Holding the boy’s hand, Chidori walked towards me – only she wasn’t really walking. More like floating.
‘Am I in Heaven?’ My voice was raspy and barely worked.
Chidori knelt next to me, then leaned forward to kiss my forehead.
A four-and-a-half-foot tall, grey-haired, leather-skinned Italian soldier with dirty fingernails rammed the end of his Gewehr rifle against my forehead on the same spot Chidori had kissed. I clenched my eyes shut, swallowed back the whimper that wanted to escape, and waited for the click of the trigger.
A second rifle barrel poked my ribs, prodding me to open my eyes. Rather than black, crusty flakes, I had arms. To my relief, I had legs too. They were burned, but at least I wasn’t a pile of soot like in the dream. I attempted to sit up and the old soldier yelled at me in Italian. I didn’t understand, so I raised my arms in surrender.
The younger soldier, whose narrow face and large eyes were proportioned like a grasshopper’s, searched through what was left of my uniform, looking for my revolver. He pulled it out of my leg pocket, then yelped from the scalding metal and dropped it on the ground.
They nudged me to kneel and link my hands behind my head. Then they discussed my torn-up, bloody, and charred bare feet. The old soldier made impatient hand gestures to get me to stand. I tried, but resting weight on my feet was more agonizing than pouring vinegar on an open wound. I involuntarily moaned from the excruciating pain and fell to the ground. One of them pushed the end of his gun into my back to make me try again. I got up, but only took half a step before I stumbled to my knees. After a rest to wheeze air into my lungs, I hoisted myself up enough to crawl and hoped that wherever they planned to take me to surrender me to the Nazis was not far.
They didn’t follow. They both lit cigarettes and watched me inch slowly. I travelled as far as I could, collapsed, and rolled over to stare up at the sky. High clouds, pleasant spring temperatures – a perfect day to die.
I imagined looking up at the same sky in Canada, half a world away. Maybe a bald eagle soared above, or a tree frog sang to its mate. Surrounded by the peacefulness of the island, nobody back home would have any idea I was about to be shot in the Italian countryside by fascists. I didn’t want to die, and I especially dreaded facing God’s ruling on people like me who took the lives of others in a war. A lot of my squadron mates celebrated every enemy they bagged, foaming at the bit to get back out and kill more. I neither celebrated nor lamented. The truth was, deep down, we all knew the other side was just a bunch of young fellows exactly like us who believed we were the evil ones. Who was to say which side was right? The only thing I knew for certain was there were a lot of us who were going to need to be granted mercy on our souls on judgement day.
Trying to accept my fate with grace, I searched the sky, looking for Heaven. All I saw were more Luftwaffe fighters, flying over in formation.
23 August 1941
Dear Diary,
Hayden gave me quite a startling and melancholy reminder that today’s fall fair might be the last for many years if the war in Europe continues. I wonder if changing traditions is what Obaasan meant about parting. It would be such a shame if the fair and other lovely pastimes were to be cancelled, but there is no denying it is a possibility as we are all asked to tighten our use of nonessentials. Circumstances and attitudes have certainly changed ever since Japan signed on to join forces with Germany and Italy to fight against Great Britain and Canada. Thankfully, hostility is not yet noticeable here on Mayne Island, but I have read in the newspaper that in Vancouver and Victoria the sentiment towards Japanese Canadians has gotten increasingly prejudiced. I pray the war doesn’t ruin everything festive. Or innocent. Or beautiful. But in the regrettable event that it does, I have been making an effort to observe all of the encounters occurring around me.
Speaking of one such observation: I witnessed Hayden in his undershirt this morning. Good golly that was a lovely encounter, but for the sake of propriety this is all I should write about it. Some encounters have been not so lovely, like whatever caused Hayden to get in a shoving match with Rory earlier. I have my suspicions about what caused it, but it’s probably best not to speculate. I really wish he wouldn’t fight, especially if it has anything to do with me.
Chi
After the altercation with the Bauer boys, I vented my frustration by hauling crates of jarred plums and apricots. Ma was head of the craft fair committee and judge for the pie-baking contest, so after I finished helping her army of volunteers set up the tables, she let my sister and me both taste a few pie samples. Mrs Campbell’s blueberry was by far the tastiest because she made it tart the way I liked it. But there was a tangy lemon flan that was going to give her a run for her money.
Rosalyn’s mandated-by-our-mother volunteer-job had been to display the entries for the quilting category on rods suspended with wire from the rafters, but she was also entered as a contestant in the art category. One of her landscape oil paintings was on display on an easel near the stage, and she appeared nervous as I wandered around the hall to view her competition – two other oil paintings, several watercolours, an intricate wood carving of a whale, a blown-glass vase, and something that could only be described literally – a broken doll dipped in ceramic and then adorned in barnacles and gold enamelled butterflies. Oddly interesting in a circus-sideshow type of way.
‘What do you think?’ Rose asked me as she tugged at her lip and leaned in close to study one of the other oil paintings. ‘I don’t think my chances are good. This woman’s brush strokes are more skilful than mine.’
I squinted, not convinced. ‘Does it really matter what her brush stroke is like if her apples resemble pumpkins and her grapes are the size of watermelons?’
Rose chuckled and swatted my arm. ‘Shh. Don’t be cruel. Someone might hear you and I’ll be disqualified for poor sportsmanship.’
‘The prize for the winner is one of Ma’s zucchini loaves. You can just eat one when you get home.’
Rose rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out at me like when we were little kids. ‘It’s for bragging rights, not the prizes.’
‘Well, you definitely have the best oil painting, but you’re going to come second to that ghoulish doll thingamajig.’
‘It is a curiously striking aberration, isn’t it?’ She laughed, then wrinkled her nose. ‘Second place wins a jar of Mrs Auld’s pickled beets.’
‘Mmm. My favourite. Save me some.’ I poked her arm playfully, stole another sample from Ma’s pie-judging table, and then headed back out to the fairgrounds.
Chidori was seated on a stool at their booth, writing in one of her journals, but she put it down to assist two women who approached the counter to purchase carrots. My best mate Joey lounged on the hill beside the Agricultural Hall with his steady gal, Donna Mae. I wandered over and sat down on the prickly dry grass next to them to listen to the church musicians struggle to play a jitterbug song for the crowd.
‘Hi Hayden,’ Donna Mae said. ‘The gang’s all meeting down at the point for a bonfire tonight. Do you want to tag along with us?’
‘I’ll meet you down there.’
‘Ooh.’ She clutched the crook of my arm and shook it excitedly. ‘Do you have a date?’
Not sure if I could swing it, I shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘Chidori?’
A smile crept across my face as I said, ‘I hope so.’
‘That’s swell. It’s about time the two of you finally took the plunge. You’re