sets of footprints had mashed the snow down in spots.

  I thought of the horrible stories I’d read about Jewish families being forced from their homes in Europe, gathered into ghettos, their belongings taken by the Nazis. For one brief moment, I wondered if the same thing had begun here in Canada. When I stepped in through the side door, the kitchen was empty, and I smelled none of the appetizing aromas that had always been present before. I climbed the servants’ stairs and noticed the door to Mrs. Cohen’s room was ajar. I rapped lightly on it.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s me, Mrs. Cohen. Bridget.” I pushed the door open and saw her seated at her desk, writing.

  “Oh, Bridget. Good. You’re back. Come in.” I set my bag down in the hallway and entered her room.

  “What’s happened, Mrs. Cohen?”

  She waved toward her bed, and I sat on the edge, unbuttoning my coat.

  “I’m afraid the family’s received some crushing news. A telegram came December twenty-fourth. Carlton is missing in action.”

  Chapter 21

  March 1941

  Spring was approaching, but the Weinberger household showed little sign of life. There had been no word about Carlton, and with every passing day, the likelihood of his death increased. Mrs. Weinberger rarely emerged from her bedroom, while Mr. Weinberger seldom came home from work. The house was draped in sadness: no music played, no parties were hosted, no meals were served in the dining room. Occasionally Rabbi Nebowitz stopped by to check on the family. Sometimes Mrs. Weinberger would agree to see him, and other times she refused.

  I didn’t know what to do, so I just kept working on my studies. Miss Caroline hardly needed my services. She had no social life to speak of and chose to spend her days writing letters to the Department of National War Services in an attempt to find information about her brother. This led to her involvement in volunteer efforts that were cropping up all over the city. I accompanied her on these trips. We joined other women in organizing salvage drives and preparing packages for the military. Before long, this became a full-time occupation. We spent long days working shoulder to shoulder, bundling up clothing, bedding, bandages, and other hospital supplies to ship overseas. On more enjoyable occasions, we assembled care packages for the soldiers. We packed together things like coffee, tea, sugar, milk powder, dried fruit, canned meat and fish, jam, chocolate, and soap. Most of the packages would go to prisoners of war. Miss Caroline confided to me that she imagined each one she packed ending up in her brother’s hands, sustaining him through whatever hardships he faced.

  Working side by side like this quickly changed the essence of our relationship. Caroline no longer stood out in a crowd, and she seemed to prefer it that way. She was just one of many women committed to helping us all survive the war in whatever way we could. Prime Minister King had assured us through his radio messages that the roles each person played made an important difference. The government was urging women to seek employment. We were needed to fill the holes left in the workforce and take on new positions created to provide munitions, uniforms, and other supplies for the war effort. It was as if our lives suddenly had a new and completely different focus. I’d never seen people rally together like this before.

  Suddenly, it seemed our country was wealthy. Everyone who wanted to work could. Sure, the government had set limits on wages and restrictions on changing jobs. It also encouraged workers to put their money into Victory Loans and savings programs. Shortages and rationing of food and other products increased. But what a difference from the awful Depression-hounded dirty thirties! If it weren’t for the awful realities of the war and the frequency with which families received those terrible telegrams—as well as the constant dread felt by those who feared they would—it might have been the most exciting time to be alive.

  Miss Caroline took to eating with me and the rest of the staff in the kitchen rather than dining alone. Her parents were too distracted to notice, or if they did, they hadn’t the energy to stop it. Perhaps their loss had made them realize the futility of maintaining class separation. Or maybe they simply understood that their daughter needed things they couldn’t give her—like friendship.

  At the end of a long day at the Red Cross volunteer center, the two of us arrived home hungry for whatever we had smelled as we walked up the sidewalk and through the front door. The day’s mail lay on the hall table, and Caroline sifted through it as I hung up our coats.

  “You’ve got a letter, Bridget,” she said, her eyebrows raised. “And not from Maxine.”

  I took the letter from her hand. Had Victor Harrison written after all? Wouldn’t Maxine just relish this chance to say I told you so? But when I looked at the return address, I was even more surprised. Written in the corner was “Ingrid Harrison, Bleak Landing, Manitoba.”

  Victor’s mother had written to me?

  Preferring to read it in private, I hung on to the letter until we’d eaten our supper and Caroline had assured me she could draw her own bath. In my room at last, I sat on the bed and opened Mrs. Harrison’s envelope. The letter was short, but it sounded so like the woman I remembered that I could almost hear her voice:

  Dear Bridget,

  I do hope it’s okay that I’m writing you. We’ve received our first letter from Victor, who I’m sure you know by now spotted you at the train station and acquired your address from your friend. He wrote from England and as far as I know, he is still there. Although disappointed that he didn’t get the chance to speak with you, he was immensely relieved to see that you are alive and well. I am so pleased, Bridget. This community has all but given you up for dead, I’m afraid. I’m writing to ask you two things.

  The first is on Victor’s behalf. He would like to write to you and would love to have you write to him as well. May I tell him that would be all right?

  Secondly, may I please tell your father you are alive and well? I won’t reveal your whereabouts if you ask me not to, but Bridget, no parent should have to endure the anguish of not knowing whether their child is dead or alive. I know I couldn’t bear it, and I would gladly ease your father’s pain if I could. It’s clear that up until now you have not wanted him to know you’re alive or you would have contacted him, so if you wish to k
eep this secret, I will respect your wishes. But perhaps you simply don’t realize how dreadful a thing this not knowing is. One day, if God grants you children, you will understand.

  I ask this for the good of your father only. He is not well, Bridget. I hope that you can find it in your heart to contact him, or at the very least let me know that I can, on your behalf. I do hope Victor’s conclusion that you are well is indeed the case. I would dearly love to hear from you.

  Sincerely,

  Ingrid Harrison

  P.S. I don’t know whether you’re aware that Bruce Nilsen also lives in Winnipeg. He is completing his law degree at the university. Perhaps the two of you could travel together should you ever wish to come visit. You’d be most welcome in our home if you prefer to stay here. I will try to track down Bruce’s address or telephone number for you if you like. He returns to Bleak Landing infrequently—but more often since his father passed away.

  I dropped the letter to the floor. Bruce’s father passed away?

  My hands began to shake, and I felt heat rising from my body to my face. When I closed my eyes, I pictured Lars Nilsen’s sickening grin as he took my mother’s locket from my hand and tucked it inside his jacket. Stifling the urge to roar out my rage, I stomped out into the hallway, leaving my door open wide. I clattered down the servants’ stairway to the kitchen and marched straight out the back door without a coat. A pile of split firewood was stacked against the garage, for use in the household fireplaces. I picked up one of the pieces, gripped it tightly, and began flogging the backyard trees with all my might, yelling and crying and not caring who heard me.

  How dare he die? How dare he take the only piece of my mother I had and then die?

  How dare his son blissfully go to law school when the whole world is turned upside down?

  How dare Victor Harrison tell his mother where I am?

  How dare Maxine give Victor my address?

  How dare Mrs. Harrison assume I would ever want to return to that stupid, worthless town or care whether my father died of a broken heart? He broke mine more times than I could count!

  How dare my mother die and leave me with that miserable wretch of a man?

  And where was God in it all? How dare he call himself a king and a good father when he couldn’t even keep track of one little locket belonging to a lonely girl from a stupid, stupid little town called Bleak Landing?

  Chapter 22

  I have no idea how many times I hit that tree with the firewood or how many bad words I used in the process. But once my anger was spent, I hurled the wood as far as I could with one last cry of pain and crumpled to the still-frozen ground, sobbing. I knew I should feel cold, but I couldn’t seem to even move from my spot. Nor could I stop bawling. All at once, every tear I’d never shed throughout my childhood rose to my eyes. Every time I thought I was starting to catch my breath, I pictured my mother’s lifeless body stretched out on that tiny bunk in our ship’s cabin. And when I’d howled out my pain over that, I remembered the sting of my father’s willow switch on my backside and legs. I heard his voice as he told me he wished I’d died instead. I recalled his reminders that I was headed for hell. And I remembered that he’d gambled away my honor in a card game.

  My violent outburst frightened me more than anything. I was no different than Pa.

  “Bridget.”

  At the sound of my name, I became aware of my surroundings again, and my wails turned to sobs. Mrs. Cohen crouched beside me. How long had she been watching?

  “Whatever is the matter, dear? I know you’ve had a letter. Have you lost someone in this dreadful war?”

  I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. In the darkness, I saw another form running toward me and finally recognized it as Rob, one of the yard boys. He was probably the one who’d split the wood I’d used to beat on the tree.

  “What’s all the commotion?” he asked. “I was sound asleep when I heard someone yellin’ and carryin’ on.”

  “Rob, help me get Bridget into the house,” Mrs. Cohen said. “Listen to me, darlin’. Your hands are bleeding and you’re freezing. You need to come inside.”

  I allowed her and Rob to support me on either side and pull me to my feet, feeling like the biggest idiot of all time. After we walked through the door, they lowered me into a chair. Suddenly I could feel the sting in my hands. Mrs. Cohen got me to hold them out, palms up.

  “Good gracious, girl. What have you done?”

  I stared at my splintered and bleeding hands. What had I done? I’d never had an episode like that in my life. I’d never even cried before, not since I was little, anyway. What was wrong with me? It was that stupid letter, that’s what it was.

  “We’ve got to clean this before we can pull out the splinters,” Mrs. Cohen said. “Can you come over to the sink?”

  I followed her in silence and she gently ran warm water over my hands. “Fetch Miss Caroline, Rob,” she said over her shoulder.

  I wanted to protest but didn’t have the energy. I was back on the chair and Mrs. Cohen was pulling slivers from my right hand with a pair of tweezers when Rob returned with Caroline.

  “We can handle it from here, Rob,” Mrs. Cohen said. Rob took one last look at my face and left the kitchen, still wearing a look of bewilderment.

  “What’s happened, Bridget?” Caroline took the warm washcloth Mrs. Cohen handed her and dabbed at my face.

  I turned my head away. “I’m all right. I can wash my own face. I just—a little help with my hands and I’ll be fine. I’m sorry for disturbing everyone. Really. I’m so sorry. A good sleep, that’s all I need. A hot bath and a good sleep.”

  Mrs. Cohen and Caroline looked at each other. Mrs. Cohen applied ointment to my hands. “The bleeding has stopped. I think you might be better off without bandages overnight. Let the air get to these scratches and cuts. We can check again in the morning to see if I’ve missed any slivers. We don’t want anything to fester.”

  Caroline followed me up the servants’ stairs and into my room, closing the door behind her. I picked Mrs. Harrison’s letter up off the floor, crumpled it, and hurled it into a wastebasket. I sat on my bed and noticed the envelope still lying there. I picked it up and stared at the return address. Bleak Landing indeed.

  Caroline watched me from a chair in the corner. “Want to tell me what that letter said?”

  I felt so embarrassed by my behavior that I wanted to disappear. “Really, it’s nothing.”

  “Has someone died?” Caroline asked softly as she took a seat on the chair.

  I didn’t know what I should tell her. “Well . . . yes. Someone died. But not someone I was ever close to. And not even recently. I don’t know why I reacted like that. Really, I’ll be fine.”

  She waited patiently for more, but that was all I was prepared to divulge. “Perhaps you’re overtired. I know you’ve been burning the candle at both ends, volunteering with me all day and working on your studies at night.” She stood and moved toward the door. “I’m leaving instructions that you’re not to be disturbed in the morning. Sleep as long as you need to.”

  She gave me one more concerned look and quietly left the room. I glanced over at the wadded letter in my wastebasket before I went down the hall for a bath. When I returned, dressed in my robe, I pulled the letter out and without rereading it folded it and stuffed it back into its envelope. I shoved it into a dresser drawer, turned off the light, and went to sleep.

  The next thing I remember, daylight was penetrating my consciousness. I squinted into the unusually bright March sunlight. My head and hands hurt. I wondered if this was what a hangover felt like. The memory of the previous night’s breakdown flooded my mind, along with a distressing wash of humiliation. What had I done?

  “Good morning, Bridge.”

  I just about jumped out of my skin.

  I looked over and saw Maxine sitting on my chair, reading a book. “Maxine! What on earth are you doing here?” I wondered if I was still dreaming, but my croaky morning voice tol
d me I was awake.

  “Got instructions from Mr. Weinberger early this morning to come directly here—in his chauffeured car, no less—and to report straight to Miss Caroline. She told me you’d had a bit of a to-do last night and thought it best that I wait in your room in case you need someone to talk to. What’s going on, Bridge?” She gasped. “Look at your hands!”

  I forced myself to look. My palms appeared as bad as they felt—raw, puffy, and all scratched up.

  “You should see the other guy,” I muttered, pushing myself up and swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “I’m fine, really. This whole thing is just silly. What time is it?”

  “Nearly ten. And it’s not silly. What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on is, I got a little exhausted and blew some things out of proportion. Now I’ve slept, and as soon as I go to the loo, get dressed, and eat a bite, I’ll be right as rain.”

  She stared at me.

  “What?” I said.

  “Bridget. Look . . . at . . . your . . . hands.”

  “I did! They’ll be fine.” This was getting annoying. “Go back to work, Max.”

  I grabbed my robe with a wince and wandered off down the hallway. But when I returned, Maxine was still there, laying out my navy skirt and a flowered blouse.

  “This should be a good outfit for today,” she announced. “I love this color on you, and the flowers are cheerful. Now, what do we need for undies?” She moved to my dresser and opened the top drawer before I could intervene. Sure enough, Mrs. Harrison’s letter was the first thing to catch her eye, and she pulled it out.

  “Give me that.” I moved toward it and held out one of my sore hands. She did as I asked, but not before she’d read the envelope. I guess she figured I was in no mood for a wrestling match. I stuffed the letter under my pillow and got dressed, in a different outfit than the one Maxine had chosen.