Silver Moon

by Jenny Knipfer

  Natalie waited on the step of the café until Mr. Taylor had moved on, with his back to her. She took a deep breath and tried to put the worry cropping up in her mind behind her. She could not. However, she didn’t let it show and pasted a smile upon her face as she walked closer to Constable Aimes.

  Charles nodded. “Miss Herman.”

  “Constable Aimes,” Natalie said in her easiest tone of voice.

  Charles stopped. “Ah, Miss Herman, Natalie . . . if I may . . . well, that is . . .” He stumbled around with his words as if dodging something formidable. “I would like to ask you a few questions.”

  Natalie could feel her eyes widen. She sucked in a breath.

  Charles Aimes held out his hand, palm facing her. “Oh, nothing too concerning, just routine, you understand. You can come at your convenience to my office. Say, this afternoon?”

  “Um . . . well, certainly. Of course.” Natalie smiled a thin smile, feeling hesitant.

  “Thank you. It would be appreciated.” Charles tipped his head and tapped his hat at the brim. “Good day to you then, mum.”

  Natalie tried to walk on, but her feet felt rooted to the boards. She turned around as he passed her. “Constable Aimes . . . can I ask what this might be about?”

  “Oh, just checking some details is all. See you later, Miss Herman.” Charles turned and continued on his way.

  Natalie went about her day and tried not to fret, but her efforts to keep her worries at bay were useless. Questions kept cropping up in her brain until, around 3:30 in the afternoon, she could stand it no longer. She left her most senior waitress in charge, pinned her hat upon her head, shoved her arms into her jacket, and took herself off to the constabulary.

  She hadn’t changed, but in retrospect she wished she had, for most certainly she must smell of bacon. The fragrance of fried bacon clung to a person and worked its way into the fabric of your clothing, leaving a rancid odor hours later.

  Well, it can’t be helped now, she chided herself.

  The special for lunch had been sausages with hot German potato salad, her grandmother’s recipe.

  Natalie marched steadily on until she reached the outskirts of town where the constabulary was located. In recent years, the building had seen a face-lift. It had once been the size of a cracker box but now stood as an intimidating edifice. On one side, the large, light, stone building housed a courtroom and the town offices of the clerk and mayor and such, and on the other, the constabulary with several offices and a jail.

  She paused before entering and looked up at the marble statue of Justice with her blindfold and scales. It gave her courage. Natalie pulled back one of the heavy, oak doors and entered. Her dainty footsteps hammered and echoed in the spacious setting. She turned to her left, passed a couple of people she recognized but didn’t know, and stopped at the constabulary door momentarily. She took a breath and peeled it open, shedding the mystification of the atmosphere as she stepped in.

  A woman with a bun on her head and glasses at the end of her nose sat clicking away at a typewriter. She didn’t look up but punched away at the keys.

  “Um, excuse me. I’m here to see Constable Aimes.”

  “Have an appointment?” The woman typed away and kept her eyes focused on her work.

  “No. He said to stop by sometime this afternoon.”

  The woman stilled her fingers. They hung in mid-air over the keys, and she finally looked up at Natalie. “‘Mr. Aimes,’ I tell him, ‘you must require people to make appointments, keep an appointment book, and tell me about your meetings.’ Does he listen? No.” The irritation was evident in her voice as she rested her hands on the keys again. “You’ll have to wait over there. He’s talking with Miss Parsons at the moment.” She pointed with her chin to the chairs situated behind Natalie.

  “I see. Well, thank you.” Natalie stepped back and seated herself.

  Drat! Now I have to wonder a bit longer. And what in the world is he talking with Lily about? Questions and possible answers chased each other around in Natalie’s noggin until her eye started to twitch from the stress of it.

  “Thank you again, Miss Parsons. You’ve been most helpful,” Constable Aimes told Lily as he held a door open for her.

  Lily nodded and offered a slight smile. Natalie watched her approach. Lily’s eyes got larger with each step closer.

  “Natalie.” Lily tried to smile, but she couldn’t. Her face was set in a grim line.

  “Lily.” Natalie wanted to ask why she was there but refrained. It didn’t seem polite.

  “It’ll be fine. You’ll see.” Lily reached out and grabbed her arm in a fortifying way and walked quickly away.

  Whatever can she mean?

  “Ah, Miss Herman. Come in.” Charles Aimes pointed to the room he and Lily had just vacated and then addressed the woman at the Remington. “Bernice, have you finished that letter to the commissioner yet?”

  “Almost, sir. Want that in the post today?”

  “Yes, as soon as possible.” He tapped his hand on her desk and said in a softer tone of voice. “Thank you, Bernice.”

  She nodded and continued clicking away without even looking at her fingers. “Sir.”

  Charles and Natalie entered his office, and he pointed out a seat to her.

  He settled behind his desk and started in. “Now, Miss Herman. I would like to ask a few . . . personal questions, if I may.”

  Constable Aimes looked to her for recognition of the courtesy of asking permission, but Natalie guessed he would have gone ahead regardless.

  “What is your national heritage?”

  “Well . . . my parents are German, although I’m told my great grandmother was from Belgium.”

  “Ah, ha. Yes . . . well.”

  The constable appeared to be stalling for some reason. He looked kindly up at Natalie with warm, brown eyes. He had a shock of ashy blond hair hanging over one side of his head, and it made him look younger than his years. Natalie knew him to be a few years her senior.

  “You do know we are at war with Germany?”

  “Well, yes, of course.” Natalie was puzzled. “But what does this have to do with me?”

  “You may not be aware our government has commanded, under the War Measures Act, that those persons of German heritage, mostly male, you understand, may be detained in internment camps provided there are reasonable grounds that such persons may be involved in espionage.” Constable Aimes took a big breath and leaned back in his desk chair with an accompanied squeak.

  “I didn’t know this. But . . . what has this to do with me?” Natalie sat speechless with her mouth agape before Constable Aimes for a few moments before addressing the main point. “Do you believe I’m guilty of . . . betraying Canada? Do you think I have engaged in . . . espionage?” The last word came out in a strained whisper, as if speaking of something tainted and taboo, which it was.

  “Let me be honest. Personally, no. But I’ve had some reports of you doing . . . suspicious acts. I’m bound to investigate, you understand.” Charles lifted the paper before him. “Have you sent secret messages or packages out of Canada?”

  Natalie blinked. Suspicious acts?

  “The only packages I’ve sent have been gifts for the men at the front.”

  Natalie felt something she had never before felt—betrayed.

  “I see.” He made a note in pencil on the paper. “Have you passed on or sent any secret messages in the wee hours of the morning?” Charles looked over the top of the paper at her.

  Which of my neighbors is spying on me?

  “Of course not.” Natalie should be angry, but she was just too shocked.

  “Are you loyal to Germany and your heritage or to Canada?”

  Natalie didn’t quite know what to say. It was all just so . . . incredible that her neighbors and the people she thought were her friends didn’t know her at all.

  “I love Canada, its people, and everything about where I live. I have never been ashamed of being German, until per
haps this moment.” She spoke honestly. She didn’t want to hide anything.

  Constable Aimes set the paper down.

  “Very good, Miss Herman. I’m sorry to have troubled you.” He stood and waited for her to do likewise. “That’s all I require, for now.”

  He opened the door for her. His secretary’s constant clicking had stopped.

  Natalie found the silence uncomfortable. She exited without a backwards glance and made her way out. Her thoughts turned to Lily.

  Did Constable Aimes ask Lily about me, or did Lily make the accusations? Surely not.

  Lily knew her better than to suspect Natalie of crimes against Canada. Natalie put one foot in front of the other by rote and eventually found her way back to The Eatery. The supper crowd started to trickle in. She would have to wait to commiserate with herself over her trial until later.

  She unpinned her hat, exchanged her jacket for an apron, washed her hands, and rolled up her sleeves.

  There’s work to be done, Natalie reminded herself.

  At the moment, however, an image of Old Mr. Taylor danced before her eyes. The words she’d heard that morning floating to her on the breeze jumbled around in her heart until a wounded place began to form—a wound Natalie wasn’t sure she could recover from.

  February 18th, 1915

  Salisbury, England

  I’m tired of digging, the damp chill, and camp food. I have dreams of Maang-ikwe’s roasted turkey stuffed with wild rice, served with whipped potatoes, creamed corn, and Aunt Angelica’s creme cake. I’m complaining, and I feel like a naughty child who should know better. But I must be truthful with myself; this journal allows me freedom. I am determined, however, that for every complaint I will also pen something I’m thankful for, so here goes . . .

  I thank God I am to be a father. Me. I don’t feel old enough to be a father, but I guess if I’m old enough for war, I’m old enough for most anything. I pray Mauve is feeling well with the pregnancy. I can hardly fathom the changes she must be experiencing.

  I am thankful for the letters from home. Most weeks are blessed with news from mother and father, the girls, Lil, or Mauve. Some lads here hardly receive any mail. I feel sorry for them. I would hate to live in the world without family or a family who didn’t care.

  I’m grateful for this journal. I wonder how mom knew I would need it. She knows me too well, better than I know myself, I think.

  Well, time to lay these weary bones to rest. I can already hear Lenny snoring away. Thank the Lord his sound is a constant waffling. We had one fella in our tent for a bit that frightened himself awake sometimes because his snores were so loud and abrupt. Needless to say, the rest of us didn’t sleep too well either.

  Early March 1915

  Near Metz, Germany

  “Gute Reise?” General Wolfgang Ostermann questioned Luis.

  Did I have a good trip?

  A kind of hairy umbrella, the general’s bushy eyebrows puffed over his deep-set eyes. His cap hadn’t done the job of keeping him dry. A slight rain drizzled steadily down. Faint, slanting rays of the setting sun highlighted the water droplets caught in his hair and made them glimmer.

  Luis couldn’t help but think General Ostermann had an interesting profile. He would like to sculpt it. His nose perched as a rustic mount betwixt the two hills of his cheekbones, which were anchored on either end by his bushy brows and matching mustache. The general’s gray eyes, sheltered by crag-like wrinkles, inspected Luis, as if to gauge whether he was a satisfactory substitute for Strauss—the German officer Luis had come to replace.

  Luis stood stiff as a post. “Ja. Nein arger.”

  No trouble. That is a lie.

  He’d encountered a fair bit of trouble in his travel, but, of course, he couldn’t tell this German officer that. The fishing trolley had almost sunk when they hit a rock near the German coastline, he thought he’d lost his papers, and on the train, he had just about replied in English to a German officer seated next to him.

  “Gut. Get some rest. You will report to me at daybreak, and I will brief you on your role here. We are a reserve force, as of yet. Our mission is more strategic, as I am sure you have been made aware.” General Ostermann relaxed his penetrating gaze. “Captain Hager will show you around camp.” He paused a few moments, a slight crease appearing in his forehead. It seemed like there was more he wanted to say, but he simply finished with, “Dismissed.”

  The general saluted with his crop in hand.

  Luis raised his right hand up to his cap in a stiff reflection of the general, his elbow pointing due West.

  A man scurried out from behind the general. “Oberstlieutenant Von Wolff. Follow me.”

  Luis quickly turned from the general and fell in step with him.

  “My name is Rufus Hager, but they call me Hahn.”

  Luis wondered why they referred to him as a cockerel, but he didn’t ask. Time would tell.

  Hager turned to Luis. “It seems we are both named for animals, eh.”

  “Ja.” Luis allowed himself a snide grin and a slight chuckle. He needed to appear to be friendly yet still in command. “You might want to beware; a wolf can make a meal of a rooster.”

  “Ah, of course, Lieutenant.” Rufus nodded.

  A smile stretched across his narrow face. He did have the look of a rather scrawny rooster. He even strutted a bit in his stride.

  “I can see I will have to be very careful.” He held a certain glint in his eye, as if ready for a challenge. “Your quarters.”

  Rufus held back the flap of a green army tent and waved Luis in.

  Luis entered and took in the stark accommodations. “Home away from home.”

  The tent was occupied by a cot covered in a wool blanket and a crate, upended and topped with an enamel pitcher to serve as a washstand. A towel and a cake of soap were tucked inside the bowl’s rim.

  Probably better than most of my countrymen are getting used to.

  “Where is your home, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?” Rufus the rooster scratched at the ground with the toe of one of his boots while he waited for Luis to reply.

  Luis tried to gather his wits. He drew a blank for the moment.

  What is my backstory again?

  He thought quickly. “Dusseldorf. My father is a brewmeister there.”

  Luis had been told to stick with partial truths, so he would be less likely to forget them. His story would be more believable that way too. His adopted father did pedal alcohol, but it was wine not beer.

  Thinking of family made Luis think of Oshki. He’s probably wondering where I am. If only he knew.

  Luis tucked away his private thoughts and turned to Rufus the rooster.

  The captain saluted and turned to go. “Dinner is served at six.”

  “Ja, sechs Uhr,” Luis reiterated and dismissed Rufus with a slight salute.

  When he’d gone, Luis sat on the edge of the cot and took a deep breath. He had made it this far in the charade. No one suspected he was not who he claimed to be.

  He removed his cap and took off his sage gray, wool jacket. His fingers ran down the rust-colored piping at the placket.

  How strange to be dressed in an enemy’s uniform.

  He set it aside and laid back on his cot. He went over everything, all the bits of his journey, and what he needed to remember about his contacts. He would go on his first visit to the bakery in town tomorrow. Other than keeping his eyes and ears open for obvious news, he wondered what else there might be for him to do.

  To everything there is a season,

  A time for every purpose under heaven…

  A time to kill and a time to heal.

  Ecclesiastes 3:1, 3

  Chapter Six

  Early May 1917

  Victoria Hospital

  Halifax

  I hear it as if he is far away, and I am in a tunnel. But he’s close, too close. His hot, dying breath comes out in gurgles. Blood bubbles up around his mouth. One bubble stretches and pops, and my
mind suddenly sees a scene from my childhood.

  Mama, Aunt Valerie, and I blow soap bubbles in the park in Toronto. We dip hoops in a basin of soapy water and blow through them or reel them through the air, which becomes trapped inside the viscosity of the soap and forms a bubble. One breaks away from the hoop and floats, suspended in mid-air, and then—pops.

  My eyes focus back on the blood. I push him back. He falls against the wall and slowly drops to the ground like a spent autumn leaf—a strange kind of beauty even in death. I hold his eyes in my vision until he sees no more. It’s the least I can do.

  I feel I should regret what I’ve done, but I’m beyond regret. I have to keep reminding myself—this is war, and in war, death cannot be avoided. He’d gotten too curious, and in this game curiosity is a killer, as I have become myself out of necessity.

  I cannot be found out. The information I hold could save hundreds or thousands of lives. I will not let one man ruin that chance. I close his eyelids with my fingers and step carefully away from the man I befriended just to glean military secrets. I leave the knife where I thrust it. Its long, black handle protrudes from his side like some kind of freakish growth.

  I stashed the vial I pilfered carefully in my inner breast pocket. This is too big, too much, for Gretchen. The drop location is out of the question. I’ll have to contact Marcus, but to do that I have to get closer to the front lines. I have to tap into their telegraph lines and send a message in code, either that or cross over myself. Risky business either way.

  I need to move. I turn and exit the room in the German testing lab and get myself outside before anyone sees me. I pull rank and bark orders at the sentry.

  “Aus meinem Weg!” I wave my arm as I stomp forward. He moves as I command. “Ich wird sein Berichterstattung sie.”

  I threaten a report to my superiors of their inadequacies. Every instinct in me wants to run, but I march briskly to the waiting motor and let myself in. I plop in the back seat and shout for my driver to go.