Silver Moon

by Jenny Knipfer

  “Gehen!”

  He obeys, and we speed away in a cloud of dust.

  I breathe heavily and realize how foolish I’ve been. Someone might make the connection with my inspection, but it’s too late to change anything. I did what I could, and I can only go forward. My heart races. At least I have it. My hand rests protectively over the sample of death I hold in my pocket. If I can only warn them in time . . .

  “Lt. Wilson. Wake up!”

  My mind registers the words and the firm pressure on my shoulders. The world is dark, as usual. A faint scent of lavender water tickles at my nose.

  “You’ve been dreaming again, Lieutenant. Wake up,” she says in a fierce whisper.

  It’s Rose.

  “You sound concerned,” I say.

  I wonder why she cares about my dark dreams. My heartbeat begins to calm. I feel her hand in mine. I listen carefully, but all I hear is a faraway cough and the tick of a clock. All rest quiet in the ward tonight, except me.

  “You were moaning so.”

  Her voice comforts me and holds a ring of tenderness as her hand brushes my forehead. I feel her whisking away some dampness there.

  “Was I?”

  I recall reliving the day I killed Karl.

  “Yes.”

  I can sense she wants to ask something.

  “Was it very bad, your dream?”

  “I remembered something I . . . had to do.”

  “Well, you are here now and safe. We will focus on getting you better, Lieutenant.” She squeezes my hand. “Now, I must finish my rounds.”

  “Must you?”

  I won’t let her hand go.

  “Well, I suppose I could sit with you for a bit. Everyone seems to be resting well at the moment, except for you, that is.”

  I can hear the smile in her teasing remark.

  I think of something suddenly. “Does my family know I’m here? Do they know what has happened to me?”

  “I can check. I don’t know for certain. Your name should have been posted on an injured list.”

  “They posted me as missing or captured before I was injured.” Worry tightens my voice.

  “Then perhaps not. I’ll check tomorrow with the doctor. You should try to rest now.”

  I should, I know, but sleep seems unattainable at the moment.

  “Read to me for a while?” I ask pleadingly. I like the sound of her voice.

  “What shall I read?”

  “What is there?”

  I hear some shuffling sounds and then the thumbing of pages. “Let’s see, there’s a Dickens novel, some Sherlock Holmes mysteries, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and yesterday’s newspaper.” She pauses, and I hear her scoot the chair back a bit. “Oh, and . . . Harper’s Bizarre and National Geographic. What’s your fancy?”

  “Dickens, I think.”

  I’d like to get caught up in the drama of someone else’s story for a change.

  “All right.” She clears her throat. I hear the creak of a book spine. “It was the best if times, it was the worst of times.”

  She stops. Perhaps we wonder the same thing.

  What an apt summation of this moment. What could be better than being with someone you care about, but what could possibly be worse than this war and the damage it will wreak?

  Late March

  Givet, France 1915

  Almost two years earlier

  “Ein Backstein.”

  The brick of cheddar looked delicious. Luis hadn’t had cheese for a long time.

  “Danke,” he told the man in the retail store and pocketed the small brick of cheese in his military coat.

  He was at Shane Haus, the dairy, to meet the spy named Gretchen. It had been a long ride on the train, but he had some information to pass on to her.

  Luis had found his first mission directive a week and a half ago in a pretzel at Das Pumpernickel, just as he’d been told would happen. The message had simply said, “Befriend one of the scientists in the lab in Metz. Report to Gretchen any findings.”

  So, Luis had planted an idea in General Ostermann’s head about a secret lab in Metz and that he should be the one to investigate. The general fell for it and had Luis go check it out once Luis told him he had some background in science, having gone to university in Berlin.

  Luis had investigated and found the lab. He had met Karl, a young graduate from Karlsruhe University who had been taught by and worked with one of Germany’s leading scientists, Fritz Haber. Karl had been clueless . . .

  One week prior

  Metz

  “Ah, I see.” Luis grinned across the Biergarten table in Metz and pretended he knew the intricate details of what Karl went on about.

  When Luis had toured the secret lab that morning on official business, he had singled out Karl from the ten or so men who worked there. Karl was intelligent enough to handle complex physics and mathematics, but Luis could tell his common sense had serious deficits. Luis hoped this would increase his odds of gleaning some useful information from him.

  Luis invited him for a drink so he might further discuss Karl’s expertise. Luis hinted he had the ear of the general and a military honor might be had for someone who showed fervor in their endeavors at the lab.

  “Not many people care to listen to me,” Karl divulged and took a giant draught of beer from his stein.

  “But what you know, my friend . . . you are so smart . . . so interesting, but I wager not given credit enough.”

  Luis wanted to praise him and then give Karl a reason for a grievance. He needed him to complain, which might cause something unchecked to come out in conversation.

  “Nein. That is for certain. I work hard, day and night, perfecting what they ask. And do I receive anything for such labor?” Karl downed the last drop from his mug.

  “Here, let me,” Luis raised his hand in the air and signaled to the bar maid. “Refill!”

  The buxom Fraulein smiled and came to claim their steins.

  Karl looked a bit bleary.

  One more stein and he might spill all kinds of news or simply fall asleep in his drink, Luis inwardly wagered.

  Karl appeared to be close to his own age. His hair showed no gray and his skin no sag. It stretched smoothly over the temperate contours of his face. A cleanly clipped mustache spoke of tidiness. He didn’t appear to be a man of indiscretion, but Luis had touched on a sore spot apparently.

  “Tell me of your family.” Luis wanted to lay a foundation of a personal nature.

  “My mother and father are from Cologne. They own a sugar factory there. All my older brothers work there too. I am the only son who is different.” Karl looked at Luis and blinked slowly. “I hate being the smart one.” He turned his head and stared out the window at the Moselle River floating by in the setting sun. “Sometimes I wish to float away from my drudgery as easily as the river.”

  Ah, pensive, just what I need.

  “Blessings can sometimes masquerade as burdens.” Luis rolled out a pack of lies as easily as dealing a hand of cards. “I am the youngest in my family too. My older brothers do not understand me. I am the only one that went into the military as an officer because of my training at university. I have surpassed them, and I think they are jealous of me.” Luis acted like a misunderstood man.

  The pretty Fraulein came back with their drinks. She smiled suggestively at Luis. He looked away. He had no time for distractions. The men each took up their fresh mugs. As Karl got further into the depths of his stein, his tongue loosened considerably.

  “It’s not enough we’re worked like dogs, but now we must be exposed to such dangerous things.”

  “Dangerous how?”

  Luis wondered what Karl was working on. Danger only spelled out peril for the Allied troops.

  Karl set his stein down and tightened his lips. “I cannot say.” He looked at the clock by the bar. “I’ll be ex . . . pected early. I . . . must go.”

  His words came out a bit slurred, interspersed with a good belc
h here and there.

  “We must do this again. I am new here and have no friends yet. Next week, same time?”

  “Ja. I’d like that.” Karl stood up and swayed a bit.

  Luis grabbed him round the middle and threw Karl’s arm over his shoulder. “Lean on me.”

  Luis walked the drunken man out of the establishment and steered him towards his waiting truck. After he deposited Karl at his lodgings, he went back to his tent, removed his outer garments, and flopped down on his cot. He was exhausted.

  This work of lying is tiresome, he thought . . .

  Luis stilled fingering his memories and turned to fingering the cheese in his pocket. He wondered how to ask for Gretchen without it calling too much attention. He ambled out the door. The brightness of the day almost blinded him.

  How can the sun shine with such audacity in this time of war? It’s wrong.

  “Some fresh Sahne?”

  A fair, blonde woman held out a small pitcher of cream towards Luis. Her hair was gathered into a plait which lay over her shoulder. She wore a traditional-style dress with a skirt of dark color, a red bodice with a white blouse underneath, and a pale blue, smocked apron layered over the top.

  Luis rifled through the code phrases to use with Gretchen, if indeed this was the woman he sought.

  “The happiest cows make the best cream,” he said.

  He waited for her response.

  “Oui, but it is the milkmaid’s job to keep her content.”

  “Gretchen?” Luis whispered.

  “Not here,” Gretchen whispered back. She raised her voice in an alluring fashion. “Would you like to see the contented cows who make such cream?”

  “Ja.”

  Luis played along and followed her into the dimly lit barn. As they entered, his artist’s eye saw the tiny particles of hay suspended in the shafts of light boring their way through the cracks in the board walls.

  Gretchen pulled him over to a hidden stall. “Lt. Wilson, I take it?”

  “Ja.”

  “What do you have for me?”

  “I’m following instructions to befriend a scientist from the lab at Metz. We’re just getting to know each other, but he told me something interesting.”

  Gretchen waited with keen eyes, ready to gather something to help the nationalist cause.

  “He works on something time consuming and . . . dangerous.”

  “Your contact didn’t say what?”

  “Nein. We are not too familiar yet, but I plan to meet him weekly. I thought I’d let you know.”

  “At this lab, what is their main area of study?”

  “I’m not certain. I tried to understand some of the technical jargon he ranted about, but all I picked up on was perhaps something vaporous.”

  “Hmm, good work. I’ll pass on the news. When do you see him again?”

  “Next Wednesday. We’re to commiserate over another beer.”

  “Good.”

  They both stiffened. Some footsteps could be heard, and someone called Gretchen’s name. She suddenly pulled Luis down with her into a nearby pile of hay. She started to peel her top down.

  “What . . . are you doing?” Luis’s face heated.

  “Building our cover. Play along,” she commanded in a firm voice. She undid his pants. “It’s just for looks,” she whispered into his ear in an authoritative tone before switching to loud moans and giggles.

  Gretchen clamped her mouth onto Luis’s and sent his toes tingling with her kisses.

  A working man with a pitchfork darkened the doorway of the stall and yelled loudly in French. “This is not what the dairy man pays you for!”

  Luis stumbled to his feet, fixed the button on his trousers, and reached down to retrieve his cap.

  “Oh, Peter. It’s just a bit of fun.” Gretchen raised herself up and smoothed her top into place. She stuck out a pouty lip and advanced on the man. “Don’t tell.” She kissed him quickly on the cheek and sauntered by. “The lieutenant and I are getting to know each other is all.”

  She blew a kiss over her shoulder to Luis.

  He inwardly rolled his eyes. He was not a teenager anymore to be frolicking around with a young tart in the hay, not that he had ever done such a thing anyway.

  Luis gave an apologetic smile to the fellow named Peter and hurried out, eager to be in the sun again. Gretchen had disappeared. Luis took himself away at a fast pace, but Gretchen’s kisses had put him to wondering what their next meeting might be like.

  Salisbury Plain

  March 20th, 1915

  We have been indoctrinated into trench warfare by the British troops. We muck about in the dugout trails day and night. It is a muddy, cold, and terrible existence. My feet haven’t dried out for days, and I fear I am developing trench foot. The camp doctor gave me a powder to put on my feet and told me to air them out despite freezing temps.

  The officers say we are honing our skills and building our endurance for what we will face. I doubt conditions could possibly be worse than this in France.

  I have neglected my journal entries. I’m too worn out at the end of the day to care. When I do have energy, Lenny and I and some of the other boys play cards when breaking from our mock fighting.

  I have opted out of playing tonight; instead, I watch them. If I had paints and was an artist like Luis, I’d paint the group huddled around a crate with the light of a lantern to illuminate their game. Lenny puffs away at a gasper, his slang for a cigarette. Roly, whom we’ve dubbed our “brass hat” behind his back due to him thinking he has some kind of authority, is losing. His expression of a beaten dog droops pitifully on his face. I’d feel sorry for him, if I felt it didn’t serve him right.

  Little Tom (really the biggest man among us) grins like a fool. His poker face is nonexistent. I guess he thinks he has a winning hand, but I can tell who the winner is—Frank, tall and lanky as a wooden spoon, but a fella I guess could give a good crack or two on the backside of the enemy if given a chance. He’s the quiet fighter type. I’ve observed him to be extra quiet when he holds a set of royalty. Several boys fold and Lenny and Frank are left. Lenny lays down four fat tens, then Frank displays his royal flush, just as I knew he would. Lenny moans and groans in sore loser fashion, but he’ll get over it. The lads are calling it quits. I suppose it’s time to turn in.

  I yearn for the place next to the soft body of my wife, Mauve, but that’s a distant memory now. Will I ever find myself there again?

  Late March 1915

  Webaashi Bay

  “Roof . . . wroof!” A ten-week-old, mixed-breed Yorkshire terrier wriggled around Mauve’s feet and demanded attention with her high-pitched yapping.

  “Well, hello there.” Mauve bent down as well as she could and scratched the puppy behind her silky ears. “What’s her name?”

  She looked up at her father.

  “Don’t ‘av a name yet. You should do t’ honors.” Billy Murray wore a pleased grin on his face. “Yer marm called me an ol’ softy when I thought of t’ idea o’ getting ye a puppy.” Billy bent down and scruffed the little dog’s head with his big fingers. “Havin’ a pet ‘round always brings life a bit more cheer.”

  Mauve adored the cute little critter. “Where did you get her?”

  “Mack Connell, who works at t’ stone masonry in town, ‘as a side kennel job and breeds t’ little dogs fer sale and show. Snatched this un up from t’ last litter.”

  Mauve’s father wore a satisfied grin.

  Da always knows what I need.

  Mauve loved her father with a passion. She cared for her mother too, but she and her father were closer. They understood each other.

  She picked up the squirmy mass of fur and licking tongue. “Waal, she does have silvery streaks in her hair.”

  Mauve draped the dog across her arm and took in her characteristics. She had soft, wavy hair that would continue to grow and need trimming. The puppy’s silky hair sprouted out black and tan in spots and was streaked through with silver tips
in others. Her petite snout was mostly hidden by the beginnings of a lion-like mane. Her chocolate eyes focused adoringly on her new owner.

  “I think I shall call her Silvy, in honor of the silver touches in her hair.”

  “Sounds like a goodun’.” Billy stretched out his beefy hand again and petted the wee mite of a thing with a few fingers.

  “Silvy it is, then.” Mauve cuddled the puppy close to her face. “There’s something about the smell of puppies and babies.” She smiled up at Billy. “Thanks, Da.” She whisked away a tear threatening to run down her cheek. “You always seem to know what I need.”

  Billy’s grin deepened. “Mauvey and Silvy. That ‘as a purty nice ring to it.”

  “Yes, it does.” Mauve reached up and planted a kiss on her father’s whiskery cheek. “Love you, Da.”

  “Love you too, my Mauvey.”

  Father and daughter sat before a low spring fire in Oshki and Mauve’s home, playing with Silvy until Billy noticed the time.

  “I best git going. Gotta fill my quotas for the day, or the boss’ll be after me.”

  They said their goodbyes with a hug and kiss. After Mauve closed the door behind him, she didn’t feel that gaping sense of emptiness which she had earlier, for now she had Silvy.

  At that moment, to solidify her presence, Silvy yapped a few times and then put her head back and let out a cute, little howl. Mauve picked her back up.

  “Time for supper. What shall we fix?” she asked the little canine.

  Silvy simply stared back as if anticipating what the word supper might entail.

  After Mauve had fed herself and the dog a meal of boiled dinner, she planted herself in a chair near the fireplace, which crackled with new logs. Silvy curled up on her lap. She pulled Oshki’s last letter from the side table underneath her crocheting and read it once more. The fuzzy, pink yarn clung to the paper as if unwilling to give it up.

  March 10th, 1915

  My Love,

  I would like to describe the natural surroundings of where we are, but I’m not permitted to. I can at least tell you the day is a chilly, drizzly, soggy mess. A sleety rain slowly picks away at the daylight. Thoughts of home and warmth fill my mind.