All We Left Behind

by Danielle R. Graham

  The soldiers who guarded me on the train gawked with odd expressions, as if I had shouted out. Obviously I had. They said something stern sounding in German to each other, then went back to playing cards. I couldn’t sleep after that, so the rest of the three-train journey was torturously long. It would have been less arduous if Gordie had been there for companionship.

  I had grown accustomed to going through everything with Gordie, good and bad – travelling through foreign cities, fighting in air-battle victories, and coping with the downsides of war. When he and I had first arrived in Italy we mostly patrolled over the Nile and didn’t see much action until the Allies invaded Sicily. Our flying days, which had initially been peaceful, bordering on boring, switched abruptly to daily life-or-death mêlées. After a heavy dogfight one afternoon, Gordie and I sat in the shade under an olive tree near the mess hall. We were both feeling down because we’d lost one pilot when his Spitfire had collided with a Messerschmitt.

  I threw stones at a tree stump. ‘I’m sort of getting used to shooting down the enemy, because if I don’t shoot them down they’ll kill me, but I can’t get used to losing one of our own.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Gordie rolled his sleeves up and rested his head back against the tree trunk. ‘Thomas sat with me this morning at breakfast and told me a joke right before we went up. I can’t erase his stupid laughing face outta my mind.’ Gordie also threw stones at the same stump I was aiming at. ‘They already cleaned out his kit from the dorm. His towel was still wet from his morning shower.’

  That was one of the many disconcerting things about death. The person was gone but evidence of their existence still remained. And one thing the war had plenty of was disconcerting death. ‘I hope I don’t go down. That might sound selfish, but I sure as hell don’t want to die.’

  ‘Nobody does, except maybe those crazy Japs.’ Gordie glanced at me as he pressed a toothpick between his lips. ‘No offence to your girl. I meant those suicidal kamikaze pilots we’ve been hearing about.’

  I nodded to acknowledge his intent and pulled up clumps of grass.

  ‘Churchill said on the radio that we are in the presence of a crime without a name and that scores of thousands have been executed in cold blood. Do you think it’s true that Hitler’s army is murdering all those Jews?’

  I nodded again since I had already witnessed the mistreatment of tens of thousands of innocent people by their own government. There was no doubt in my mind that a dictator could be capable of worse evils. ‘I heard it’s closer to a million people.’

  ‘It can’t be a million.’ Gordie thought about it for a spell and then shook his head in disbelief. ‘There ain’t no way to logistically exterminate that many people. The reports must be false. I’ll believe it when I see it.’

  I tossed more stones as I thought about everything that had already happened on Canadian soil. I slipped the photo of Chidori out of the lining of my serge and stared at it.

  Gordie threw an olive at my boot to get my attention. ‘Look, I know we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot, but we’re in this mess together and I’ve always got your back.’ He extended his arm out. ‘You can count on that.’

  I leaned over and shook his hand. ‘Yeah. I’ve got your back, too.’

  He nodded and we both sat quietly, comforted by the comradery. After a good while, he said, ‘You know, when you two have a kid, I bet it will look like your girl, but have hair like yours. Could you imagine a Japanese person with blond hair?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t care how they look. I just want to find her and have a family with her one day.’

  The post bell rang. I’d been especially homesick and longing to receive a letter, so I got to my feet and slid the photo back into my chest pocket. Gordie stood and stretched his arms above his head. ‘I want a boy who looks like me and a girl who looks like my wife.’

  ‘Let’s just hope you don’t get a girl who looks like you,’ I joked and shuddered in mock horror.

  ‘Yeah, let’s hope.’ He laughed and joined me to walk back to the barracks to read our mail.

  The prisoner transport train stopped at the final destination of a whistle-stop Hungarian town. I stepped onto the platform, handcuffed and nauseously apprehensive of what came next.

  As it turned out we hadn’t arrived at the POW camp yet, and the guards from the train didn’t speak enough English to ask them when I would be transported there or what this stop was for. They escorted me to a stone building blackened with soot. It had served as a blacksmith’s shop and stable at some point in its long history. The Nazis were using it as a detention cooler for prisoners and the horse stalls, which were already fitted with iron bars, served as makeshift cells.

  The commanding officer was a large, fearsome man in a button-strained uniform who tied my ankles to a chair and demanded in accented English that I divulge information about my sorties and the personnel in charge. I was trained not to say anything other than my name and rank so I just sat there.

  ‘Something terrible happened to your sister?’ he asked casually after it had turned to night outside.

  That got my full attention.

  I lifted my chin to meet his glare, not sure how he knew about Rosalyn. Maybe I had been talking in my sleep in front of the guards on the train, or they had rummaged through my pocket and read the letter from my father.

  He methodically cracked his knuckles as he paced back and forth in front of me. ‘A shame, your sister. Could have been prevented, no?’

  I refused to respond, but my fingernails carved into the wood seat of the folding chair.

  He smirked slightly and lit a cigarette before he continued, ‘A letter of such news must make pain, yes?’ He inhaled the smoke slowly, then blew it in my face. ‘Your family will receive news you are my prisoner. They will feel suffering too, no?’

  I scowled at him without blinking.

  ‘You feel blame you weren’t there to save your sister, yes?’

  ‘Go to hell!’ I shouted as I lunged towards him. My ankles were bound to the chair, so the best I could manage was to dig my fingers into the flesh of his neck, strangling him. The cigarette dropped out of the side of his mouth as he choked for air. His hands swiped at my arms ineffectively. I was about to rip his face off when the other two soldiers grabbed my clothes and yanked me back.

  I was thrown with the still-attached chair against the wall, then they proceeded to punch me until I stopped struggling, coughed out blood, and collapsed. The CO tried again to goad me with snide remarks about Rose, but I already regretted my outburst. It was idiotic to give him a reason to kill me. He didn’t deserve the satisfaction. In return for my silence, they resumed the beating until they exhausted themselves. I lay on the cobblestone of the stable ground, bleeding, while the English-speaking officer went out, probably to stuff his ugly face. Death would have been less painful and possibly preferable if it weren’t for how my loved ones would receive the news.

  Several hours passed as I slipped in and out of consciousness. When the officer finally returned, he righted my chair, sat down across from me, loosened his belt and asked me more questions. I didn’t answer, so he got fed up and ordered them to beat me again. I was lucky they didn’t shoot me, which isn’t the same as being lucky to be alive. Inga would have been aghast to see my condition after all the work she had done to put me back together the first time.

  Blood poured profusely from a cut above my eye, so they cut my ankles free from the chair and threw me in the horse-stall cell. I crawled onto the burlap-and-straw mattress to curl up on my side, then watched the blood from my nose create a stain that spread across the fabric. The barred window near the ceiling allowed for air but didn’t lessen the smell of horse manure. It reminded me of the time I had slept in our barn back home. Rosalyn had a sick foal and refused to leave its side. Mother had asked me to convince Rose to come inside the house, but she refused to abandon the horse while it was in pain. The only thing I could do was stay by her side the whole night
as the foal died. Maybe Gordie was right when he said it wouldn’t have made a difference if I had been home and had a chance to talk to Rose. If she had her mind already made up, there was probably no changing it. But I sure wish I could have had the chance to try.

  Ten days passed and the guards never let me out of the Hungarian horse-stall jail cell, not even to stretch my legs. And they rarely emptied the feed bucket that I had to use as a chamber pot. There were no other prisoners, only me. I was fed once a day, usually a broth that had no flavour. I wasn’t given anything to read or write with, which did something terrible to my mind. And my eyebrow needed stitches. They didn’t provide medical care, so the wound kept reopening.

  Once the bruising along my ribs became less painful, I performed push-ups and sit-ups on the stall floor, hoping to stay strong and alert. Unfortunately, the exercise only made me feel more caged and trapped. I attempted to sing and whistle to pass the time, but with only one glass of tepid, dirty water a day, I couldn’t spare the saliva. I tapped out a swing beat on the bars for hours at a time, but it got old after a while. I told jokes to myself like a mad person, and when I started to laugh hysterically at the punchlines, I knew I was in trouble.

  The sun angled in the barred window near the ceiling and created different patterns on the wall throughout the day. I was somewhat comforted by the thought that the same sun shone on Mayne Island. I convinced myself the geometric designs on the cinder block were replicas of ones I’d see if I were at home with Chidori in her music solarium. If I concentrated with tremendous effort I could almost hear her play the violin. I hummed along to the tune and imagined running my finger along the contour of her face.

  Two more weeks passed, according to the scratches I’d dug into the wood wall with the handle of my spoon. Then two different soldiers showed up. ‘Get up,’ the dark-haired one said in accented English.

  I hopped up off the bed, actually excited they were there to take me away. I shouldn’t have been, though, because it only got worse.

  14 October 1941

  Dear Diary,

  Hayden was correct – spectacularly correct. Having him in my life again over this last while has been a gift that I am so grateful for, given the terrible stress that otherwise hangs heavy in our house. Hayden is the only thing that truly brings joy to my heart during these harrowing times. Whenever I need to forget about my worries, I focus on the pleasures of being close to him. Tosh and Kenji have grown quite tired of my constant sprightly singing as I tend to the poinsettia seedlings in the greenhouses. And after Hayden has visited or left a lovely note or flowers on the porch, I have to resist the urge to skip merrily as I travel to visit each of my music students at their homes. When the road is empty, I do allow myself a few jolly sashays.

  Despite all of the threatening newspaper articles that loom in our minds, and the fact that I had to officially register and received an identification card to confirm that I am in their eyes an enemy alien, our lives to this point have essentially continued on business as usual. Hayden wakes well before the sun to tend to the family’s horses, chickens and goats, then works at the lumber mill from six o’clock in the morning until three o’clock in the afternoon. After work, he helps his father with the other farm chores that need to be done. Although he is very busy, he still finds time to drop by my house every evening after supper and we stroll into town, sometimes meeting up with Joey and Donna Mae or sometimes just the two of us share a milkshake at the Springwater Lodge. Last weekend the four of us got together at Donna Mae’s to play The Landlord’s Game. Joey bought up all the properties and railroads, so we each ended up giving him all our play money by the end, but still it was an entertaining way to pass a rainy afternoon. This Friday night we all took the ship to watch a film in Victoria. What a hoot that was. Joey and Donna Mae have a predictable habit of sparking a theatrical quarrel with each other over the smallest thing, one of them storms off in a huff, they eventually make up, and then they spend the rest of the evening steaming up the windows in the back seat of Joey’s father’s Buick Century.

  Hayden and I do not quarrel or spend time in the back seat of a car. We haven’t even shared a goodnight kiss yet. I know it is not because Hayden doesn’t want to; I see the desire cross his expression every time we part. I have surmised that he reluctantly pulls himself away because nothing has changed in the war news reports and our future is still anxiously uncertain, so he is afraid to spook me. But since there are so very few bright spots in my life besides Hayden, I have decided to stop holding back and instead jump in with both feet to make the most of whatever time together we are granted. I plan to initiate a romantic gesture that will leave no doubt in his mind how a goodnight kiss would be received. But first, I need to learn how to kiss. There must be a book for that.

  Truthfully, my moods waver back and forth indecisively. Sometimes when we are surrounded by other young people who are laughing and carrying on in rambunctious youthfulness I almost forget about the war, but then I turn on the radio, or open a newspaper, or hear my father and Uncle Massey talk in hushed voices in the parlour. I can’t make out everything they say but the tone is always grave, and when Tosh joins them, his frustration and urgency is audible.

  Mother can sense the tension too. Although she never speaks of her worries, she sews when her mind is heavy with concerns. Needless to say, we all have lovely new outfits fashioned from repurposed fabric for church on Sunday. If circumstances don’t improve soon she will have to open a rationed fabric and notions tailor shop as an outlet for all of her nervous energy.

  Grandmother has always been emotionally stoic and enduring by nature. Obaasan assumes that seemingly unbearable injustice will unavoidably occur as a natural part of any person’s life. Rather than fear the turbulent times she believes we need simply remind ourselves that we are far more resilient than we think and powerful enough to survive the worst imaginable evils with dignity. I can appreciate that type of strength, but I am not sure how to conjure it.

  Kenji is more like Hayden, in terms of optimism. Kenji is not like Hayden in terms of quick temper. I’m not sure Kenji has a temper at all. The most annoyed I have ever seen him be is when his teammates were not putting forward their best effort in a baseball game. He is genuinely not concerned about any of the news that is only a rumour at this point. He says he will cope with whatever happens when and if it happens. His motto is that worrying beforehand only robs you of today’s pleasures. However, examples of prejudice and bigotry are becoming increasingly more commonplace in Vancouver and Victoria. Some are quite disturbing, even Kenji cannot deny that.

  I aspire to one day be as calm in the face of adversity as Kenji, but until such time I will at least adopt the optimistic attitude that he and Hayden share. None of the threatening rumours have come true. I pray they never do. But even in the event things change in the future, there is nothing we can do to stop the war, so why not enjoy the here and now? Speaking of which, I have to go. I’m about to surprise Hayden with a romantic gesture that is designed with no other purpose than to bring a smile to his face.

  Chi

  Chapter 14

  Patch bounded with excitement across the freshly tilled soil to let me know I had a welcome visitor. Chidori walked across the potato field towards me, wearing her yellow wool coat that I had always been fond of. The other girls at our school had worn brown, grey, or navy overcoats. Chidori always stood out in the crowd like a ray of sunshine. Her steps were buoyant and a basket swung from the bend in her elbow as if she could hear music in her head. I turned the tractor engine off and hopped off the seat. ‘Afternoon, Miss.’ I tipped my Ivy cap.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Pierce.’ She patted Patch’s head and then folded over the linen cloth in her basket to offer me a cookie. ‘I baked these and thought you might be interested in a snack. Oatmeal raisin.’

  ‘Mmm.’ They were still warm from the oven and especially appreciated since my mother hadn’t made any baked treats for quite some time due to rations o
n baking supplies. Chidori’s family had an entire storage barn of staple dry goods, so they weren’t as low on essentials as the rest of us. ‘Thank you.’ I reached for a second one before I’d even bitten into the first. ‘It’s a nice surprise to see you. I thought you tutored that bratty little Osborne kid on Tuesdays.’

  ‘He came down with the mumps, so I had some extra time.’

  ‘Is it wrong of me to be grateful for his misfortune?’ I stole a third cookie.

  ‘Yes, it is wrong. And he’s not a brat.’

  I shrugged to disagree. ‘He’s always running wild in town, being sassy to his elders. Seems to me he could use a good scolding to teach him some manners.’

  ‘Well, his mother died from tuberculosis, and his father works out of province on the railroad. His grandmother, who is in frail health, cares for him by herself. I don’t believe he needs scolding. He responds very well when someone with patience simply takes the time to supervise and guide him.’

  ‘Oh.’ I finished chewing. ‘I didn’t know about his family situation. But I’m still glad he got stricken with the mumps. These cookies are delicious.’ I reached to take a fourth, but she slapped my hand and swung her body around to pull the basket away from me. I tickled behind her ear, making her giggle.

  ‘Quit it. You’re going to ruin your dinner.’ She whirled around again in an attempt to keep the basket away from me, but I lunged from behind and bear-hugged her so she couldn’t move.

  ‘Why’d you bring a whole basket full if you didn’t want me to eat all of them?’

  ‘They were supposed to be for your entire family.’ She stopped squirming and her body relaxed into my hug with her back nestled against my chest.

  Not wanting to ruin the moment of closeness she was allowing me, I aborted the mission to swipe another cookie and cinched my arms more snugly around her. ‘Is baking cookies and hand-delivering them a gesture a friend would make, or is that something more reserved for someone you’re enamoured with?’