He pushed his spectacles up and looked pointedly at Luis.
“Ja. Do not worry. I am here only to investigate. It’s probably nothing, a rumor.” Luis waved his hand as if swatting away a fly.
The man nodded. Luis moved throughout the room. He received strange, scared looks from a number of the men huddled over their workspaces. He would have to be careful if he encountered Karl.
Luis continued to walk, stopping now and then to take bogus notes in his notebook. He asked several questions of the workers. Finally, there at the end of the row of workstations, Karl perched upon his stool with his face inches from a test tube. Luis walked up swiftly and whispered fiercely near Karl’s ear.
“Karl. Do not look like you recognize me. I am here on a directive from the general, but it cannot look like we have any connection.”
Karl turned saucer-like eyes on Luis and gaped. “What . . . what is this about? I don’t understand.”
“Follow my lead,” Luis whispered and waited for him to confirm that he would.
Karl nodded.
Luis raised his voice and pulled on Karl’s arm. “Ah, I might ask a few questions of you, sir. If you would come this way.”
The other workers wisely kept their noses to their work, hoping to be left alone. Luis escorted Karl out of the room to a private corner of the hallway.
“Gunther, what is this about? Why are you here?” Karl demanded of Luis.
“I need your help, Karl. I need a sample of the gas you’ve been working on. My mission from the general is to procure some for testing at another site.”
Luis actually spoke the truth, but it would be an English general and an Allied scientist who would be doing the testing, not German.
“Why not simply ask Loftsgarden? He’s the man in charge.”
“You see . . . it is a secret. We suspect the gas has been tampered with here, but I trust you, as you must trust me. Understand?”
“All right.” Karl relaxed a bit. “What do you want me to do?”
“Can you fill this glass vial with a sample?” Luis handed him a glass container several inches long and about an inch in diameter, fitted with a rubber ring and metal screwed top.
Karl took the vial.
“Yes. That should work fine.” He looked around. “The storage is this way.”
Karl led Luis down the hallway to the left. A set of doors with a chain and lock held the space secure. Karl fiddled with the lock, and it opened. He tried to be as quiet as possible.
“Wait here.” Karl slipped in and pilfered some gas from a tank nearest the door and came back to Luis, all within a minute or two.
“Danke.” Luis thanked him and took the filled vial. A faint, yellow substance colored the glass. He tucked it in his inner breast pocket.
“Keep it covered and protected.” Karl narrowed his eyes. “Where did you say you were taking this?”
Luis hadn’t thought of that. “Ah . . . a lab closer to the Western Front, I believe. I . . . was not told.”
“I know of no other lab close to France.” Karl tilted his head, eyeing Luis with suspicion.
Luis shook his head and shrugged. “I only follow orders.”
He sweated. He had to leave with the sample one way or another.
“Something about this doesn’t seem . . . right.” Karl shook his head. “I am going to find Loftsgarden.”
Luis reached out his arm and caught him. “Who are you to question the general, huh?”
Dang it! Karl showed more backbone than he thought possible.
Luis took a chance and said in a more friendly tone, “What I am doing, it will save lives. Help me do that.”
“Who are you really?” Karl narrowed his eyes. A dawning light appeared on his face.
Luis could tell he was found out.
What can I do?
Really, only one thing, he realized—what he’d been taught to do, to protect himself and the information he held at all costs. He slowly reached for his hidden knife.
The next day
“You have it?” Marcus, Luis’s handler, asked in a gravelly voice.
Even his whispered words sounded loud in the cavern of the gothic Saint-Stephen Cathedral. He and Luis both knelt at the altar to light a candle. Luis had shed his uniform for civilian clothes.
Luis put his hand into his pocket, pulled out the vial, and slipped it to Marcus as he reached up to retrieve a candle.
“They plan to use it soon. I don’t know where exactly, but I’d guess outside of Ypres. I’ve heard some talk around camp about pressing for the route to the sea through there.
Marcus folded his hands as if in prayer. “Risky, using the post office.”
“I know, but I couldn’t wait. I felt I must get it into your hands.”
Luis had sneaked into the camp post office last night and sent a telegram in code to the postmaster in Metz, whom he knew could get a message to Marcus.
“Were you compromised?”
“I . . . took care of it.”
Luis hoped he wouldn’t be questioned about Karl’s death. He’d dragged Karl back into the storage room of gas tanks and concealed him as best as he could. If the general linked him with Karl’s death, then he would just say Karl had been the leak and attempted to escape. He’d say he had kept quiet about the capital punishment with purpose, waiting to see if any accomplices would be flushed out. Ostermann seemed to be the type of man who could overlook the assertion of authority and Luis taking matters into his own hands.
“You don’t look too sure.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“What’s in the vial?”
“Gas. Chlorine gas.”
“Dear God,” Marcus said as if in real prayer. “How much do they have?”
“When I was at the lab, I saw tank after tank of the stuff. I would estimate thousands of tons.”
“I know it’s used in the dye industry. Is it lethal?”
“My source made it seem that way.” Luis lit his candle and crossed himself as if in veneration.
“Any way to combat it?”
“I did see workers wearing masks. Some looked as if they were damp. Maybe water neutralizes or attracts the gas.”
“I will get this into the right hands. Well done, Gunther.”
Marcus did not know Luis’s real name, and Luis did not know his. It was safer that way.
“Good.”
Marcus left first, then Luis a few minutes later. Luis knew they shouldn’t be seen leaving together. He prayed that his sacrifice, or, rather, Karl’s, would be worth it for the Allies hundreds of miles away.
Late April 1915
Webaashi Bay
“Ladies, if I could get your attention,” Lily Parsons said in a firm voice as she clapped her hands.
As they visited, the high-pitched voices of the group of females present echoed off the concrete walls of the town hall. It was the quarterly meeting of the Webaashi Bay Women’s Club, and Lily, their official organizer and leader, tried to rein in the chattering so the evening could proceed.
“Get some refreshment and please take a seat if you haven’t already. We will begin shortly.” Lily waited for a moment or two while several ladies shuffled quickly to the available, metal, folding chairs.
“Tonight, we will discuss how to use less and waste less in our home management. Mrs. McGovern will be sharing some of her ideas for scrimping, and we’ll all have an opportunity to tell of little things we choose to do to help out. Our goal here is to put less of a strain on supplies for the war effort.”
“Hear! Hear!” someone rallied, and a number of voices agreed.
“Also,” Lily held up her hand for quiet, “also, Nelly Langford will be giving us a taste of what it’s like for women on the farms. With spring planting around the corner, the farms suffer from a lack of workers due to lads who have signed up. Working on the farms, at the nearby cannery, and helping with the dairy routes are some ways in which we could be involved in a more committed way. See Ne
lly afterward if you’re interested in farm work, and Sally Neilson if you’re interested in working to keep the milk routes running. Talk to Renae Waters if you’re willing and able to work at the cannery. She tells me they are short several positions yet. Now, let us begin.”
Lily waved Mrs. McGovern to the front.
She took a seat and watched as their speaker came forward. Mrs. McGovern was a middle-aged woman with a no-nonsense look about her. She strode up to the little, wooden stand which served as the club’s podium. She laid the notes she carried on the stand, touched her hat, and faced the group of fifteen or so ladies. Lily didn’t think Elaine was much for speechifying, but she knew the woman had a willingness to encourage the ladies of the community to help in what ways they could. Lily had heard it said around town, “Frugality is Elaine’s middle name.”
“Thank you, Miss Parsons,” Elaine inclined her head towards Lily, “for your effort in bringing all this to be. Let’s give Miss Parsons a round of applause, shall we?”
Elaine led the clapping. The group of women followed her example. Lily blushed in the front row. She did what any one of them would have.
“Now, I’m sure you all have ways in which you’re thrifty. I’ll give you a few of my favorites before opening the floor for you all to contribute.” Elaine offered them a wide, toothy grin.
Her full lips and lovely smile added allure to what Lily considered a most average feminine frame.
“For starters, in the kitchen, a lot can be done to do without certain ingredients in cooking or make meat extend further. I brought several cake recipes along; anyone interested may copy them. They are egg and dairy free as it may be harder to come by some of those ingredients in the near future.
“An excellent substitution for an egg is about one fourth cup of applesauce. Now, you may have a jar of applesauce on hand when the eggs have gone elsewhere.”
Elaine continued with a list of cooking substitutions. “Another favorite way to substitute in cooking or baking is using maple syrup or honey instead of sugar. One cup of sugar equals one fourth cup of honey or three quarters of a cup of maple syrup.”
Mallory Maddox raised her hand and voiced a question. “But won’t the texture be off?”
“That may occur. Sometimes you have to compensate by adding more dry ingredients.”
Elaine went on to name a few more tips and tricks. She ended about fifteen minutes later with the suggestion that to make meat go further, one should grind it and add breadcrumbs or rice to make patties or a meatloaf. When she was done, everyone clapped, and Elaine went back to her seat.
Lily took her place at the podium and opened the floor. “I know there must be other ideas out there about how to practice household economy.”
She looked around the room. A tentative hand went up.
Lily smiled at her friend. “Yes, Mauve.”
Mauve Cota stood and shared her tip. “Well, Marm always taught me ta save the water I’ve boiled potatoes in ta use in a pinch as a replacement for milk in a recipe.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve heard of that,” Nelly commented. “Must be the starch in the taters which helps.”
Iris Grey looked at Mauve. “Where is your marm tonight?”
Iris was chummy with Ellie.
“Too tired to come,” Mauve said.
“Well, tell her we missed her.” Iris smiled, which made her look rather like a real Iris—all thin and leggy at the bottom and wide mouthed at the top.
Lily saw Jenay raise her hand. “Yes, Mme. Cota.”
“I think you all know of my crafting with herbs and such. It’s a good way to save, to rely on what grows naturally for health, rather than expensive chemists’ medicines. Also, there are quite a few wild plants and roots which can be eaten for food. If anyone has questions about what those are, see me later.”
“Thank you, Jenay. That is most helpful,” Lily recognized.
Elaine looked down her row of seats towards Natalie, who sat at the end of the row. “You must have some tricks, Miss Herman, with all the cooking you’ve done through the years.”
Natalie stalled. Lily watched her fidget. Unusual.
“Oh, nothing too new, I’m sure. Let me see . . . I suppose one of the most frugal things I do is . . . save bones and vegetable scraps to make stock.” Natalie swatted the air with her hand and tipped her head down as a slight blush rose on her rounded cheeks. “But I’m sure you all must do that too.”
Natalie slumped in her seat.
“Fresh scraps?” one lady questioned.
Natalie smiled faintly. “Well, yes, odds and ends from veggies and any carcass or hambone I might have go in a pot at the end of the day. With that I make stock, which can be used in so many ways. The easiest is simply as a base for soup.”
A few other women voiced their tips. Then Lily called Nelly Langford to the front. Nelly hadn’t dressed up for the occasion. She had attired herself in overhauls, and had a red kerchief wrapped around her head.
“As you know, most of the farmhands are off fighting, and it has left quite a gap. Local farmers have plied the government for help, and their answer was . . . to hire women.”
The room twittered with a few giggles.
“Now, I know the wheat farms to the south need hands, as do Donworth’s berry farm.” Nelly tucked a thumb under one suspender. “I want you all to know, even if you can’t help at one of these larger farms or work a milk route from Truag Dairy, you can still play a big part in food preservation by planting and growing your own family garden. The more you can manage yourselves, the more of a larger farm’s produce will be left to go to the war effort.”
Affirmations, nods, and murmurings of, “Too true,” and “Exactly,” and “That’s the stuff,” could be heard throughout the room.
Lily got up from her seat. “Thank you, Nelly. That is indeed what we should all strive to do.”
She patted Nelly on the back, and Nelly smiled and took her seat. Lily glanced at the clock on the wall. It read just past 8:00.
I have to get these ladies home, she realized.
Many of them had children to tuck in.
“I hate to draw the evening to a close, but it’s getting late. Thank you all for coming and doing your part to encourage us all. Now, next month we’ll have a treat. Mme. Montreaux will be with us. She’ll be instructing us in the best way to reuse fabrics. She’ll have a special project for us, so bring your sewing kits and an old article of clothing. It should be fun. Good evening and we’ll see you all next time.”
The ladies thinned out. Lily picked up a few dropped napkins and stacked the dessert plates, ready to stash them in a basket to take home and wash. When she walked towards the door, she found Natalie leaning against the doorframe like it held her up.
“Natalie.”
Lily didn’t quite know how to discuss what she wanted to with her. They’d never really talked about what had happened several months ago, her being questioned by the constable and all.
Natalie Herman stood up straight. “Lily, I wanted to ask if Constable Aimes has asked you anything more about me.”
Lily couldn’t help but think Natalie looked older, but maybe it was just the light.
“No, really, I don’t think you should concern yourself too much. He was simply doing his job.” Lily reached out and clasped Natalie’s hand. “We all know you, Natalie. No one would think you’re in cahoots with the enemy.”
Natalie didn’t say anything for a moment. “Apparently not.”
“What do you mean?” Lily went against her own advice, worry shadowing her mind.
“Didn’t the constable tell you? Someone accused me of spying.”
“What?” Lily drew out the word, incredulous that could have happened.
“That’s not all.”
“What else has happened?” Lily set her basket down and picked up Natalie’s heavy load.
“Last week I found the words ‘Dirty German’ scrolled out in soap on my windows.”
Lily tho
ught back. She’d seen Natalie out in front of the cafe pretty early one morning cleaning the windows, but she hadn’t thought much about it.
“And Josephine tells me our father may be taken to an internment camp.” Natalie’s voice strained on the verge of tears.
“But how can that be? Your family has lived here for years . . . your father is an old man. You’re Canadians.”
Lily’s sensed a heat rising in her face. An opposition to the unjust treatment of Natalie and her family rose up inside her. How dare anyone accuse Joseph Herman of betraying his country? It’s not right or fair.
“We must find a way to protest such action.” Lily spoke decisively.
“Lily, where did ever learn to be such a fighter?” Natalie smiled through the few tears which fell down her cheek in spite of her restraint.
“Gosh, I don’t know. Inborn, I guess.” Lily always felt better when she had a cause. She was a born fighter. And darned if she’d stand by and let good, upstanding citizens be rounded out of their own homes. “Come, we’ll think of something.” She picked up her basket in one hand and grabbed Natalie’s arm with her other. “Got any pie left at the cafe?”
“I think that could be managed.” Natalie smiled and fell into step with Lily.
They made their way out of the building, locked up, and headed for the cafe to plan how to win this new war.
April 21st, 1915
I thought it couldn’t get worse than Salisbury, but I was wrong. We have crawled into our new holes. They are crypts—shallow graves ready with waiting arms to receive more dead. I dredged through the foul water of our particular portion of paradise and bumped into a corpse—bloated and stiff like a cow that’s eaten too much new grass. He’s not the first casualty I’ve seen, but the first decomposing one.
I write these lines in the last fading rays of the sun with a snub pencil in the small journal mother gave me. I keep it tucked in my breast pocket over my heart.
I pray this trench won’t be my grave tomorrow. I can feel the call of God, or Gitchi-manidoo as Maang-ikwe calls him, to have peace no matter what happens. If the door closes on this existence as I know it, another will open up, but I’ll miss Mauve and all those I know and love, as I’m sure they will miss me.
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