Come from Away Page 6

  “Have a wonderful Christmas,” she called as Mrs. MacDonald set out on her way.

  The next person held the door open as Mrs. MacDonald left, absently stomping his boots inside the doorway. Grace tried not to scowl, but she knew who would be wiping up that mess after he was gone.

  The day flew by with customers and conversation, but as the light faded, fewer shoppers came to call. Nelson Eddy’s band played a soothing, sad “Silent Night” on the radio, and Grace sang along. She was up the ladder counting and sorting inventory when the bell over the door tinkled a welcome for the first time in a half hour or so. She grabbed the sides of the ladder with both hands and climbed back down.

  A man in a heavy black coat had entered, winter cap pulled low over his ears, scarf over his mouth. She tried not to stare, but she was curious. Grace knew everyone around here, but she didn’t recognize this man.

  “Good afternoon,” she said.

  “Good day,” he replied, not looking at her. She noticed he made no move to take off his hat and scarf, as most customers did.

  “Cold out there, isn’t it?”

  He said nothing, only gave a brief nod and turned away, facing the shelves.

  “Please let me know if you can’t find what you are looking for.”

  His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his bulky coat. He seemed to be about her father’s height, but that’s all she could see. He went directly to the shelves, picked out his own groceries, then set two large cans of tomatoes and a sack of potatoes on the counter.

  “Is that everything?”

  “Tea?”

  She was caught for an instant by the crystal blue of his eyes, bright over dark half moons of exhaustion. Most of his face was covered by his scarf, but the skin she could see was windburned a chalky burgundy. A small cut was healing over his right eye. Maybe it was her imagination, but she thought he seemed familiar.

  “Just tea, tomatoes, onions, and potatoes?” she asked cheerily, fetching his request.

  “Tea, tomatoes, onions, and potatoes. Ja.” He picked up a newspaper. “And a paper. Oh, and a book.”

  He held up a comic he’d picked off the display, and now she could tell he was purposefully keeping his eyes averted. It was strange behaviour for anyone around here, to be sure. Of course that wasn’t the only strange thing about him. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something about the way he talked was odd. He didn’t say much, but what he did say sounded unusually stiff. Or was it an accent of some kind? Whoever he was, she figured he was most likely heading right back out into the cold, lonely woods again, and from the haggard look on his face she thought he could use some kindness, so she wrapped up a bit of chocolate and slipped it into his sack as well.

  The scarf fell away. “Thank you,” he said, appearing surprised by the gift.

  She could hardly believe her eyes. “It’s you!” Heat surged into her cheeks. “From the dance, right? Do you remember me?”

  “Of . . . of course. Most beautiful girl there.”

  They stared at each other while Grace desperately searched for something to say. She instantly recalled how he had been great at compliments but lousy at conversation.

  “So . . . so you’ve been trapping?”

  He held up a bag. “You buy them?”

  She peered in and identified rabbit pelts. “How many?”

  He held up five fingers.

  “Sure we do.”

  Actually, the store hadn’t taken a lot of furs lately, but she could always sell them to Colin Bonn, the trader, when he passed by next time. This fellow probably wouldn’t have any idea who Mr. Bonn was, so it was easier for everyone this way. She flipped through the daybook, coming to the page she’d created for any new customers who might just be passing through, and recorded the five pelts in the credit column. Then she considered all his items, realizing there wasn’t quite enough to cover his purchases. If she knew him, she could let him pay later, but it would be irresponsible to offer credit to a stranger.

  “I’m sorry. It’s not quite enough.” She held up the tea, gestured back towards the shelf.

  He shrugged, then strode swiftly to the door, his groceries clutched in one hand.

  “Nice to see you! Thanks for—”

  Before she could wish him a good night, he was opening the door, heading into the cold. She watched through the window, but the wind whipped up snow in his wake and closed around him like the train of a cape.

  As soon as he had disappeared, she picked up the telephone. “Linda? You won’t believe who was just here! You remember the other night . . .”

  Rudi

  EIGHT

  Rudi tucked the bag of provisions under one arm and practically ran down the road towards the trail, jaw clenched. He’d known he’d have to speak with someone at the store, but her? Did it have to be her? What was she thinking now? She must have heard his accent, though he’d done everything he could not to speak. Would she tell anyone that she’d seen him?

  He never should have danced with her. He should have stayed in the background with the others and been satisfied with admiring her from across the room. All he’d wanted was some innocent fun, a little humanity for a change. Dancing with her had been impulsive, and that slip could ruin him. What would these people do if they realized they had a Nazi living right here in their woods? He knew nothing about Canadian laws. Did they execute their enemies here?

  But he was here now. There was nothing he could do about that, and worrying about what might happen only made everything worse. Just in case, he turned around to check that no one was following, but he was alone. He’d lived in the camp a week already, and though it was lonely, it was going all right. He was warm, he was fed, and he was off everyone’s radar—except hers. If nothing went wrong, he imagined he could keep this up for the rest of the winter, but trappers—Canadian trappers—would probably be out this way by spring. By the time the snow melted, Rudi planned to be somewhere else, though he had no idea where that might be.

  Despite the danger, he had to admit it had been nice to see her face again. He hadn’t been exaggerating at the dance; she was stunning. Like the princess in the German fairy tale “Snow White,” with her long black hair and ruby lips. And that smile—it was contagious. If only he’d met her at another time, in another place.

  He peered back once again, then stepped onto the trail to the camp and disappeared into the shaggy spruce. Maybe he was still okay. Maybe he would survive this somehow. Maybe she wouldn’t tell.

  As he walked, a familiar melody came to mind. He’d heard it on the radio in the store.

  Stille Nacht, Heil’ge Nacht,

  Alles schläft; einsam wacht . . .

  So strange, to hear the carol in a language other than his native tongue. He remembered other words for the melody as well: the new German lyrics his mother had taught him five years earlier.

  “For your protection,” she had explained. “We must all learn the new way.”

  Holy infant, so tender and mild. Sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace

  had quietly been changed to

  Only the Chancellor steadfast in fight watches o’er Germany by day and by night,

  and the part about

  Round yon Virgin, Mother and Child

  was now

  Adolf Hitler is Germany’s wealth.

  Over time he’d noticed how everything people said or did made it seem as if the coming of Jesus was being replaced by the coming of Hitler. Especially at Christmas. As a boy he’d witnessed the transformation of Christmas first-hand. His mother had—quite rightly—followed all the instructions printed on the twenty-page Nazi leaflet, replacing the star at the top of the tree with a swastika ornament, baking cookies in the shape of swastikas or sun wheels, ensuring the correct number of baubles was hung from the tree branches. The family learned through Nazi teachings that the true reason for celebration was not the birth of a Jewish baby, but the arrival of the winter solstice. The true Christmas tr
aditions, they were told, stemmed from the much older, more important pagan rituals, and when his mother lit the candles on the tree she was actually summoning light for longer days.

  Der Führer was the future; the world would adjust. It was an exciting time, an end to obsolete concepts which could only hold his country back, and Rudi had been proud to be a part of that change, a valued member of the German military machine.

  A branch overhead twitched and snow showered over him, bringing him back to the present. Another storm was rolling in; he needed to get to the camp before dark. This was no place to be stranded. Along the way he checked a couple of the traps he’d set out that morning and came up with two more rabbits, not yet frozen. As he entered the chilly cabin, he decided to cook them up in a pot of Hasenpfeffer using some of the tomatoes he’d just bought and a bit of flour from the cupboard. A poor man’s feast, but he wasn’t much of a cook. Never had been. His mother and sisters had always taken care of the kitchen. What he wouldn’t do for a bite of Apfelstrudel. There’d been delicious sweets at the dance the other night. Which one had Snow White made?

  As he stirred his supper, he thought of her standing behind the counter, white apron tied over her plain brown dress, kerchief covering most of her hair. It didn’t seem to matter how she dressed. Once he’d recognized her, he had trouble taking his eyes off her—and he hadn’t missed the pink of her cheeks when she’d recognized him, either. He liked to believe that meant she found him attractive as well—though it could have just been surprise. How might she react if he went back to see her again sometime? Of course he couldn’t do that until he felt safe enough, but he would need more staples in time.

  Thinking back on their brief conversation at the store, he was disappointed in the part he’d played. If he knew more of her language he could have said something more intelligent than yes or no, but he didn’t. As usual, his mother had been right. Rudi had always been more interested in his father’s lessons than hers.

  “You are a smart boy,” his mother had insisted. “When you concentrate you have a very nice accent. Almost like an English person. Come on, Rudi. You can learn this. It will be good for you as you get older.”

  “The school doesn’t see the value in teaching any other languages, Mother, so why must I learn? Besides, I have tried.”

  “Not very hard.”

  “I think Father wants to see me.”

  “One more hour. Then you can go.”

  After that hour he would fly from the kitchen and seek out his father, who never stayed in the room when the lessons happened. Rudi got a sense that he disagreed with his son learning English, but when Rudi asked him to interfere, his father raised an eyebrow.

  “You will respect your mother, Rudi. I am disappointed to hear you questioning her.”

  “But the teachers say—”

  “To respect your parents. Enough. I will hear no more of this.”

  Rudi’s sisters were better at learning English. They were smart and attentive and could string sentences together almost from the beginning. Rudi was smart too, but he would rather be with the men, learning to shoot and fight and march.

  “Pay attention,” his mother constantly said.

  With a sigh, he’d put his forehead in his hands, plunge his fingers into his thick blond hair, and stare at the page. She’d point at a sentence in an English book while his sisters held their breath in anticipation. They seemed to get great joy out of his mistakes.

  “What does it mean, Rudi?”

  “It makes no sense.”

  “It does, and it is not difficult. Tell me what it says.”

  “The boy . . .”

  “Yes, yes. Good pronunciation with the ‘th.’ Go on. What about the boy?” his mother pressed.

  He muttered something that made no sense at all, and his sisters burst out laughing.

  “You’re so stupid!” Helga shouted.

  “You’re not even close!” Marta howled, doubled over.

  More often than not, he stormed out after that, frustrated and humiliated, but his mother refused to end the lessons. Instead, she changed tactics. Since she knew what he liked to read in his native language, she went in search of similar material printed in English: comic books. She started with Terry and the Pirates, a comic book full of adventure and drawings, and the challenge proved to be irresistible even to Rudi. Ever since then, his English vocabulary had come from comics and newspapers.

  But tonight, as he flipped open the comic he’d bought at the store, sleep pulled at him like tar. Not even the pirates would have been able to keep him awake. He set the comic on the floor and closed his eyes, hoping to bring back images of earlier Christmases, but that was not what he saw. Instead he fell asleep with his mind on a girl with ebony hair and ruby lips, dressed in a red polka-dot dress.

  Grace

  NINE

  A week or so before Christmas the quiet trapper from the woods returned, bundled head to toe against the cold. As before, he’d waited until dusk closed over the village, then swept like a shadow into the store.

  She was a little bit surprised at how happy she was to see him. “Good evening,” she said, trying to still the nerves dancing in her chest. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  He managed a shy smile, but he looked exhausted. The bruises she’d seen under his eyes before seemed even darker.

  “Good evening,” he echoed, walking towards the shelves of canned goods.

  Curiosity was not a ladylike quality—her mother always said that—but she couldn’t help herself. “I imagine it gets lonely. Out there in the woods, I mean. It must get pretty quiet.”

  His hands stilled for a breath. “Yes, quiet.” He got back to his browsing. “Knife?”

  “Sure. We have a good selection on the wall there.”

  He went to where she was pointing, then took one in his hand, testing its weight. “Apples?”

  “Yes, over there.” Barrels of cabbages, beets, potatoes, and well-polished apples stood in the corner. “I keep them away from the stove so they stay fresh. A pound?”

  “Please.”

  Grace had had a chill earlier, so she’d added an extra log to the stove and now the store was quite warm. Her guest slipped off his gloves and cap, tucked them under one arm, then scrubbed his blond hair. It was such a brilliant shade of gold, even more golden than she remembered from the dance. She took the opportunity to admire him as he studied the top shelves, turning his head so slowly it looked as if he were reading every label. In fact, he stared at them hard enough that she began to wonder if he could actually read. What if his poor conversational skills had something to do with not knowing English? That idea intrigued her even more. It was rare for any strangers to come out this way, but a young, foreign—and handsome—man appearing in their quiet village was more than a little intriguing. No wonder Tommy had been suspicious.

  He caught her watching, and her cheeks burned.

  “I’m so sorry,” she sputtered, collecting the apples. “It’s just . . . I didn’t mean to stare, but . . .” He was watching her intently, not even blinking. She lifted her chin. “Now you’re staring at me.”

  “Sorry.” He scratched the side of his short beard, not looking the slightest bit sorry.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Appearing pleased with himself, he picked up a new comic and walked towards the counter. “I have more rabbit today, squirrel, two of these . . .”

  She peered in. “Two martens, you mean? Okay. That will more than pay for all this.” She checked the daybook, then opened the cash register and counted out some coins. “Let me give you some actual money. I imagine you could use some of that.”

  His confident, almost smug expression didn’t fade as he reached into his sack and held his cupped hands towards her.

  “I make for you.”

  There it was again, that strange way he had of speaking. Like English wasn’t his first language. If she could only keep him talking, maybe she could figure out the accent.r />
  “You made me something? Why?”

  “Thank you for Schokolade.”

  “Shocko . . . Oh! The chocolate! You’re very welcome.”

  “And is Christmas.”

  The small wooden shape fit perfectly into her palm. It was a moment before she recognized his version of a ladybug, obviously created with a great deal of care. The chunk of wood had been carefully whittled and shaped, and since he’d had no paint he had pared small dips into the creature’s round back, suggesting spots.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, and it was. Not just the workmanship, but the thought that had gone into it. He’d been thinking of her, out there in the woods.

  “You also are beautiful,” he replied.

  Once again blood surged into her cheeks, and she stumbled to think of an intelligent reply. “How, uh, how are your friends?”

  The shine faded from his eyes. “I do not know. They . . . go home. I stay.”

  That was odd, but it made her feel even sorrier for him. He really was alone out there.

  “You . . . you have an accent,” she ventured, hoping she wasn’t being rude. “Where are you from? Are you French?”

  His jaw flexed. “I—”

  The doorbell rang, interrupting.

  “Hello, Mrs. Gaetz,” Grace said a little too cheerfully, wishing the sweet woman would turn around and leave. She needed more time so she could at least learn his name. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw him pull on his cap and step away from the counter, leaving his small sack of furs by the register.

  “No trouble, dear. I seen you got icing sugar. I come for that.”

  “Certainly. Just a moment.”

  “Okay then. I’ll take a look ’round while you get that.”

  In the second that it took for Grace to fetch the sugar and bring it to the counter, his scarf was back in place, his hat and gloves on. He tucked his newly purchased knife into one deep pocket, the apples into another, then folded the comic into his bag.