We didn’t speak one word throughout the patrol—we knew the Germans would be listening for us. I followed Appleby’s lead across No Man’s Land, just like they’d taught us in training. He held up an open palm to signal for us to stop, and the other six of us crouched slowly, thighs burning until we’d reached a squat. From there, we lowered onto our bellies and crawled, taking care to stick to the craters, where we could be sure the mines had already detonated.
I held my rifle in front of me as we approached each crater, peeking over the edge first to make sure no Germans were trapped inside. We found one German half dead, and I distracted Luther while Wallace quietly did the work nobody else wanted to, taking care to stuff a cloth down his mouth first. Poor bloke. Once inside the next crater, we waited until all seven of us had regrouped, and we nodded at Appleby to poke his head over the edge to decide what crater we would crawl to next. I caught Luther’s eye and pressed a finger to my lips. He’d left his rifle slung over his back while we were crawling, and we could all hear it rattling as he crawled. I grabbed the gun and put it in his hands, signaling that he needed to keep it out, for his own safety. He trembled and smelled like piss. We all did. Appleby nodded and pointed over the edge, to where a tree trunk had fallen over some barbed wire, flattening it into a break we could crawl over. Beyond that was the shadow of another pit we would hide in. It looked like a good place to set up a listening post, to lay low while we waited for the German officers to give orders for the movements of troops and the timing of the next barrage.
Soon, it was time to go over. Appleby went first, then Wallace, Wright, Somers, and Nash. Before going over, I stepped to Luther and bent his arms so that he was holding the rifle properly and wouldn’t get a cartridge in his eye. I tapped his forehead to remind him what I’d said earlier: hear a gunshot, hide behind me. I put a hand on his neck, and we stood there quiet for a few seconds. Then I left.
Between craters, I dragged myself across the wet ground, imagining I could hear the Earth’s comforting heartbeat and that I was clinging to her, prostrating myself before her in the hope that she’d spare me. It reminded me what serenity was, being so close and so vulnerable to something so large and unshakeable. I knew then why the ancients prayed to an Earth Mother and not an Earth Father.
Up ahead, I watched Appleby’s silhouette approach the fallen tree, where he stopped. My heart sped up. What if there was a mine under the tree? The tree was the only unexploded object within a hundred meters. Appleby shook his head and crawled away, I guess suddenly realizing this. Instead, he crawled down the line and chose an empty stretch of barbed wire, where he pulled out his wire cutters and started snipping away.
“Oye!” German voices.
Appleby’s cutters fell from his fingers, and he covered his head in his hands. Everyone followed suit, except me. I glanced back at Luther, who was inching behind me just like I’d told him, except he sounded like a gamboling bear, and I could hear him sloshing through the mud. I signaled for him to make like a mouse, but he just kept crawling faster. I motioned for him to stop again and mouthed Stop! They can hear you!
Meanwhile, the Germans carried on their prattle, just fifty meters away in their trench. The prattle was good, I convinced myself. As long as the Germans were talking to each other, they wouldn’t be listening for us. But just because some of them were talking didn’t mean they all were. They had snipers, too. What were the snipers doing? Who were they watching?
Luther kept crawling, louder and louder. Slosh, slosh, slosh. I shushed him, but his eyes were wide with fear. Realizing that Luther wouldn’t be getting any quieter, Appleby picked up his cutters and clipped the barbed wire even faster. To give Appleby some protection, I trained my rifle on the German trench. They must have had a bonfire going because I could see sparks trailing up toward the stars. They were probably all warm in their huddle, reading Christmas letters from home. And then the singing started. Although I didn’t know much German, I knew the song and what it meant.
Lange schon uns bedacht
Als der Herr vom Grimme befreit,
In der Väter urgrauer Zeit
Aller Welt Schonung verhieß,
Aller Welt Schonung verhieß.
Some sang with a tender, broken longing. Others sang with a drunk, boisterous flair to forget such longing. For an instant, the memory of a long ago Christmastime dragged me away from the cold and the mud and the fear. There I was, all of seven years old, helping Father haul in the tree as he praised me for being so strong. Once it was up, we draped tinsel on the branches, and Mum and Granny made a new wreath to hang on the door. I remembered stomping my foot until Mum marched over to Baker’s Sweets to buy my favorite chocolate truffles. I could almost taste them.
Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!
Hirten erst kundgemacht
Durch der Engel Alleluja,
Tönt es laut bei Ferne und Nah:
Jesus der Retter ist da!
Jesus der Retter ist da!
The smell of garlic wafted on the smoke from the German trench. They were cooking … sausage? It sizzled over the embers. Further down the line, in a machine-gun turret, I noticed the pointed tips of those familiar helmets bobbing up and down. Hold on, what were those chaps up to?
All the prattle died and gave way to a terrible, shrieking whistle.
“Shell!”
Appleby sprang to his feet and took off running, right across No Man’s Land. The German line lit up with gunfire. The cornered animal sprang to life within me, and I was suddenly dragging Luther toward the nearest crater. My ears popped. My bones rattled. Blast! A flash of white, and Mother Earth left me. No pressure of the ground beneath and no sense of the sky above; no up, no down. Tumbling through the air, swept up like a wave on a beach, my body so hot it stung cold. I flailed my arms as if to straighten myself, but to no avail. The world flew by and I flew with it.
I don’t know how long I was out, but I woke to searing pain. Yet all I could think of was Luther. Luther. I’d made a promise. I said I’d keep him alive. I called his name, but only a croak escaped me. I gathered the Earth in my reddened palms and touched it to my mouth—I don’t know why—then pulled myself forward. The world was nothing but blurred slow-motion silhouettes, yet I dragged myself toward him, toward the dark body I knew must be him. Luther must live. Luther must live. I promised. I reached out my hand, grabbed hold of the edge of a wet, woolen sweater, and then everything went dark.
My eyes fluttered open, and I stared up at the sky wondering what people would say when they’d see me. A burned husk of a man, poor soul. What would Mum do with me? What would Father say? Soft white snowflakes drifted down from on high, falling on hot skin. I closed my eyes and let them fall.
The train rolled out from the Le Havre station at dawn, squealing and chugging across the French countryside—fenced-in patches of frosty white and dried-up yellow grass that quilted the hills. Occasionally, we’d cross a frozen river. We’d stop for local stations at the intersection of dirt roads where refugees hiked. Occasionally, I locked eyes with the poor souls as we passed. I could not imagine what else they’d seen. What they’d lived through. What had Luther seen? What had he lived through?
I checked my watch. If only this train could chug faster. Fate permitting, I’d be with Luther late tonight or early tomorrow morning. There’d be no sleep for me tonight.
I checked inside my bag to make sure the tickets to Algeria were still there. What would Luther say when he saw me after all these years?
For company, I had Private Roberts, an engineer who had once worked as a mechanic near Manchester. As the assigned guard, he was paid to sit all day in the train car to make sure nobody stole the post. I asked him who would want to steal a soldier’s love letter, and he scratched his head.
“A very lonely guard.”
I chuckled.
“Well, let me know if you come across one of those. In the meantime, I’m taking a nap.” I curled up on top of a couple sacks of mail and let the rattling of the railroad car rock me to sleep. Wearing my coat and extra socks—it was as cozy as being in the womb.
I didn’t sleep long, and when I woke I noticed a fine lot of identical cardboard boxes tied with twine and stacked amidst the sacks. Curious. Pulling the twine and opening the flaps, I snuck a look inside one to find it filled with elaborately engraved bronze tins, each the size of my palm. The words CHRISTMAS 1914 were engraved beneath a profile of Princess Mary, surrounded by laurels. So these must be from the Christmas gift fund Mum got the candy order for.
Popping the lid off the tin, I saw it packed with cigarettes, a little Christmas card from the Princess herself, and some butterscotch candy—little amber jewels to suck on throughout the day. I chuckled. For all I knew, my own mother made this candy with her bare hands, and here I was, across the sea, holding them in my palm. I closed the tin and put it back in its box.
I shuffled through the post a bit more and found a sack with letters from my neck of the woods. I couldn’t resist taking a peek. Probably one in ten of the blokes in Luther’s regiment were from near Leamington Spa, and as I sorted through the posts, I saw familiar names, including some from my boarding school in Rugby. While flipping through envelopes, I paused at a letter addressed to Ethyl Brand. Ethyl Brand. Reading the name woke a wound in me, like pressing against an old bruise. I picked it up and turned it over. It looked official. Ethyl. Over the years, I had often recalled the times we’d sat by the river together, often wondered where she was and how she was doing. Hadn’t seen her since the 1800s. Aunt Lavinia said she’d left Leamington to become a missionary. I lingered on that letter, wondering what was inside. And what was she doing on the front? Oh, I’d better come off it. None of my business. Awful nosy of me to be rifling through these letters in the first place.
“When do you suppose it will snow?” Private Roberts asked, looking out the window at the frosted and shriveled countryside.
“No idea.” I shrugged. But I hope it snows soon. I mean, what’s Christmas without snow? It’s already cold as hell, so we might as well get the precipitation to match.” I put Ethyl’s letter back in the bag and pulled the drawstring tight.
He nodded and kept his eyes focused on the passing fields. With a long sigh, he rested his head on the windowsill.
“Say, you know where the loo is?” I asked. “Is there a special car for that, or do we just piss off the side?”
“Two cars down.”
“Cheers, mate.” Gripping the railing, I pulled myself to my feet, leaving the warmth of the car for the balcony outside. The ground rushed past, and I stepped over the coupler linking the two cars. The floor buckled and clanked beneath me, and I stepped into the other car, this one also stuffed full of post. I crossed the car, my bloated bladder coaxing me on. When I reached the other side, my boot landed on something soft. I looked down to see a small doll, a man in a red cloak with a white beard and a bag over his shoulder. Santa Claus. I bent down to pick it up, and before I straightened up, I heard a gasp.
“Est-ce que vous, Pére Noël?”
A tiny, high-pitched voice cut through the dull rattling of the car, followed by a few shh’s. I could’ve sworn it sounded like a little girl, like one of the kids who lived down the hall from me in that last boarding house. I could tell by the inflection of the words that she was asking a question, like Is it you, Pére Noël? Only I had no idea who Pére Noël was.
“Ce que tu lis? Ce livre—est-il un histoire?”
A shiver rushed up my spine, and goose-pimples skittered across my skin. The stacks of post sacks slanted shadows across the car. Stowaways. Refugees?
If I was a kid, where would I hide?
I stepped forward carefully. After all, if there were kids hiding in here, I didn’t want to scare them. I peered behind first one and then another mail sack until I saw her. A shivering little girl crouched there—white-haired with a little round nose, surrounded by dolls and an open suitcase stuffed with more dolls. She said something in French, and then her eyes came to rest on the pistol at my side. She pulled back into herself, obviously wary.
I held my hands up. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” Two more girls poked their heads out from behind post sacks. The older one stood, reached into her skirt pocket, and pulled out a nasty, curved knife with a blade a good five inches long. It was an army knife—French, German, or British, I couldn’t tell. Once I caught a good look at it, she stowed it back into her skirts.
I realized the littlest one—she was probably about five years old—was staring at the doll in my hand. I held it out to her. “Is this yours?”
She snatched it from me and looked down at the doll and then up at me. “Pére Noël!”
“Who?”
“Pére Noël! Pére Noël!”
“All right, who is this Pére Noël? Why do you keep calling me that?”
She pointed at me and then eyed the duffel bag slung over my shoulder. I squinted at my reflection in the window—a little bit of my beard had grown back since I had last shaved, and I was tugging a bulging duffel bag over my shoulder. I studied the doll, then my own reflection. The doll. Me. The doll. Me.
“Pére Noël,” the little girl said, handing me the doll.
“God, no. Ah, no. Not at all.” I shook my head. “I’m no Santa Claus. My name is Jim Baker. Je suis appelé Jim Baker.”
“Non,” the girl shook her head.
“Non Pére Noël,” I corrected her.
I set my bag down to prove it. They gathered ’round me as I undid the buckles and dumped out the contents—a week’s worth of clothes, lots of rolled-up socks, toiletries, ammunition, cigarettes, money, and a folder full of my personal documents.
“See,” I said. “I’ve no toys. These are my supplies.”
The girls prattled amongst themselves.
“Where are you parents?” I finally asked the oldest girl. She was probably no older than ten. “Your pére and mére? Where are they?”
“Refugee,” was all she said.
What had I just walked into?
“Do you know any English?” I asked.
She nodded. “Some. A neighbor was English.” Her eyes glistened and she wiped her nose.
“Alright. What are your names?”
“Je suis appelé Celeste Moreau,” she pointed to herself. Celeste Moreau.
She nodded at the middle girl. “Adele Moreau.”
Then, the smallest sister, who obsessively clung to the Santa doll. “Bernadette Moreau.”
“Jim Baker,” I pointed at myself.
“Non,” Celeste shook her head, “Pére Noël.”
“Where are your parents?” I asked them, this time louder.
She shook her head and looked away. I didn’t press. She wouldn’t talk about her parents just because I shouted.
“Where are you from? Your home?”
“North Pole,” Celeste replied.
Suddenly, little Bernadette rushed me, throwing her arms around my waist, her silver-blond hair—frayed and dirty—draped over my arm. I tried thinking of some smart response, some way to scold her for throwing herself at a strange man with a gun. It was dangerous, foolish. But what could I say that she would understand? I stood there, dumb, and for once, I had no smart comeback, no quip to lighten the mood. My heart slowed, my chest loosened, and all of the noise in my head softened and quieted. I looked down to see her burying her face in my shirt, eyes screwed shut, as if I, Santa Claus, had the power to quell her pain. It was one of those moments that slowed time, and the only thought that occurred to me was how gentle, how vulnerable, how hopeful she was. Like a smoldering wick, the slightest breeze would blow her out. So I hugged her back and held my hand against her little head, and imagined this was how fathers felt. Get a hold of yourself, Jim.
“Hold on,” I croaked out and quickly left the car.
In the back of my mind, I felt a darkness, a fear that I’d done something wrong. I remembered when I was young, at my Aunt Lavinia’s wedding, Ethyl Brand had grabbed me by the hands and tried pulling me out onto the dance floor. We were about five, and I was so red with embarrassment that I tore my hands out of hers and hid in the bushes outside. I’d always rejected tenderness like I’d rejected fruitcake—too much sweetness made me sick. That’s what I got for growing up in a sweet shop. I thought of Mum and felt that it had something to do with her. Her and Luther. Love him sweet, she always said when trying to keep calm during one of Luther’s fits. Love Luther sweet, but give Jim the back of your hand.
Stop being maudlin, Jim!
I nodded at Private Roberts when I returned to the post car. “I’m gonna try to get some real shut-eye in the other car,” I said. “Knock first.”
Before I stepped back into the other car with the Moreau girls, I took a by-now, much-needed piss off the side and watched the dark countryside roll by. What kind of world was it that made refugees of little girls? What kind of world was it that sent men like Luther to war? No kind I’d ever understand.
Back in the other car, I stacked a couple of postal bags on top of each other and draped my oil cloth coat over them, creating a cozy little fort. Bernadette and Adele crawled inside with their dolls, giggling, while Celeste and I locked eyes. She watched me as I dug at the bottom of my bag and pulled out a tin of figs. I opened it and handed it to her. She pulled out her knife and stabbed one fig each, giving out precious rations to her little sisters, who each received larger portions than her. Then came a tin of peaches. After all of the fruit had been skewered, they took turns passing the tin back and forth to sip the syrup. Celeste wouldn’t take any of the syrup and instead left it for the two young ones. Then she offered some to me, but I waved it off, patting my stomach and frowning.
“Too much sweetness makes me sick.”
But she insisted, and after a few more attempts to refuse, I tipped the tin back and sucked down the last the last of the sweet syrup, feeling the tiny grains of peach dissolve on my tongue.
“Thank you,” I said. She nodded back solemnly as if the transaction was confirmation of a pact made between us.
For most of the rest of the ride, I sat on the floor next to Celeste, backs propped up against a mail sack as we watched Adele and Bernadette play in the fort with their dolls. The more I watched, the more I came to understand the plot of their make-believe story. It all began with a little girl, or several, living and playing happily. Then, a male figure appeared and threw them around. The dolls then escaped and spent a long time wandering and hiding, eventually finding a safe haven with Santa Claus, or Pére Noël, where they would live happily ever after. They repeated this plot with many variations, their brows furrowing each time the male doll came to grab them.
“You know, tomorrow is Christmas,” I said to Celeste. “Maybe Pére Noël will leave you a gift.”
“You must know,” she said, “vous êtes Pére Noël.”
“I’m not. I’m just Jim, Jim Baker.”
I sat there watching the girls for about twenty minutes and then got bored. I pulled out A Tale of Two Cities and flipped to the last scene, which I’d read dozens if not hundreds of times. The girls looked up from their dolls when I opened the book. A few minutes later, Adele and Bernadette returned to their play. Celeste kept watching me, though.
“What is the story?” she asked. “Bien?”
“It’s a good story,” I nodded. “It’s about, um, well—a man, a good man, gets arrested in France because he is related to the enemy. You understand?”
She nodded.
“So he’s a Brit—a very decent, kind Brit—trapped in France, destined to die, and another fellow who’s not so decent and kind rescues him.”
“Rescues? How?”
“Well, the two men—the good man and the bad man—they are very alike. The bad man wants to redeem himself for the bad things he’s done, and he travels all the way from England to France, which is a very dangerous journey. Finally, he finds the good man, who’s trapped—”
My throat closed.
“What? What does he do?”
“They switch places.” I smiled, forcing myself to keep a straight face. “The bad man dresses up to look like the good man. The good man gets off free, while the bad man is executed in his place. And he tells everyone, ‘It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done.’”
“This makes you sad,” she noted.
“Oh, I’m not sad,” I sniffed. “It’s just, I got this book for my brother for his birthday many years ago, but I never gave it to him. That’s what I’m doing here. I’m going to give the book to him for real this time.”
I doubt Celeste’s English was good enough to understand, but she nodded and smiled anyway.
“Your brother is in France? Is he soldier?”
“Something like that.”
Around noon, the train slowed and I woke to see Adele and Bernadette curled up inside the fort and realized Celeste was snoring softly, tucked up against my side. Outside, the engineer pulled the breaks, and the train squealed as the wheels rubbed against the steel tracks. Sparks flew, and the train slowed to a stop.
I pulled myself to my feet and gathered my things back into my bag. “I have to go,” I said. “I have work to do.”
Celeste sat up and tilted her head to look at me. “You go find your brother? To give him the book?”
My brother? It took me a moment to remember I’d told her Luther was in France. What had I been thinking, confiding in a ten-year-old refugee?
“I suggest you clear out quick. Men will come to unload the post. They’ll find you.”
The girls conversed among each other in French, sounding distressed. Uh oh. What if they started crying? What if Roberts the guard came in? What if the police found them and took them away? What would I say? What would happen to them? As a boy, I remembered hearing old man Carraway say that it’s best not to butt into the affairs of the disadvantaged unless you know what you’re doing. Otherwise, you could just end up hurting them. Like feeding a stray dog. Wow, what a terrible comparison.
But, I couldn’t worry about these three girls. There were agencies and refugee centers equipped for that. I had come all this way for Luther. That was it. Period.