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  “So do you mean ladybugs are lucky?” she asked, trying to recover. “Ladybugs make good things happen?”

  “Good things. Yes.”

  “We think of them as lucky, too,” she said.

  They regarded each other shyly, unsure, then she watched him go to the shelves, collect a few cans of vegetables and a bag of oatmeal. At least now she understood why he took so long to read the labels. And maybe that was why he seemed reticent whenever anyone else came into the store. After a moment he picked up some sugar and canned peaches, then returned to the counter.

  “We got some new comics,” she said, remembering, “and I saved this one for you. Johnny Canuck.”

  “Canuck?”

  “Yes, it’s another word for Canadian.”

  “Yes, Canuck. Thank you.” He flipped through the first couple of pages. “Is good.” He dug into his pocket and set some coins on the counter between them. “I . . . I have more fur also. I get bread? More apples?”

  She peeked inside the bag and spotted the downy fur. “Sure. Of course.”

  They made the exchange, but this time he didn’t seem in a hurry to go, and Grace was happy to keep the conversation going.

  “You still living in the woods?”

  “Ja. I trap.”

  “I noticed. Are you bored out there?”

  He seemed puzzled.

  “Bored. Um, you have nothing to do?”

  “Is okay. I have comic and newspaper. I read.”

  “Oh!” She grabbed the Chronicle. “My uncle Mick writes for this newspaper.” She opened it to his latest article and pointed at his name, then at herself. “My uncle.”

  “I understand, Onkel,” he said, and she thought how nice the language sounded coming from him. Nothing like the staccato bursts of German words she’d heard on the radio. “He is making this story?”

  “Yes. He’s the senior editor. Very important.”

  He leaned over the page, scrutinizing the words, his lips moving slightly. He was so different from anyone she’d ever met. Grace couldn’t look away. She followed the broad slope of his shoulders, imagined him relaxing in a cabin, reading by a stove—

  “What you are thinking?”

  “Oh, nothing,” she sputtered.

  “I wonder is okay I come to here, Grace?” he asked. “Talk to you?”

  “Of course! You can come anytime.”

  “Is okay I come and buy nothing? Just come to talk?”

  She dared herself to be brave. After all, he’d started it. “Well, sure, but I don’t even know your name.”

  “Rudi. I am Rudi.” He stuck out a hand, which she shook.

  “Nice to meet you, Rudi.”

  “I like to say . . .” He paused, concentrating. “I like to say I am sorry I not dance again with you. I like that one dance.”

  “Oh, well,” she said. She could almost feel his hand on her waist, her fingers resting on the solid curve of his shoulder. When had her palms gotten so sweaty? “Me too.”

  “Maybe will be another dance.”

  “I would like that very much, Rudi.”

  The doorbell rang, interrupting them yet again.

  “Is good to see you, Grace,” he said, stepping away from the counter.

  “Yes. I’m glad you came back, Rudi. Happy New Year!”

  She was disappointed to see him retreat out the door, but excited, too. He’d said he wanted to come back—even asked her permission—which made her heart sing.

  “Rudi,” she said to herself after the next customer left. She liked the way his name felt on her lips.

  Then she laughed out loud. “What on earth have I gotten myself into?”

  Just a few weeks back she’d danced with a stranger who could barely speak a word of English, and now she was having all sorts of romantic thoughts about him. Her family would tease her if they knew, given her tirade the other night. And what would Harry say if he found out how easily she’d been swayed by a pair of blue eyes and a winning smile? Then again, her family was always encouraging her to look for Mr. Right. Maybe they wouldn’t laugh. Maybe they’d understand what she was feeling even better than she did. It might just be that he was exactly what she’d been waiting for all along: a stranger from far away who walked in from the cold and swept her off her feet.

  Except she couldn’t ignore the sense of unease pulsing through her. Rudi might be the most handsome man in the world, and he was undeniably charming, but he was still German. And while she certainly didn’t know every German living along the Eastern Shore, she couldn’t help thinking she would have remembered him if she’d seen him before.

  Rudi

  TWELVE

  Being with Grace, talking with her, made Rudi happier than he’d been in a long time. There was something about the way her eyes danced when he said the right thing, the way she watched him so closely . . . There was a glow about her that made him feel warm all the way through.

  It was a new year, as she’d reminded him: 1943. The number meant nothing, but he liked the idea of a fresh start. As if the world had just opened a book and revealed a crisp, untouched page. What would he write on that page? He walked faster, unnerved by the thought. The longer he stayed at the camp, the greater the chance that he would be caught by either the Canadians or his own navy. Did his being stranded here make him AWOL? Would the navy classify him as missing or charge him with desertion? Or would they simply presume he was dead along with the rest of U-69’s crew?

  A menacing bank of clouds was building ahead, coming in quickly, and before long the first twisting, wandering snowflakes began spiralling down like timid children. Beyond them floated millions more, and they gained confidence and strength in numbers, blurring the landscape. Fortunately, the camp was only about twenty minutes away, as long as the path didn’t get much worse.

  But it did. The wind picked up, pelting him with stinging ice crystals. He had to lean against the storm as he walked, squinting through it every so often to check for landmarks. By the time he reached the camp, the blizzard had gotten much worse. He shut himself in, struck up a lamp, then lit the fire before taking off his coat. When the next gust came, the camp shook and the trees outside creaked with strain. If any of the larger trees broke and crashed onto the roof, the camp would be crushed to splinters, a thought Rudi tried to ignore as he prepared a pot of soup.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Minutes later the terrible sound he’d feared cut through the wind: the ominous crackling and groaning crescendo of snapping branches. He pressed his face to the window, searching for the source, but could see nothing through the frozen pane and wild blizzard. A noise like machine-gun fire rang out as the roots of a tree were ripped from the ground, but he realized with great relief that it wasn’t close enough to affect him. Not this time, anyway.

  He turned back to the stove, then stopped. What was that new sound? Was it just the moaning of the wind? An animal? No, the creatures of the forest would have sought shelter long before the storm hit. A sick sensation hardened in his gut. He’d been out here a month and hadn’t seen another soul, but this had sounded like . . . The noise came again, and Rudi hastily pulled on his coat and boots. Whatever was out there, stuck in this storm, was plainly desperate. He tore out into the ferocious blizzard, listening hard against the screaming gale. When he heard the voice again, he had no doubt. The weakening calls were coming downwind, from the direction of the water, and they were human. He ran as fast as he could towards the sound.

  What might have usually been a ten-minute walk took at least double, and by then the panicked voice he’d heard had stopped. Still, Rudi pressed on. Though the trail ahead was an unrelenting wall of white, he followed the path he had marked weeks earlier by making visible cuts high in the trees. Near the edge of the frozen lake he stopped and peered across its surface. Despite the blinding snow, he could see that a tree had fallen and crashed onto the lake’s surface, smashing everything in its path; the ice around it was black with shredded bark
.

  Then Rudi spotted something beyond the tree. It could have been a thick branch tossed there by the storm, but it wasn’t the right shape. Moving carefully, he edged onto the ice and realized most of the dark shape was hidden under the water. For just an instant the wind paused, taking a breath, and Rudi made out the body of a man.

  The ice wasn’t broken all the way through to where Rudi stood, but the area near the body was dark with exposed water, and more nearby trees wailed with the effort of standing upright. Nothing about this situation was stable. He couldn’t simply walk out there, but he couldn’t leave the man, either. He’d heard the screams only a half hour before; there was a chance he could still be alive.

  “Hello! Hello!” he called.

  No response. Rudi lowered himself to all fours, then started crawling towards the man, yelling against the wind the whole way.

  “I come! You are okay?”

  As he got closer, he dropped lower still, then finally wormed towards the hole in the ice. Both of the man’s stiff wool mittens were frozen to the surface, anchoring almost half his body out of the water, and his frosted, unconscious face rested on one arm. Rudi reached for one of the mittens, but it resisted. He didn’t pull again, not wanting to disturb the ice further. Not until he could figure out what to do. A sudden Arctic gust roared through the forest, swept icy shrapnel into his face, and Rudi squinted against it. He scanned the ice, searching for ideas on how to proceed, then he spotted a heavy-looking backpack lying a few feet away and snaked towards it.

  “Gott sei Dank,” he exclaimed, pulling out a coil of rope.

  He slid back to the unconscious man and dropped the rope over his head, sweating despite the cold. Before drawing it tight, he tied the loop under the man’s soaked elbows and used his own hands as a lever to pry the frozen mitts and sleeves loose. Then he backed up ten feet and began to tug. The body was covered in a thin coating of ice, like an opaque white sheath, and though it was heavy and stuck hard to the broken surface at first, it broke free and came as he pulled. When he could, Rudi reached out and grabbed under the man’s arms, dragging him the rest of the way to safety. At the shore, he heaved the body and backpack over his shoulders, then carried both back to the camp.

  Once inside the cabin, Rudi laid the man on the bottom bunk and took a closer look. It was a boy, maybe five years younger than himself. Rudi pressed his fingers to the boy’s cold neck, just beneath the jaw, then he closed his eyes, concentrating. A slow but promising pulse met his fingertips, and he immediately got to work. He removed all the frozen, sodden clothing, and by the time he had gotten down to the boy’s bare chest, he felt a glimmer of hope; the clammy skin was pink, not blue. Rudi replaced the wet clothes with a blanket and laid his own still-warm coat on top.

  He’d done all he could for now. The boy would either wake or he would not. His own fingers were still numb from the cold, so he turned to tend the fire and held his hands up to the heat.

  The boy groaned.

  Rudi jumped to his feet, and this time when he pressed his fingers to the boy’s neck, the heartbeat was much stronger. He was still unconscious, but he would live.

  Satisfied for now, Rudi investigated the backpack. It was a windfall, heavy with tools and food. The boy moaned once more and Rudi looked up. Something stirred in the boy’s consciousness, for his brow creased briefly before relaxing back into sleep. He looked relatively strong, considering everything. Having survived an icy death, Rudi thought, he would want to tell his family a tale of his adventure. What would he say? How could he explain his deliverance?

  Rudi suddenly felt sick. What the hell had he just done?

  THIRTEEN

  After about a half hour, the boy on the bunk began to shiver so violently the whole bed shook, and the coat keeping him warm slid onto the floor. The boy’s eyes were still closed, his cheeks were a vivid red, but at least the frightening shade of blue had faded from his lips. When he moaned, his face contorted with pain, but Rudi was glad to hear signs of life. He’d frozen his own hands and feet many times and knew that the burning pain meant the boy was thawing. His limbs would feel as if tiny fires flared inside them everywhere at once, consuming his muscles, but it was only blood pumping through them again.

  When Rudi stood and laid the coat back over him, the boy’s eyes popped open.

  “Hello,” Rudi said, startled. “You are safe.” He spoke in English but received no reply, just a dull stare. “You can talk?”

  “Who are you?” The boy’s voice was hoarse and unsteady.

  “Rudi.”

  The boy grimaced with pain, sucking air through his teeth.

  “I pull you from water.”

  A shudder travelled violently through the boy. “I d-d-don’t know you. Why are you here?”

  “Trapping.”

  Thinking it might help to warm the patient from the inside, Rudi filled a cup halfway with boiling water, then added snow to neutralize the temperature.

  “Tea?”

  The boy peered into the cup. “That isn’t t-tea. It’s hot water.”

  “Sorry. I have only this.”

  “M-might be coffee in my pack. P-pot’s under the bunk.”

  The aroma that filled the cabin over the next few minutes made the whole terrible ice rescue worthwhile. Rudi took a grateful gulp, and though the coffee was weak it still tasted like heaven.

  With effort, the boy moved, trying to sit, then he cried out and hugged his torso. After he’d caught his breath, he slowly straightened, not meeting Rudi’s eyes. When he finally sat, slightly hunched but upright, and some of the colour had returned to his cheeks, he curled his pale fingers around the cup and sipped. Then he glared directly at Rudi.

  “Who are you?”

  Rudi shook his head. “No. I ask. Who are you?”

  “T-Tommy. Tommy Baker. This camp belongs to my family. I came out to do some hunting.”

  “Where is gun?”

  Tommy scanned the room. “If you didn’t find it, I guess it’s at the bottom of the lake. Your turn. What are you doing here?”

  He shrugged. “I find camp.”

  “You ‘find’ it?” Tommy scowled at him. “What’s that supposed to mean? You mean you found it?”

  This was disappointing. Rudi had been practising his English by reading every night, and he’d been hoping to avoid obvious mistakes when he had to speak to a stranger. He knew he sounded somewhat stilted, but he had thought he was improving.

  “You feel okay?” he asked, buying himself some time.

  “I feel . . . not very good. I feel odd.”

  “I understand. I think this . . .” He patted his own torso and waited with his eyebrows raised.

  “What, ribs?”

  “Yes. Ribs is break. A tree is falling on ice and you. You are to death close.”

  “ ‘To death close?’ ” You mean ‘close to dead?’ ”

  “You remember?”

  “I remember trying to get out, but I must have passed out.” Tommy paused. “Thanks.” Then his eyes narrowed. “Wait. Do I know you?”

  “No.”

  “From the Christmas dance!”

  That damn dance. Rudi never should have gone. He didn’t remember this boy, but apparently he had made an impression. “Yes. I am at dance.”

  “What about the others? Your friends? Where are they?”

  “Gone. I do not know. I am alone.”

  A pause, then, “You’re German,” Tommy whispered.

  Rudi sighed. “Ja. German.”

  Tommy’s gaze went to Rudi’s heavy, black wool coat, the one he’d used as a blanket. No one could deny it was a military-style coat.

  “Are you a Nazi?”

  If Rudi admitted he was a Nazi, he would practically be offering himself up to the authorities. He had no idea how a prisoner of war would be treated here, but he couldn’t risk anyone discovering his secret. On the other hand, the coat had given him away.

  “No. I am no more Nazi,” he declared.
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  “What do you mean, ‘no more?’ You were a Nazi?”

  Maybe he shouldn’t have said that, but it was too late now. “Ja, was Nazi. No more.”

  Interest began to replace wariness. “Why not?”

  “I . . . I like here. In Canada.”

  “Not sure I buy that. Everybody knows Nazis want to take over the world and kill us all.”

  Apparently the Nazi propaganda machine had reached these remote shores. “This is not true.”

  “Sure it is. I’ve seen newsreels at the movie theatre, and I’ve heard speeches on the radio.”

  “Well, is not true for me,” he clarified. “I am not fight again.”

  “You saying you’re a deserter?”

  Deserteur. The word hung in the air between them, the same in German as it was in English. Never in his life would Rudi have imagined he’d be calling himself that, not even in jest. Back in Germany, if they believed he was a deserter, he would stand before a firing squad. But here . . .

  It was a challenge for him to agree, but he had no other choice.

  His admission seemed to amaze the boy. “Wow. What kind of man deserts?”

  “This is not your problem.”

  “I say it is. This is my family’s camp. I want to know who is trespassing.”

  “What is that? Tress . . . ?”

  Tommy raised one arm, then dropped it, reacting with a gasp to the strain on his ribs. Using the other hand he gestured around the room. “Trespassing is you living here when you aren’t invited. You don’t belong here, German.”

  Rudi needed to change the course of the conversation before it got too one-sided, so he dragged his chair over until he and Tommy were face to face. “You think is bad I pull you from water? Okay. But if I not here, you are dead.”

  The boy’s eyes lowered. “Well, that’s true.”

  “Drink coffee.”