Silver Moon

by Jenny Knipfer

  Mauve whispered the Ojibwe tale Oshki had sent in his last letter to Pearl. It was one of Mauve’s favorite native stories . . .

  Now, Waynaboozhoo needed to leave his camp, but he wanted it watched while he was gone so he asked Wiigwaas, Birch Tree, to watch it for him.

  “Now, I go hunting, Wiigwaas. Will you watch my camp and see that no harm comes to it?”

  “Oh yes, Waynaboozhoo, I will be your eyes.” So off went Waynaboozhoo, but Wiigwaas did not keep his word. He let Coyote, the trickster, come and mess up the camp.

  When Waynaboozhoo came back, he shouted with anger. “What has happened, Wiigwaas? Why did you not watch my camp?”

  Wiigwaas’s branches drooped, and his leaves chimed in the wind. “I am sorry, Waynaboozhoo. I will be more careful next time.”

  Then Waynaboozhoo spanked Wiigwaas with some pine boughs and scratched his bark for not watching carefully.

  Some time passed and again Waynaboozhoo had to leave his camp.

  “You must watch the camp again, Wiigwaas. This time be careful and watch and listen for trouble.”

  “I will,” Wiigwaas said.

  But Coyote came again, tricked Wiigwaas, broke down Waynaboozhoo’s wigwam, and broke apart his ring of fire stones.

  Waynaboozhoo was angry when he returned and saw what had happened. He grabbed some crows and swatted their big, black feathers against Wiigwaas to teach him a lesson. The black rubbed off into the scratches Waynaboozhoo had made in Wiigwaas’s bark, and they are still there today.

  Wiigwaas has learned to be a better helper, and every part of Wiigwaas is used by the Anishinaabe: the bark for shelter, canoes, baskets, and paper, the sap for oil, the inner bark for food, and the leaves for tea and medicine.

  Pearl finished suckling, and Mauve sat her up to burp her as she finished the story.

  Lily leaned against the doorway of the sitting room with a towel in her hand, drying a teacup. “Telling stories?”

  “Yes. Oshki sends them in his letters. I tell them to Pearl. This one was How the Birch Tree Got Its Marks. It feels like a part of him is here with us when I tell his stories to her.”

  “Oshki always was a storyteller. He learned from his aunt, I guess. Well, this is the last.” Lily held up the dried teacup. “I probably should be headed back before the light starts to fade.”

  Mauve wished Lily didn’t have to go. She enjoyed having another person in the house.

  “Of course. Thanks for coming, Lil.” Mauve got up to say goodbye. “Come again soon.”

  “I will.” She kissed Mauve on the cheek. “Bye, sweet Pearl. I’ll see you soon.”

  Lily kissed Pearl, wrapped herself in her warm clothes, and headed back home. She turned and waved at Mauve, watching through the kitchen window.

  Mauve held Pearl for a while after Lily left. She couldn’t bear to empty her arms yet. It felt comforting to have Pearl’s warm, little body against hers. She knew she’d been down the last few months, but she was starting to feel better.

  The tale of Wiigwaas reminded her of how she dealt with Oshki’s absence. She played the role of Wiigwaas, and Oshki, Waynaboozhoo. She had the job of keeping watch over their home and life while Oshki was gone, but she’d let the old trickster come in and tempt her with a deep sadness.

  I am tired of it! Mauve yelled inwardly.

  Oshki wouldn’t want her to succumb to the melancholy she’d been entrenched in.

  I’ll keep a better watch over our camp, Mauve promised Oshki in her heart. She snuggled next to her daughter, slept, and dreamed good dreams of the three of them around a cozy fire in the midst of the woods.

  End of October 1915

  Near Givet

  Marcus looked at Luis. “The Battle of Loos was somewhat a success, in part because of you.”

  This might be the last time they’d meet. Luis didn’t know how to take that. His retrieval of a sample of the gas and testimony of its deployment method had led to the British troop’s successful use of a gas cloud on the Western Front. Now, he’d helped men kill each other on a massive scale. The pit of his stomach dropped like it had a boulder in it. Luis didn’t want any credit for that feat.

  “I passed the news onto Francois as you requested. Gretchen knows too.”

  “You must watch him now. See if he passes back information against us.”

  “How am I supposed to do that and do my job in the German army?” Luis could hear the frustration in his own voice. Watching Francois would be like watching a snake. His moves were stealthy and practiced, and his strike unexpected.

  “You’ll find a way. Lives depend on it, Gunther.”

  Luis had started to think of himself as Gunther. It was a strange sensation responding to a different name and claiming it as your own. He felt like Luis had gotten lost, and Gunther had overtaken him. But he tired of being Gunther Von Wolff.

  Marcus turned to go. They’d met in Luis and Gretchen’s secret place in the trees.

  “This is goodbye. Another contact closer to the front has been set up for you.” Marcus took a paper from under his beret and gave it to Luis. “Memorize the map, code, and name, then destroy it. And, Gunther, when it is time to get out . . . get out.”

  “How will I know?”

  “You’ll know. Major Lefebvre has been briefed regarding your operation. He’ll be your commanding officer when it’s time to leave your German cover behind. You’ll have to find a way to get to him. His soldiers are entrenched not far from where you’ll be. It’s all on the map. Bonne chance, good luck, my friend.” Marcus tipped his head, gripped Luis’s shoulder with a hold of iron, and left.

  Luis would wait to read the missive until he got back to his lodgings. While he walked back in the dark, he thought of ways to keep tabs on Francois.

  Maybe if I line the pockets of one of his men. But, no, that was too risky, and they were most likely loyal to him. It probably required him to physically spy on Francois at every available opportunity. He had to be sure Francois was guilty of being a traitor to the Nationalists’ cause and the Allied forces.

  When Luis got back, he read the paper Marcus had given him. A pig farmer, Antoine, near Lens, would be his new contact. Luis was to pass information and any specifics to him. A map had been included of the area. Luis etched it into his memory before he burnt the thin paper with a match.

  Luis couldn’t get his mind off Francois. What if I trap him somehow with false information?

  That might cause things to move along and free him from overextending himself. He couldn’t very well be in two places at once.

  Yes, Luis decided. He planned it out before he went to sleep.

  The next morning before roll call, he went to a hidden portion of telegraph lines which he had previously unearthed, took out his small pocket apparatus and tools, and tapped into the lines, which he knew Francois listened in on. He sent a bogus message, as if coming from headquarters in Metz to their holding there in Givet. He said a large shipment of guns was headed out, when it would arrive, and where. Then he sent another message as if coming from the Nationalist spy ring and said Francois and Gunther were to intercept the rail shipment. He used their code phrases and names, so it sounded like gibberish to anyone who might be listening, but Francois would understand. This would cause Francois to choose. Luis would be able to tell which side of the fence Francois rode.

  Luis sent a coded message via a messenger, telling Gretchen of the details. He made it look like an innocent love letter to the unpracticed eye. He hoped she would be there to back him up.

  The night of the trap came. Luis stopped at his secret buried cache of supplies and dressed the part first, then met the others at the train. He had contacted a man through Marcus in the German army. The operative had been instructed to pack one full crate of guns and three empty crates on a rail car as bait—the second to last car.

  He, Francois, and Francois’s farmhands were together, while Gretchen, unbeknownst to Francois, watched in the shadows. The train made its sc
heduled stop at the nearby station, and Luis, Francois, and his men sprang into action.

  They broke open the door of the car holding the guns as quietly as they could and started unloading them into a cart they’d brought with them. It only took minutes for them to get through the stocked crate. Luis would play it as a ruse if they started to crack into the empty ones.

  “Come on! Get moving!” Francois directed his men in a quiet but firm voice. His eyes shifted from side to side as if expecting an enemy to jump them in the dark.

  “It’s empty.” A farm worker had cracked open the next crate and stood holding a handful of straw.

  “What?” Francois burst forward and dug around inside the box. He let off a string of curses in French. “It could be a trap. Come on! Out of here.” He gestured to his men and Luis, fiercely whispering in the dim light.

  “What do we do now?” Luis asked him, pretending to be clueless.

  “We take what we have and get out before German guards arrive.”

  “Too late for that.”

  Luis turned and cringed at the sight of a group of German Feldgendarmerie police waiting to haul them away. Francois had leaked the information about the Nationalists raiding the train. Luis’s heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t processed how to escape if Francois ratted on them. In his heart, he hadn’t thought Francois would. Even with Gretchen waiting in the background with a number of her friends, he wasn’t sure they could make it out. None of the men had guns, as far as he knew, except for himself.

  Francois played it out.

  “Run!” he shouted. He slipped conveniently past an officer.

  Luis congratulated himself on having donned his disguise: glasses, a fake mustache, and a slouchy hat. He made to turn and run, but an officer caught him. Luis fought him off and cracked him in the jaw with his fist. The man reeled back. Luis pulled his Lueger out from behind his back and fired at the man before he could bring up his weapon. He pivoted left, facing another man he’d caught taking aim in his peripheral vision, and fired again. Before he knew it, Luis had killed two men.

  Only one man left.

  “Enough!” yelled Francois. He held a knife the at neck of one of his own men.

  Gretchen rushed out of the shadows, a swarthy, armed man on either side. “You never fooled me, Francois. I knew you were a dirty . . . rotten . . . traitor.” She spit out each word with venom.

  “Don’t come any closer.” Francois backed up with the restrained man, whose eyes bulged as a thin stream of blood leaked down from the tightly pressed knife at his neck. “More men are coming. You won’t get away.”

  “Can’t admit when you’re beat, huh?” Gretchen walked steadily towards him.

  “Stop!” Francois warned her, his eyes black.

  She marched on. She was only a yard or two away when Francois pushed the captured man away, stabbed the air with the knife, and found his target in Gretchen’s chest.

  It all happened so fast. Luis ran for Gretchen, and her men came forward to capture Francois. The one guard who was unhurt and alive was stripped of his weapons and held fast by one of Francois’s farm hands.

  Time seemed to stand still. Luis ripped off his jacket and tried to staunch the blood flowing from Gretchen’s wound. He figured he shouldn’t pull the knife out, as she would bleed out quickly.

  Maybe if we get her to a hospital she’ll live.

  But the nearest hospital was miles away, and, besides, the staff would ask questions. He wracked his brain for what to do.

  “Tell me your name,” Gretchen whispered and reached up a hand to touch his cheek.

  Luis looked at her face. It shone pale in the light of the silver moon. He forgot everything else as he gazed at the woman he’d come to love. He didn’t care about anyone or anything else. He grabbed her hand and pressed it to his lips.

  He bent down to her ear and whispered, “Luis.”

  She smiled and sucked in a breath. “I’m . . . Nicole.”

  Luis touched her face. Nicole. Yes, she looks more like a Nicole to me. Gretchen never suited her.

  “Nicole.” He said her name slowly. An intimacy came with a name, a true name. It had always been a barrier between them, but now it had been severed.

  Luis shook himself out of his stupor of affection. “We have to take you somewhere to get this knife out.”

  He looked around wildly.

  “What should I do with him?” the farmhand holding the guard asked Luis.

  “Gag him, tie him up, and throw him in the boxcar.” Luis yanked a section of rope out of his jacket pocket. The man did as Luis told him. Luis continued to press around Gretchen’s wound, her breathing shallow. He turned to one of the men Francois had brought. “Help me carry her.”

  He felt for now they should go back to the grove of trees to hopefully evade detection when Francois’s reinforcements showed up.

  Gretchen’s man, who still held Francois, spoke up. “My wife could patch her up. It’s not far.”

  “Lead the way.”

  “What should I do with him?”

  Luis looked at Francois. He should be shot.

  However, dying easy was too good for the traitor. “Bring him.”

  The group made it back to Givet, and the man’s wife did try to help Gretchen, but all to no avail. She died on their kitchen table, holding Luis’s hand.

  Luis closed Gretchen’s eyes—Nicole’s.

  He still thought of her as Gretchen. He didn’t shed a tear, for his heart had turned to iron. A little more of Luis left and a little more of Gunther took up residence.

  He wanted to take matters into his own hands and kill Francois then and there, but the Nationalists could deal with him as they saw fit. It neared the wee hours of the morning, and he needed to get back before his men noticed his absence.

  “Take care of Gretchen.” It came out as a command, not a request. Luis met the eyes of the women who’d tried to save her life.

  “Oui. We will.” Her eyes were firm and Luis felt he could trust her.

  He looked at Gretchen one last time and walked from the room.

  He stopped by the man who guarded Francois. “Do with him as you want. I’m done with it.”

  Francois was tied to a chair, a rag stuffed in his mouth. His eyes turned big with pleading.

  “It will be my pleasure,” the swarthy man said darkly.

  Luis nodded and left. He wanted to put it behind him. They moved out in a day or two, and he was ready to forget Givet and everything he’d lost there.

  Hope deferred makes the heart sick,

  But when it comes, it is a tree of life.

  Proverbs 13:12

  Chapter Eleven

  October 30th, 1917

  Victoria General

  “You have a visitor, Lt. Wilson,” Rose tells me.

  I squint, focusing on her, and things become less blurry. Then my eyes shift to who stands behind her—Felix.

  “Dad!” I get out of my chair and embrace my surrogate father when he comes forward.

  “Luis. We were so worried.” He hugs me fiercely then backs up at arm's length to read my face as if it were a book. I can tell he finds an unexpected ending in me. “We thought you were missing. Just recently your mother received a letter telling of your treatment here. This kind nurse, Nurse Greenwood, wrote.” He looks towards Rose, whose eyes flick to me and back to her shoes. “Vanessa sent a telegram to us and asked if we could come. Valerie is too poorly to travel far, but I came first thing.”

  This was news to me. Well, I knew my parents had been contacted, but I didn’t know Rose had written.

  “I’m sorry to hear about Aunt Val.”

  “That’s just how it is now.” He sums up Valerie’s health.

  “Why don’t you two sit and visit. I’ll be back when I finish my rounds,” Rose tells us and walks away.

  I can hear the smile in her voice. I can tell she’s happy for me.

  I sit in my chair. Felix sits next to me in another s
eat.

  “I hope I can take you home. I checked with the doctor before I came. He said he’ll evaluate your condition and let me know before I leave today.”

  Felix quiets, and I can sense he wants to ask me something. He does.

  “What happened, Luis? Why did you stop writing? Why were you missing so long? We had almost given up hope of ever hearing from you again and then out of the blue comes a letter.”

  His words hold puzzlement, and his expression matches. He’s close enough that I can see his concern, but my ears have become my second eyes. I can hear it in his voice.

  “It’s complicated. I can’t really talk about it.” I want to tell him everything, but I was instructed not to tell anyone I was a spy or give out any details. “Maybe someday I can tell you, but . . . not now.” I keep my voice low.

  His puzzled expression has not changed. He sighs but doesn’t press me for answers.

  “How are Mom and Michael? And Lily?”

  “Oh, fine. Did you know Terrance has come to live with them? Well, no . . . I suppose you wouldn’t.”

  I try not to feel pain at his last sentence, but it hurts that I couldn’t write my family. It hurts still that I can’t tell them why.

  “He’s finally taken Mom up on her offer, huh?” I grin despite my edge of regret.

  “Yes. She seems happy.”

  An uncomfortable silence stretches between us.

  “Did you know Lily has a beau?”

  He keeps asking me questions he knows I can’t answer. “That’s a surprise. Who?”

  “Don’t remember the name now, but Vanessa said he was an old classmate of hers.”

  I run through my memory of the fellows in her class and can’t think of anyone likely. “Huh, can’t think of who that might be.”

  “I don’t know too many details.” He pauses and changes the subject. “Besides your eyes, were you injured elsewhere?”

  I feel his eyes rove over me looking for old scars and wounds.

  “Shrapnel in my shoulder. My eyes got it from the blast of a German grenade.”