Silver Moon

by Jenny Knipfer

  Thanks so much for the package from home. The dried blueberries and fruitcake were heavenly (your contribution I am sure, Frances), the tea tasted of home (I could picture us sharing a cup before the fire, Mom), the soap and salve well needed, the tobacco precious (thank you, Aunt!), and the extra socks a boon. I had to offer a fair whack of the treats to the men around me. When packages come, we all try to share around. We’ve become a strange sort of family.

  There’s Lenny—he’s a snarly toothed badger in a fight, rough around the edges, but loyal solid through. There’s Burns—he can quote almost any Robert Burns poem. He’s handy with inventing and always comes up with some cobbled-together thingumajig, which proves useful for our life in the trenches. There’s Tommy Tune—I call him that because his name is Thomas, and he can really sing. Of course, being where we are doesn’t afford much call for belting out a tune, but he sings softly and so sweet, it almost brings a tear to my eye. Those are a few of my troop here. Course, we’ve lost a number of our group. It’s hard to lose family, no matter how they come to be.

  I hope you are all well, and that the girls are getting good grades in school. I’ve carved something special for Lizzy and Celeste each, which I keep on a chain around my neck. (I picked up a few carving skills from Luis over the years.) Someday I’ll place them around theirs.

  I can’t wait to meet Pearl. It’s so strange that she turns five months old already. Mauve filled her last letter with how much Pearl eats, grows, and smiles. And she sent me a lock of her hair. She sounds like a fair doll. Mauve tells me, Dad, you have a pet name for Pearl—Peach. That fits, I suppose. I guess I got my affinity for nicknames from you.

  I miss you all dearly,

  Oshki

  Jenay slowly creased the letter back together and tucked it back in her skirt pocket. No one spoke.

  Mauve had been invited over to share supper with the Cotas and the aunts. They sat together cozy by the fire and digested Frances’s excellent, hearty, chicken stew. The evening chill and the wind off the lake hammered at the house and rattled the windows.

  “Will he get to come home?” Celeste asked, her face reflecting an angelic sadness in the glow of the flames.

  Oshki’s mother hesitated. “That is . . . unlikely. If he gets leave, it will be to an unoccupied area around where he is.”

  Jenay reached out a hand and smoothed down the frizzy hairs standing up on Celeste’s head. The girls were sitting cross-legged by her feet.

  Mauve studied their young faces. Lizzy held a tad more resemblance to Oshki around the eyes and nose.

  “I wonder what he made for us,” Elizabeth said, her eyes huge in her small head. Then she started to cry. “I miss Oshki.”

  “Come, sit on my lap.” Jenay pulled Lizzy up, and the little girl gladly curled up in the safety of her mother’s arms.

  The rest of the family sat quietly. Mauve cradled Pearl in her arms. She supposed each of them was missing Oshki in their own way.

  “How will he stay warm when it’s cold?” Celeste, a nurturer at heart, was always concerned with the comfort of others.

  Jenay looked to Mauve, but Mauve had nothing to offer. She wondered the same thing.

  Jacque put down his pipe on the side table and spoke up. “Well, I imagine they burn wood or have extra blankets. I’m sure they’re provided for.”

  His voice held a waver. His eyes met Jenay’s over top of Celeste’s head and bounced to Mauve’s.

  He’s worried too.

  Celeste moved closer to her father and put her head against his knee. He caressed her cheek.

  She looks so much older than she did a few months ago, thought Mauve.

  Oshki’s sister had turned thirteen and was on her way to becoming a woman. In several more years, Jacque would have to shoo off the young men.

  That is, if any of them return to Webaashi Bay.

  It might seem terrible, but it gladdened her heart that other women were missing their men too. A body could stomach a shared burden.

  Mauve looked across at Maang-ikwe rocking in her bent willow rocker. Frances sat in an armchair near the lamp and knitted something for Pearl. The women were unusually quiet. Words wouldn’t help. If wishes could make Oshki come home to them, he would be there, ten times over already. But life didn’t work that way.

  Frances’s hands casted on stitches and then picked them up, making them a part of the garment she created. Mauve watched the rhythm, and it soothed her. She wished that her burden of fear could be cast away as easily and as neatly as Frances’s stitches, but there was no throwing off the pain of missing Oshki.

  What if he never returns? Never comes home to me? To his family?

  Sudden tears clouded her eyes. She sniffed, pulled out a hankie from her sleeve, and dabbed at her nose. Celeste came and sat next to her. Mauve welcomed the close proximity of Oshki’s kin.

  Jenay broke the silence of the room. “Why don’t we join together and pray for Oshki?”

  Everyone nodded. Frances quieted her clicking needles as Jenay prayed.

  “Let the enemy’s eyes be blinded, Lord. Give Your angels charge over Oshki. Thank You, that You are his shield and defense. If You see fit to return him to us, it will be because of Your power, not the skill, nor luck, of men, but divine intervention. Shelter him in the . . .” Jenay’s voice caught.

  “By Your mighty hand, cover and keep him, wherever he may be. Amen,” Jacque finished.

  Jenay kept her eyes closed. Perhaps she continued praying silently. She clutched Oshki’s letter to her chest.

  Oshki had told Mauve once about the strong bond he had with his mother, and how she often called him her magical moon child. Mauve wished for that kind of bond with Pearl. She kissed Pearl on the tip of her nose, and the baby began to stir.

  “Can I hold her?” Celeste asked.

  “No, me,” Lizzy butted in and came to sit on Mauve’s other side.

  “Now, girls. I think it might be Grandpa’s time to hold Peach.” Jacque bent down in front of Mauve with his arms extended and a hopeful look on his face.

  “Awww,” the girls both protested.

  Mauve passed off Pearl to her grandpa and followed Jenay, who had gotten up and stood by the window overlooking Superior.

  Mauve took in the scenery of the well-lit night. The moon’s rays highlighted the crashing waves below the cliff.

  “The moon is so silver and full tonight,” she commented.

  She didn’t know how to offer comfort to Jenay. As a mother, her heart must be breaking too for her son, who was so far away on foreign soil.

  A thought hit her. “Perhaps Oshki is looking at the same moon tonight.”

  Jenay turned her head, her dark, amber eyes pools of tears. She reached out and grasped Mauve’s hand. Mauve held her mother-in-law’s hand firmly.

  “What a comforting thought.” A slight smile twitched at Jenay’s lips, and she turned to look fully out the glass.

  October 15th, 1915

  Western Front

  I write at night. It is when my thoughts churn themselves around so much, if they don’t have a way to escape, I fear I will explode. The silver moon hangs over my head. It feels close enough to touch.

  Lenny sleeps peacefully in his foxhole. We have a scrubby fire going to try to keep away frostbite. Samuel lost a toe. He made it back from the medical unit yesterday. Thank God an infection or gangrene hadn’t set it. Burns and Tommy huddle back to back for warmth.

  I have gotten used to the cold and its biting, but the weather will worsen as the months march into winter. How we will survive the wet and the cold is beyond me.

  Our world is long but narrow. The width of our living quarters for weeks at a time span about six feet wide by ten feet high, but they stretch on forever it seems—extensive gouges in the earth, all made by the hands of men.

  Home. I long for it so, yet I can hardly see myself there anymore. I can barely remember what being with my wife was like. How will I ever be able to go back if I survive? Si
tting before the fire with the family seems another lifetime ago . . . a whole other world.

  But there is Pearl. I’ve erected her as my beacon in this life of cold, muck, and death. I fight to live in the hopes to get to see her. In Mauve’s last letter, she included a small lock of Pearl’s red hair, tied with a pink ribbon. I keep it tucked in the pocket over my heart.

  I must put down my pencil now and try to sleep, for tomorrow will come soon enough with its hardship and pain. I pray for good dreams to take me away from this misery, at least for a few hours.

  He who dwells in the secret

  Place of the Most High

  Shall abide under the shadow

  of the Almighty.

  Psalm 91:1

  Chapter Ten

  Late August 1917

  Victoria General

  “What can you see?”

  “Light. Shapes. I can see a nurse walking around, but I can’t tell who. Nothing is clear,” I tell Dr. Hansen.

  “What about close up? Look at me.”

  I feel his hands on either side of my head, turning me towards him.

  My eyes take a few seconds to focus. “Better. I can see your face, but it is . . . smudged.”

  “Ah.”

  I can hear the disappointment in Dr. Hansen’s voice.

  “Will my sight continue to improve?” I go right to what rests prominent in my thoughts. I remember when my band came off the first time, and I couldn't see much of anything.

  “There’s no way to tell for sure. The damage incurred was significant, but your skin has healed up nicely. Let us hope that, internally, it is just taking longer. From what I can tell, your optic nerve seems to be functioning.”

  Dr. Hansen turns to a nurse standing next to him. I only see a fuzzy apparition in my vision, but I can tell she has light brown hair and a heart-shaped face. This must be Rose.

  “Let’s leave the bandage off now.”

  “Yes, Doctor.” It is Rose. My ears recognize her soft voice.

  “Mind, don’t over-tax your eyes. If they feel tired, you must close them and give them a rest. Understood?”

  The doctor directs this at me. From what I can tell, he has a square jaw and thick features. His blond hair is short, and he wears a thin pair of glasses in front of his dark eyes.

  “Yes. I’ll be good.” I smile. “When will I be able to go home?”

  “Soon. I just want to keep you for a little longer to see if you’ll improve. We’ll perhaps try to fit you with corrective lenses.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  “I’ll be back later to check on you, Lt. Wilson. In the meantime, don’t overwork your eyes.”

  I nod. He walks away with what I assume is a clipboard in hand. I am left with Rose. She is quiet and goes about tidying a few things.

  “Rose, come closer. Please.”

  I want to really see her. Maybe, if she’s close enough, her image won’t be so fuzzy, and I can see her in more detail, which I’ve longed to do.

  “Not now, Lieutenant, I have other men to tend to.”

  Her clipped words draw a barrier between us. What has happened to have changed her so? Where is the kind, sweet nurse who took care of me for the last few months?

  She walks off without a backward glance, and I realize something: I’ve given a bit too much of my heart to Rose. My heart hurts as I watch her walk away from me. Why? I can think of only one reason.

  I am in love with her.

  Early October 1915

  Halifax

  A little more than two years prior

  “Nurse Greenwood, there’s someone here to see you.” Matron’s usual demanding tone is curbed, mild, almost sweet.

  Rose crinkled her brow. “Who is it?”

  Who do I know who’d be visiting me here?

  “I think you best come with me.” Matron held on to the answer and swept her arm out to direct Rose to come. “Nurse Franklin will take over for you.”

  Rose watched Eva Franklin come out from behind Matron and start in on the job she had been doing—giving a man a bed bath. Eva was a friendly girl, but she didn’t even look at Rose as she took up where she had left off.

  What has gotten into her?

  Matron and Rose walked down the main hallway of Victoria General to Matron’s office. Matron stepped aside and let Rose enter.

  “Take your time, Rose. I will be walking around the wards.” Matron reached out and impulsively squeezed Rose’s hand, which hung at her side, before walking briskly away at her usual pace.

  Rose tentatively walked into the office. A middle-aged couple sat before Matron’s desk. They both got up when Rose entered. The woman’s hair was streaked with gray, and her glasses, which she wore on her red nose, were smudged with tears. The man looked like Henry, but older and with gray hair.

  “You must be Rose.” The man stood and batted his eyes nervously as he crunched his hat in his large, course hands. “I am . . . Henry’s father, Delano, and this is my wife, Alma.”

  Alma stood also. She withdrew a hankie from her sleeve and dabbed at her nose. “It is nice to meet you, Rose. Henry said such good things about you. He . . . loved you.”

  Said? Loved? Why are they using past tense? Rose looked dumfounded at Henry’s parents.

  Delano pulled Rose down into the seat he had vacated. Alma sat next to her and carefully placed Rose’s hand in hers. Delano looked at his wife with what Rose could only describe as helplessness. He looked lost. He visibly swallowed.

  “You see . . .” Alma started in, slowly, “we received a telegram a few days ago.”

  She paused. Watery, periwinkle blue eyes, the color of violets, looked up at Rose.

  “A . . . a telegram?” Rose asked.

  A caged feeling clenched at her ribs. Her heart pounded in her ears.

  “Yes. Henry was . . . shot and killed.”

  Rose looked at them both with pained eyes. “But I thought he was to work on machinery, not in the thick of battle. That’s what he told me. I don’t . . . understand.”

  He can’t be dead. He can’t be—the chorus rang out in Rose’s head.

  It wanted to drown the truth out, but the more it rang out, the weaker it got. Soon, Rose accepted the fact.

  My Henry is dead.

  “We don’t know exactly how it happened. The telegram just said he was mortally wounded in the line of duty.”

  Delano stepped closer to Rose and spoke up. “He told us we were to contact you . . . if something happened. He wanted us to meet you, you know.”

  “He loved you so much.” Alma wiped away a tear or two, and pulled out a clean hankie for Rose, whose eyes leaked as well. “He wanted to make you his wife, but he thought, with the war and all, it wasn’t fair to ask you when he wasn’t sure if. . .” Alma didn’t finish.

  Rose sat like a stunned bird who had dove at a pane of glass. She’d always wondered how she’d react when some terrible personal news came her way.

  Now I know. With shock.

  She supposed that was better than an outright tirade of tears. Those would most likely come later.

  “Th-thank you for coming in person to tell me.” Rose looked at Henry’s parents. They were good, kind people, she was sure, just as Henry had been.

  It isn’t fair this war, this taking of lives which aren’t meant to be cut off so soon. Her heart railed against it, and a hard place began to form. Rose encased her wounded heart in a splintered box of anger. Anger at war. Anger at stupid men who fought in stupid wars. Anger at God. Why didn’t he keep Henry safe?

  “Henry was a good lad . . . a fine son. We’ll miss him terribly, but we are glad he is somewhere safe now from all harm.”

  Rose looked at Delano with a puzzled expression. She knew they grieved. Their tears, faces, and voices told her so, but it was a kind of grieving she’d never seen before. It appeared as if a deep root of joy lay underneath the sorrow.

  What does it mean? Rose wondered.

  “Can we come and see you again, or ma
ybe you could come visit us, on a weekend perhaps?” Alma looked hopefully at Rose. “You see, you are the one link left to Henry upon this earth.” Alma stifled a sob with a gloved fist.

  Rose’s family lived some distance away, and she hadn’t gotten to go home much. Henry’s folks lived just outside of Halifax. Rose wondered why Henry had never taken her to meet them, since they lived so close. They did have rather a whirlwind romance. It had all happened so fast, and now . . . he was gone.

  “I think I’d like that, very much,” Rose said slowly. She dabbed her eyes again with the hankie, then offered it back to Alma.

  “Oh, no. You keep that.”

  “We have something else for you, don’t we, Alma?”

  “Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Thank you, dear.” Alma looked adoringly at her husband, then scuffled through her purse. “Ah, here ‘tis.” She held out a gold band on a chain to Rose. The band had tiny emeralds in a row across the top. “Henry wanted to give this to you before he left but changed his mind. He planned to ask you when he got back.” Alma smiled sadly. “He said the emeralds matched your eyes.” She smiled at Rose and fixed her blue eyes on Rose’s green ones. “Henry was right. We want you to have it. He intended it for you.”

  Rose reached out and took what was offered. She opened the clasp on the necklace and slid the ring off the chain. The emeralds glittered as she turned it. She slipped it on her ring finger. It fit perfectly. Her heart sank. How she wanted to cry and scream, but instead she graciously gave her thanks.

  “Thank you both.” Rose looked down at the ring, perfect on her hand. “You have given a tiny bit of Henry back to me.”

  Alma and Delano both hugged her and turned to go.

  Before they left, Alma tucked a paper in Rose’s hand. “Our address and phone. We’ll contact you here, if we plan a memorial service.”

  Alma pecked her on the cheek with motherly affection and walked arm in arm down the hallway with her husband.

  Rose watched them walk away. Before they turned the corner and went out of sight, Alma looked back and gave a sad, little wave. Rose waved back.