Silver Moon

by Jenny Knipfer

  “Me first grandchild,” Mr. Murray marveled as he nested her in his capable arms. “Always ‘ad a soft spot for babies. When you children were fussy, it were me ‘at tamed yer troubles.” His eye caught his wife’s. “She sure be a dandy, ain’t she, El?”

  “For sure an’ certain,” Ellie Murray softly agreed. She unfurled Pearl’s fingers, and they moved to clasp her index finger. Mother looked at daughter. “You’ve done well.”

  It relieved Lily to see that no ill will stood between Mauve and her mother. They had had so many squabbles these last years.

  Mr. Murray passed Pearl off to Mrs. Murray as M. Cota walked into the crowded room, his face full of light and expectancy. He moved to stand by Jenay, who fit her fingers into his outstretched hand.

  Lily’s heart warmed at the evident love in the room.

  What would it be like to hold Jimmy’s hand in such a way someday? The question made her smile.

  “Welcome, my dear.” Mme. Cota kissed M. Cota on the cheek. “Meet your granddaughter, Marguerite Eleanor Cota. Unofficially, we have dubbed her Pearl.”

  “Hello.” M. Cota’s green eyes twinkled. He kissed his wife back and leaned closer to Mrs. Murray, who cradled Pearl in the crook of her arm. “Where’s the rest of the Murray clan?”

  “Barbara and Alexander are holdin’ down t’ fort. We told ‘em we’d bring ‘em out later to see t’ baby. See, we ‘ad some bread ta baking,” Mr. Murray answered.

  “Mind if I squeeze in and claim the prize for a bit?” M. Cota faced Mrs. Murray, who smiled her permission.

  “Pearl. Hmm, she looks more like a peach to me with her reddish hair, flushed face, and fuzzy skin.”

  “Jacque Cota, you’re not calling our granddaughter Peach.” Jenay rolled her eyes and pinched her husband’s ear playfully.

  “Arr, fingers like a crab she has,” M. Cota growled out, which made them all laugh. “Well now, a grandpa ought to have special privileges.” He winked at his wife.

  Lily hoped Mauve could feel the love surrounding her. She faced a daunting role—that of single parent. Lily watched the wistful look on her friend’s face.

  She misses Oshki. I don’t blame her.

  She prayed that having a loving family and friends to help her would be enough for the time being.

  June 1915

  “Hello.” Natalie waited a few seconds. “Hello!” she called out a little more forcefully.

  Her knuckles rapped on the door one more time.

  Natalie had decided to take the bull by the horns and talk to Mr. Taylor. She had avoided him for months, ever since she’d found out he’d informed the constable on her, pointing his wrinkled finger her way. He had called her a spy.

  A spy? What a joke. She had never been sneaky, stealthy, or good at lying, and Natalie supposed being a spy required all three of those characteristics and more.

  A sigh escaped her. Jeremiah either wasn’t at home, or he chose to ignore her. She set the gift basket down. Her mother had taught her to treat mean people with kindness. Paying back meanness with meanness only led to more of the same. Killing people with kindness slayed the beast in the human heart. She placed her gloved palm on the hard door briefly.

  “I forgive you,” she whispered and walked away.

  Natalie, her family, and others from the community with a certain heritage had registered as required by the Canadian government. Only one man and his family had been removed from town and sent to a camp. Natalie hadn’t known them. They were recent immigrants from Hungary. But she knew at any time the same could be done to her father. It was less likely for her to be interned, being female and having been born in Canada. She hoped and prayed her father would not have to be sent away. She knew her mother would choose to go with him, but Natalie feared for her. Her mother’s health declined and being in a drafty camp shanty wouldn’t help.

  Jeremiah Taylor scuffed at the whiskers on his chin with the back of his hand. He swore the older he got, the bristlier his facial hair became. The white hairs sprouted from his face poky as bristles on an iron brush. He rubbed his chin and thought. He’d debated with himself about answering the door. Jeremiah had watched her trot across the street just as nice as you please, carrying some appeasement no doubt, but he would not be bought.

  His cynical attitude had multiplied with the years. In his opinion, most people could not be trusted. They were liars or cheaters or both. He quickly pushed the memories of various kindnesses he had been shown to the back of his mind.

  Bah, there’s no such thing as kindness . . . not really, Jeremiah told himself, but a bit of his heart wanted to believe there was, so he opened the door.

  On the floor outside his apartment, a basket waited filled with strawberry scones, a jar of lemonade, and chicken salad sandwiches. His eyes moistened of their own accord. It had been years since someone had cooked for him. He slowly bent down and picked up the basket. Just to be safe, he sniffed the delicious-looking food.

  How do I know there’s not poison in here?

  But even for him, that went too far. Jeremiah checked around him to see if anyone watched, before he backed into his apartment and closed the door.

  June 15th, 1915

  Near Yrpes

  It seems I’m a father. I received Mauve’s letter yesterday. How they get the mail to us in the trenches is a mystery. But thank God for Her Majesty’s postal service. It upsets me that I wasn’t there for Mauve to witness the birth of our first child, but it couldn’t be helped. That’s life, I guess, filled with things which cannot be changed.

  How I wish I could go home to hold little Pearl with her downy red hair and kiss Mauve, but I won’t be eligible for leave until this fall. I will most likely only be granted leave here abroad. I will not see home again until it’s done over here or . . .

  Well, the fighting has been intermittent and like a long dream which keeps recycling itself. The encounters of this spring have so far been the worst; occasionally a major skirmish breaks out, but for the most part, it’s a deadlock. We fight over yards of ground.

  As much as I hate these rat tunnels we are in, at least they afford us some protection. But sometimes I wish we would all just pour over the top and get it over with. We seem to be fighting a never-ending battle.

  As I go to sleep tonight, I’ll set my thoughts on little Pearl, my new little family, my home, and loved ones. I pray to see them, but for now my dreams and imagination must suffice.

  July 1915

  Givet

  “Back for some more cream?” Gretchen snuck close to Luis as he lit a cigarette and pretended to puff away at it. Smoking had never been his thing.

  She sat next to him on the grassy slope. Cows grazed in the distance. The sky rolled out periwinkle blue above them, and the sun shone bright. In this idyllic countryside, Luis could almost pretend the war was far away, but he knew the reality. German troops had overrun the nearby villages. The dairy had been picked of its best cheeses for the invaders.

  Luis kissed her cheek. “Ja. You know I cannot refuse such richness.”

  General Ostermann had moved Luis’s company closer to the front lines. As Lt. Gunther Von Wolff, he had a platoon of men under his command. For the first time, Luis engaged in the cover of daily army life. Mostly, he and his men had come behind the fighting forces acting as reinforcements and enforcers in the occupied territory.

  Gretchen leaned close to him and played with the hair at the nape of his neck while she whispered in his ear. “Do you have anything for me?”

  Luis dropped his cigarette to the ground and extinguished his smoke with the toe of his black boot. He echoed her favor and turned to apply light kisses near her ear. Intermittently, he relayed his message.

  “The Germans are muscling up to press hard at Le Linge.”

  “How many?”

  “I’m not sure. Several battalions would be my guess.”

  “Danke. I will get word.”

  Gretchen’s blue eyes searched Luis’s. She had more of an
ice blue glint to her gaze than Luis did, but the way she looked at him made him believe she’d dropped all her reserve with him. A warm tone, matching the sky, shone in the blue universe of her irises. Her blonde hair curled around her oval face, and the creamy color of her cheeks blushed with pink as Luis stared back at her.

  “Why do you risk so much?” she asked, tipping her head down. Her countenance dimmed.

  Luis sensed Gretchen wanted to share more with him. Maybe trust him with the real part of her, but he knew, in their game of espionage, trust was a death sentence. The more time they spent together playing up their cover and their fake relationship, the more Luis liked her. He wished for different times and a normal life. Perhaps then he could reveal the truth to her—I’ve fallen for you.

  He didn’t answer her. Instead, he tried to get at the heart of her changed demeanor. Usually, she called the shots. He didn’t know the timid person before him.

  “What? What is it?” Luis reached out and stroked her cheek. He’d come to admire Gretchen’s courage as part of her beauty.

  “Nothing . . . it’s nothing.” She averted her eyes from his gaze and looked up instead at the lazy clouds floating by. “Just wishing for something which cannot be.”

  Luis could tell Gretchen cared for him too, but war had given neither of them the luxury of truly expressing their feelings. They both had jobs to do. Being in love would complicate everything.

  Luis turned her face to him. “Ah . . . if only I were Aladdin.” He grinned and felt his dimple denting in, which he hoped made him appear devilishly handsome to her. “Then we could rub a magic lamp and a genie would appear to grant our wishes.”

  Gretchen reached out and gripped his uniform. The fabric over his chest bunched up under her grasp.

  “Promise me something,” she demanded forcefully. “If we both make it out of this thing . . . my wish will come true.”

  He placed his hands over hers and eased the tension from them. “How can I promise what I do not know?”

  Luis wanted to hear her say it.

  “Promise me . . . we’ll be together. I mean, really together.” Her strong eyes softened.

  God help me to not disappoint her.

  “I promise.” Luis lowered his lips to hers and kissed her as if her wish had already come to pass.

  Webaashi Bay

  Early August 1915

  Lily sat by the shore and stacked a pile of smooth rocks into a kind of cairn. She wanted it to be a testament to this new thing making itself at home in her heart—love, romantic love. She would have laughed herself silly if someone had told her last year that she’d fall in love with James Smith, of all people. She had heard Nessa say on more than one occasion, “God has an ironic sense of humor,” and indeed he must to have somehow matched her and Jimmy together.

  Lily could tell from Jimmy’s letters that he loved her too. Well, he’d said it plain as day. She picked the last one out of her dress pocket and read it again.

  June 10th, 1915

  My Dear Lily,

  I am grateful to pen these words to you. I thought for sure this latest battle would be my last, but here I am still writing to you. Maybe it’s the thought of you that keeps me going. It lies within me like some mysterious force willing me to live.

  It’s funny, I never liked writing, but I find writing to you effortless. The words come out as easy as eating pie. I plunk a blank sheet of paper in front of myself, and they spill out. Maybe because you already know me so well. I don’t have to pretend or cover anything up. You’ve seen some of my worst—my childish mischief, meanness, and stupidity.

  I hope you’ve seen a different side of me in these letters, a softer side. Strange that it took the brutality of war to make the real me come to the forefront. I know it now; I love you, Lily Parsons, and perhaps always did. I just never knew how to express it. May God give me the chance to.

  Jimmy

  Lily folded the letter, settled it in its envelope, and put it back in her pocket. Then she did something utterly unlike her. She sobbed. She buried her head in her knees, and tears drenched her legs, as she wailed, emitting pitiful, low groans. Gitchi-gami swept forward and back, undisturbed by her travail.

  In a few moments, she quieted and did another rare thing. She prayed—not for her own hurting heart, but for Jimmy, Luis, and Oshki too.

  Oh, God. You always seem so far away, but for some strange reason, here You feel near. Maybe when we hurt the most, need You the most, the wall between Your realm and ours becomes transparent, and we can sense You. I want to trust You hold our lives, our times, in Your hands. I remember Nessa telling me that You record all our days in Your book of life. Don’t let them be taken from Jimmy prematurely. Protect him. Help me encourage him. Watch over Luis and Oshki wherever they are. Thank You for the gift of love . . . something I wasn’t sure would ever be mine . . ..

  Lily left off there—her thoughts simple and heartfelt—and dried her eyes. She sat for a while, breathing in the warm summer air and the breeze off the lake and watching the water. It calmed her. The birds around her dipped and dove in the sky. A few seagulls pecked at the rocks for some morsel of food as if life were merely the act of finding enough to sustain oneself, but it entailed so much more.

  I can’t go back to yesterday

  Because I was a different

  Person then.

  Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

  Chapter Nine

  August 1917

  Victoria General Hospital

  Halifax

  “This way. Just a few steps more,” Rose coaxes me.

  This is the first I have been outside. The air feels heavenly, like drinking water for the first time after being sick with the ague. It is like the fountain of youth. I suck it in by taking a deep breath.

  I’ve walked up and down the ward with assistance several times, but outside presents an altogether different kind of adventure. Rose plays my heroine today. I summon the mental picture I have of her: angelic in her nurse’s uniform, with roses on her cheeks, fawn-brown hair swept up in a Gibson Girl bun, and her green eyes bright as spring buds.

  “Lead on, my lady,” I gallantly say and shuffle along, her hand firmly in the crook of my arm.

  She is less stiff, more back to her old, sweet self, but I can sense something still isn’t quite right. Maybe with time, things will improve. All I have is time now, if my blinding remains permanent, that is. If I heal, I may just find myself shipping off to war again. Surviving this long has been lucky. A second time, the odds have to be pretty slim.

  “Always the charmer.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Only a handful of women have ever commented in that respect, but she doesn’t need to know that.

  “I’m glad to see your spirits brighter. You are an inspiration to the other men.”

  Her voice sounds soft, timid, or scared of something, but I don’t know what.

  “It's nothing, really. We all must choose how to respond to what life brings our way. For a while I had some trouble with that, but I’ve slowly been coming to grips with . . .”

  “It’s all right. You don’t have to explain,” she reassures me with a light touch.

  “Thank you, but I want you to hear this. You see, my aunt always told me, ‘We can choose to become better or bitter.’ It’s one or the other. I’ve had a lot of time in hospital beds to sort things out. I found that the somewhere in between is simply ‘no man’s land’.” I turn rather serious.

  “Quite the philosopher.”

  “Birthed from my mother and my aunt. They’ve become strong women. You see, they both have a life-altering disease.”

  “I’m sorry.” The sympathy in her voice rings true.

  “Well, my Aunt Valerie says she’s a more complete person because of her struggle. It’s like the potter smoothing the clay, shaping us with water—the turn of the wheel and his hand.”

  “Are you a man of faith, Lt. Wilson?”

  “I like to t
hink so.”

  “Here, let’s sit.”

  I grope the wooden bench which she directs me to. I get situated and sit. Rose sits close to me, and we continue our conversation.

  “Why does God allow all this . . . killing . . . these terrible things?” she asks.

  “Whew, that’s a doozy of a question. Many have asked the same thing through the years. And I’m sure much smarter men than me have tried to answer.” I pause and think hard about what she’s asked. “I don’t know if there’s one answer to turn to.” I speak without knowing where the words come from. “I guess I’ve chosen to believe God is good, despite the terrors haunting us here. By our invitation, our choice, evil has a hold in our world and in our hearts, not his.”

  “I’ve never thought about it like that.”

  We are quiet and listen. The birds sing, water laps in the distance, people talk, carriages and cars pass on the street. It all makes a kind of rhythm or beat which I’ve never truly heard before. I am learning to see with my ears.

  “Life is hard, Rose. It’s real and raw and painful but . . . worth it, somehow.”

  “What if you regret something you’ve done?”

  What could she have done to cause her the pain of remorse? She appears so innocent.

  “I know a little something of regret,” I say slowly in a sarcastic tone.

  It’s an understatement. I wished to God I’d never seen that white feather, never said yes to the secrecy and the special duties, and stayed my hand from taking what wasn’t mine to take. But war plays by different rules. That is what I’ve told myself anyway, so I can sleep at night.

  “I’m sorry.” She sounds near to tears.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for, surely?” I reach my hand out on the bench hoping I’ll meet hers, but I don’t.

  She doesn’t answer. The silence weighs on me. I want to fill its void, but nothing comes. Suddenly, I feel tired and my shoulder aches again.