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  “Uh, we don’t call this a book,” she told him, pointing. Anything to keep him there just a bit longer. “We call it a ‘comic.’ ”

  “Comic?”

  “Yes. When they have all the drawings and words in bubbles, those are comics.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  She wished she had a hundred more pieces of information to give him just so he’d keep talking to her. “You . . . you don’t have to leave, you know.”

  “It is dark. I am to walk far.”

  Of course. How silly of her. “Well, thank you so much for the gift. It’s very, very special.”

  “You are welcome.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you again.”

  She could tell he was smiling from the way his eyes crinkled above his scarf. “Maybe.”

  “Wait!” she said as he stepped away. “Have a happy Christmas.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Happy Christmas.”

  “Oh, Grace?” Mrs. Gaetz called.

  She reluctantly turned away. “Yes, Mrs. Gaetz?”

  “Do you have cherries?”

  “Of course. One can?”

  The bell rang, and freezing air rushed inside. The stranger stood in the door frame for a moment.

  “Good night, Grace,” he said, then he was gone.

  TEN

  Christmas 1942

  It was snowing again, a soft, hypnotic snow, and frost clouded Grace’s bedroom window. She breathed a view through the ice and wiped it clear, then she watched the flakes trickle down. Everyone these days was singing Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas,” and here it was, right before her eyes. But Grace wasn’t dreaming about snow, didn’t care if Christmas was white or not. The peace she saw out there, the careless snow drifting lazily from a ceiling of white as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, brought tears of envy to her eyes.

  Christmas made everything harder. Eugene hadn’t been home last Christmas or the one before. And Norman—well, her memories of him laughing at the dining room table were fading, the echo of his voice so much farther away.

  They should be here.

  Somewhere across the sea, in a land she’d only ever heard of and would probably never see, a small-minded dictator had stepped onto a stage and started a war. Grace suddenly felt sure he would succeed. The Germans would march right up to her front door and kill them all, just as they did in the radio stories.

  The frost crept back over the circle she’d cleared, and she sank onto her bed. The only good thing in her life in that moment seemed to be the trapper, and how was she supposed to feel happy when she knew nothing about him? In the darkness of her room she reached for the wooden ladybug on her night table, and her thumb stroked its smooth back, riding the memorized pattern of spots. Where was its handsome creator that night? Was he watching the snow? Was he thinking of her? She raised the ladybug and stared into its empty eyes.

  “You know him better than anyone, little bug,” she whispered. “Who is he?”

  He’d been an unexpected Christmas gift, a cause for smiling despite all her unhappiness, and a puzzle she wished to solve. She had been sure Linda would have learned more, but when she’d telephoned to ask, not even her snoopy friend had any information. Now that it was Christmas, the store was closed, and Grace clung to the hope of seeing him again afterwards. Would he stay after the holiday, or would he disappear along with the tinsel and carols?

  The cozy aroma of Christmas dinner wafted up the stairs, but not even that could cheer her. It had been a strange, restrained kind of morning. Uncomfortable, even. Christmas had changed, and Norman’s missing presence loomed over them all. The children, of course, had been oblivious to everything but the season, and their glee had been refreshing. The adults acted as if they shared their excitement, but pretending took a lot of energy. Grace feared her mask was slipping.

  She set the ladybug back on the table and headed downstairs with a certain reluctance. Maybe supper would distract them from their sadness, if only for a while. The children sat quietly around the tree, reading new books or playing with spin tops. Little Claire, Eugene’s oldest daughter, examined a toy boat her father had carved for her. Inside that tiny boat Grace imagined a tiny Eugene, far away, out of reach.

  The tree was lovely, but even it was different from the ones she’d loved as a child. The delicate glass ornaments they’d always used had been made in Germany, so she’d been given the task of getting rid of them and ordering replacements. No one, including Grace, wanted to be reminded of Germany at Christmas. But somehow she hadn’t had the heart to throw the treasures away. She’d buried them in a crate packed tight with sawdust, then she’d hidden the crate at the back of the shed. The ornaments might have been German made, but they were also shiny with memories. They were just as much a part of her Christmas as the stockings hanging from the mantel, and it was comforting to know they were still there. Would they ever come out of storage? Would Christmas ever feel normal again? She doubted both.

  Grace corralled the worn-out children to the table where they sat dutifully in their places, blinking like dazed little owls as the adults settled into the evening’s feast. The ham was moist and delicious, the turnips, carrots, and potatoes a perfect medley. Harry walked around the table and filled everyone’s wineglass, then their father stood for a toast. For this moment at least, they could all come together and be happy.

  Maybe it was the wine, or maybe the welcoming sound of laughter around the table was too difficult to resist, but for whatever reason the blond man from the woods appeared in Grace’s thoughts. Wouldn’t it be nice to have him sitting here, his blue eyes sparkling at her over a glass of wine? Once the dishes were cleared, maybe he’d hold out a hand and ask Grace to go for a moonlit walk, and this time no one would object. She’d follow him into the night and they’d dance under the stars.

  She must have looked happy, because Harry lifted a teasing eyebrow. She dropped her eyes, feeling guilty.

  “It’s okay to enjoy yourself,” Harry told her quietly. “Maybe you forgot, but it’s Christmas. You’re supposed to be having a good time.”

  “How can I?” she whispered back. Her daydream was gone, kicked to the side by reality. “I mean . . . what is Eugene doing right now?”

  She shouldn’t have asked. “What do you want me to say, Grace?”

  “Nothing. I’m sorry. It’s just that I wish I knew more about what was going on.”

  He didn’t answer, and when she followed his gaze she understood why. Their father was watching them, a stern look on his face. She should have kept her voice down.

  Harry cleared his throat. “It’s not so bad. We have a job to do. You just have to be ready all the time.” His shoulders rose and fell. “Sometimes that’s a pretty tall order.”

  The volume around the room dropped noticeably. Catherine and Gail were studying their hands, but Tommy gave Grace a sympathetic smile. He’d been sitting quietly throughout the meal but paying close attention to the conversation. He might only have been sixteen, but he knew what was going on. He was the man of his family now that his father was gone.

  With a sigh, her mother set down her fork. “Let’s not talk about this.”

  “Please, Maman,” Grace said, holding tight to her frustration. “I want to know what it’s like out there.”

  “Now is not the time.”

  Grace was so tired of being silenced. U-boats were being blown up ten miles from where she sat, and she wasn’t supposed to talk about the war? “It’s never the time, though. The little I know about the war is tearing me apart. It’s like I can hear people screaming but I have no idea why. It’s terrible, not knowing. Don’t you ever feel that way?”

  Her mother’s voice hardened. “You forget, Grace. I already know war. So does your father. We don’t want to talk about it.”

  Grace clenched her hands under the table. “Well, then let’s talk about Germans.”

  “What about them?”

  “What could make a whole country of peo
ple so terrible?”

  “Come now, Grace. They’re not all terrible,” her mother said. “You’re looking at it the wrong way.”

  “What other way is there to see it?”

  She’d tried to hold her tongue, but what good was that doing? Every time she thought of Norman, she thought of the men who had killed him in France. Of the guns and bombs she read about in the newspaper, of the vicious German soldiers they discussed on the radio. Why on earth would her mother want to defend them?

  She leaned forwards, her fingers curling over the table’s edge. “Germans killed Norman, and they’re trying to kill Harry and Eugene. In my books, that makes them the worst people on earth.”

  At the mention of Norman’s name, the room went silent. Gail bunched her serviette in her hands and shifted in her seat, looking almost desperate to leave the table.

  “Grace, you’re speaking out of turn. I know a few Germans, and so do you,” her mother said slowly. “Some of them have lived out here twenty years or more. You grew up with them. All good people. People I call my friends.”

  “Hard workers, every one of them,” her father agreed.

  This was silly. They knew what she meant. Why were they trying to turn her words around? “Those are different. They live here. They’re not Germans anymore. They’re Canadians.”

  “They are Canadian Germans, Grace.”

  “I’m talking about German Germans. Nazis. Are you defending them?”

  Her father scratched his chin, thinking. “I won’t defend the war, but I will defend the men who are forced to be in it. The men in uniform didn’t start it. They’re just following orders.”

  She couldn’t accept that, but she couldn’t think of a response, either.

  “I understand what you’re saying, Grace,” her mother said softly, “but that kind of thinking doesn’t help anyone. You have to look at it differently. I learned that twenty years ago.”

  “Oh? There’s another way to look at it? I’m all ears.”

  “Watch your tone,” her father warned. “We’re having a conversation, just like you wanted.”

  “Sorry.” But she wasn’t. Not entirely. This was not the conversation she wanted.

  Harry said, “Some people call what we’re doing the ‘game of war.’ ”

  She huffed, taken aback to hear him joining their side. “Some game.”

  “Your brother’s right,” her father said. “It is a kind of game.”

  His jaw was tight, but Grace didn’t think her father’s anger was meant for her. She wondered—not for the first time—if he’d always been this tough. He’d been about her age, at the prime of his life, when he’d been ordered into the trenches. He’d seen his friends killed before his eyes and had his leg blown off, but he never talked about any of that. Yet there he sat, defending the Germans.

  “Those men you’re talking about,” he said, rubbing his brow, “they signed up to play the game, and their country expects them to win. But a game requires at least two teams. Ours is just as determined as they are, and we are fighting back.” His mouth twisted wryly. “Of course every team has a captain, and unfortunately, the captain of the German team happens to be a dictator who wants to rule the world.”

  “This game should be called off. Permanently,” she snapped. She knew she sounded like a petulant child, but she said it anyway. “I want Eugene back home right now.”

  “I bet there are more than a few German families wishing the same thing right now,” her mother said quietly.

  “Stop that!” Grace slammed her palms onto the table, making everyone jump. “Stop talking about them like they’re the same as us. This whole war is their fault. I hate them.”

  Harry put one warm hand over hers. “Problem is, hate’s what got us into this mess in the first place.”

  “Don’t patronize me.” She pushed her chair back and reached for the nearest dishes, aware that she was moving too quickly.

  Harry followed. “Gently now,” he muttered as the kitchen door closed behind them. “Don’t break the china.”

  She couldn’t even look at him, she was so upset. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

  “It’s just that war’s not a subject for family conversation,” he said. “You know that. Especially around Maman, and especially at Christmas.” He lowered his voice. “Ask me what you want now, and maybe I can answer.”

  Now that the offer was on the table she almost couldn’t think of what to ask. Carefully, she set the dishes in the water.

  “Do you ever see Eugene?” came off the tip of her tongue.

  “Actually, yeah. I’ve seen him a couple of times through binoculars. And when they’re loading and unloading we occasionally cross paths.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’s good, I’d say. I think he’s up for a promotion.”

  “I bet he misses you.”

  “When he has time. I imagine so.” He peered closely at her. “What about you, Gracie? How are you?”

  She stared at the dishwater, blinking against tears. She didn’t want to complain. Not to him. “I’m fine.”

  “I know you better than that.”

  The concern on his face was so sincere it would have been lying to tell him she was all right. She dried her hands on her apron, took a deep breath.

  “I don’t know, really.”

  “Tell me what’s in your head.”

  It had been building for so long, and until that night she’d kept the fears, the confusion, mostly to herself. But keeping secrets was a lot like lying, in her opinion, and she’d never been able to lie to her brothers.

  “All right,” she said slowly. “It’s like, well, it’s like I’m safely packed away in a box, and I can’t see or hear anything. Or like I’m watching a movie in a theatre, except I know all the actors and I’m separate from them, which tears me apart.” A sob caught in her throat. “Oh, the worst is Norman. He was one of those actors, and it’s like the director just yanked him from the screen with no explanation. I’ll never know what happened to him. I’ll never know if he . . . if he . . .” She tried very hard to still her wobbling chin. “I feel useless. That’s what it is. Useless and alone.”

  “Come here.”

  He held her tight, letting her cry against him until she reluctantly pulled away, wiping at her eyes and nose with the back of her wrist.

  “I’m sorry to put all this on your shoulders,” she managed. “But when you and Eugene are out there, I . . . all I can think is that they killed Norman and they won’t stop until they’ve gotten both of you as well. And I couldn’t bear to live without you.”

  “We will be fine,” he said after a moment. “All of us.”

  If only she could have believed him.

  That evening she stood by the water’s frozen edge and stared out at the horizon, bumpy with the distant profiles of small islands and massive chunks of broken, refrozen ice. The earlier snowfall had buried everything under a smooth, soft layer, but the storm was over now and the stars were out. She’d done this before: standing alone in the night air, praying for the ships she couldn’t see and all the men on board. But tonight she was distracted and felt oddly disconnected from the night.

  Were her father and Harry right? Would the war be easier to comprehend if she envisioned the other side as regular men simply wearing different uniforms? Could she even do that? Her thoughts went to the U-boat that had exploded the other day, of the sudden violence that had dropped those men under the ice. Such a terrible, terrible waste.

  An infinity of stars peeked through the branches, sparkled over the frozen expanse of sea in a magnificent, endless reminder of how very small she was. How every human being in the world, no matter who or where he or she was, was no more than a speck in the universe. How they were all equal in that.

  No, she decided. She couldn’t do it. Imagining the enemy that way made the war seem worse. So much more complicated. If it were true, that meant the people fighting on the other side were the same as her: living
day-to-day, trying to survive the madness. And she couldn’t stand the thought of so many people hurting like she did.

  ELEVEN

  Down came the tinsel, the decorations, and the lights, off went the Christmas music, and the last of the shortbreads were eaten. Gardner’s General Store was back to normal, and Grace made work for herself by moving boxes, packing things away, and bringing out more stock. Anything to keep her distracted. When everything was done, she leaned on the counter and flipped through the newspaper, reading the stream of depressing narratives. Diphtheria, scarlet fever, and the mumps were on the rise in Halifax. Liquor was being rationed again. The Nazis were fighting the Russians. Nothing ever got any better, she thought ruefully, closing the paper.

  Then there he was, walking through the door, his pale hair and eyes lit by the late-afternoon sunshine.

  “Hello there,” she said, trying to appear nonchalant. “Happy New Year!”

  His beard had grown in, but he seemed better-rested than before. “Hello, Grace,” he said. “Yes. Happy New Year for you.”

  Butterflies swooped through her stomach. “Did you have a happy Christmas?”

  “Christmas. Yes.” He slipped off his gloves, walked slowly towards her. “Thank you.”

  What was it about his casual, confident stride that set her heart thrumming?

  “Your ladybug was my favourite gift,” she admitted. “I’m curious. Why did you choose to make a ladybug?”

  She wondered if she’d said the wrong thing, because he didn’t answer at once.

  “This is Marienkäfer,” he explained, watching her reaction. “In German means good things come.”

  She hoped her hesitation was brief enough that he didn’t notice, but she wasn’t sure she could hide her shock. Of all the people in the world, did he have to be German?

  “Good things come?” she echoed, pushing away the niggling in her head.

  Maybe it wasn’t so bad. After all, she was well aware that a number of Germans lived along the Eastern Shore, and just like her father had said, they were Canadian Germans. They’d been here for years. She had to accept the fact that she was wrong about blaming “all” Germans for the war.