Rodney Stoker told me to follow him onto the field and to leave the trench and we crawled in lots of mud and then the sky rained bombs and then he pushed me in the big hole and said hide and wrote a letter to Mum for me. Rodney Stoker said do not go outside the crater do not leave until they come for you and it was light and the guns would see do not step outside. But we had to get back to pals where there were no bombs and there was food. I was very afraid and the sounds went away and the feelings went away and there were truffles. Truffles in my hands that I made best. Little candies to give to happy kids that giggle and girls that giggle and say they like me and I blush like at the candy contest. Happy happy happy happy not here not here not here not here. Why isn’t everyone happy? Why do they want to hurt each other? Why? Why? Why? Why do they shoot at me and scare me so bad my thoughts stop and I stop. Why do they throw bombs that shriek so loud they made me feel like my head is broken? But Rodney Stoker really was broken. Blood turned brown and crusty in places blood wasn’t supposed to be like when I pushed him down when he was little. His skin was red and hot and his hair was gone and he was bald. Rodney Stoker’s arms turned into wood because they would not bend and he didn’t answer any of my questions and didn’t talk or look at my eyes. I was dead for the whole day. The bombs stopped when it was dark and I turned alive again and my thoughts started thinking again. I thought they would come back but they didn’t. I wanted to look over the edge but everyone who did it died. And Rodney Stoker told me not to so I didn’t know what to do. I asked Rodney Stoker can I look over the edge to go back to get a doctor but he didn’t answer and I tried to poke him and lift him but his legs were stiff like wood just like his arms. So I sat there until it was darker and my thoughts came back because the bombs weren’t making them go away. If I didn’t look over the edge we would not be able to go be safe and we would stay here and I did not want to stay here. So I looked over the edge and there was nothing. The world was flat and grey even though there used to be trees. The guns did not make noise but I didn’t know if they saw me so I hid again in the big hole. I didn’t know what to do if I should stay or leave we would get killed. What do I do, Mum? I cried a little and crawled around the big hole. I saw the letter Rodney Stoker wrote and stuffed it in my pocket because I had to send it to Mum so she would not be sad and know I was okay. I had to get out and send the letter to Mum. I had to get out and send the letter to Mum. A man was standing on top and looking at me with a gun he was a German because he had a pointy hat and a mustache. But he talked normal and said hello are you stuck. He talked English like me. We looked at each other and I was not scared because he was a person and people I knew usually tried to help other people so I said yes I need help am I allowed to leave the hole my friend is hurt bad. He said yes but not now. He said wait. He said words I did not know and looked around and told me to be quiet and stay still and he would be back when it was safe. So I waited because I did not want to die and I did not want Rodney Stoker to die. I thought maybe he would not come back and then he did. He told me the bombs were going to stop for a while and I could take my friend for help if he was still alive. I had been checking and Rodney Stoker was still alive, but almost not. Then the German crawled into the hole with me and crouched down beside Rodney Stoker. He looked at me and said it is Christmas and he and his friends do not want to fight now and if he lets me go can I tell my friends that the Germans will not shoot if the Brits do not shoot. I said I do not want to fight anymore at all especially at Christmas and so I would tell my friends. And he gave me a note with some words on it and I put it in my pocket with my letter to Mum. Then he helped me pick up Rodney Stoker because Rodney Stoker did not get up and he was heavy to carry but I was big. And he helped me get Rodney Stoker out of the hole and I said thank you. And the German shook my hand and told me Merry Christmas and please don’t shoot on Christmas day and maybe even a week or so after that and did I have his note?
“Yes, I have the note in my pocket but I cannot read the words so I will give it to one of my friends.”
“No officers,” he said. “Don’t show it to an officer or everything will be ruined.”
“Okay,” I said. I told him I liked the idea of no shooting. Especially at Christmas time. No one should be shooting anyone. Everyone should be eating candy.
We rode for the North Pole. The lorry bounced over the crest of the hill at top speed, the pedal touching the floor. I kept checking the sun as it set out the window, hoping this side trip wouldn’t take too long.
“Any preferences?” The post master had asked.
“Ploegsteert,” I’d answered as he threw me the keys to a beat up lorry. Postal workers started heaving the sacks in place, and after I was all loaded, I drove a few miles out of Hazebrouck, where I stopped to pick up Celeste, Adele, and Bernadette at an old windmill, our designated meeting point. Somehow, they managed to squeeze into the passenger seat. That was just as well, because I would’ve had to clear a space amid the cargo for them.
“All settled?” I tried sounding cheerful, but it was fake. I’d seen many adults put on that face when things threatened to spiral out of control, like Auntie Lavinia. I decided that wasn’t for me.
Auntie Lavinia. My throat, constricted, as if stuck on a stone that wouldn’t budge up or down.
I drove north, directly away from Ploegsteert, blazing down the dirt roads, over crests, and around curves. Every so often, we’d come across a crater, and I’d have to slow down and go around it. The grey folds of farmland sprawled out under the bruised sky—the blotchy lavenders skirting the clouds, the sun now gone away for her long nap.
I returned my gaze to the road, flipping the headlights on. The girls smiled at the sunset and made occasional comments to each other as we passed cows and sheep grazing peacefully as if there was not a war going on just a few miles away.
“Do you know how to get to your uncle's house,” I asked Celeste.
“We haven’t been there in a long time.” Her voice was small and worried.
“Well,” I said, trying to sound confident, “we’ll find it together.”
Every once in a while, we’d slow down at a crossroads to shine the headlights on a wooden sign with arrows pointing to the names of villages carved on them. With the map I’d been given, I followed the signs from town to town, clunking along lonely roads and through sleepy village squares. Soon the girls had bowed their heads together in the seat, eyes closed, breathing softly. At one stop, I threw my blanket over them. When my eyelids felt heavy and my head swayed, I sat up straighter and gripped the steering wheel harder. Couple more miles to go. I checked my watch—10:39 PM. Damn. How far was I from Ploegsteert?
Then I saw it. Estaires, the sign said in the headlights.
Yes.
It was now completely dark, and I cruised in to the village, trying to guess where the uncle’s house would be. We passed the local church, glowing from within, and I could hear people caroling in excelsis deo as it echoed off of the brick and out Into the night. It was a warm, liquid sound that filled me up and I swallowed hard and tried not to think of Mum alone on Christmas Eve worrying about Luther. I checked my watch. One hour to midnight.
An old man walked down the side of the road, and I stopped beside him. “Maison Albert Moreau?” I said. The old man peered into the car at me. He was bundled in a heavy coat, and his face was hidden. He shook his head, mumbled something in a guttural French I couldn’t understand, and pointed down the road and out toward the countryside. “How far? Kilometers?” I asked. The old man held up two fingers and then started in with the incomprehensible French again, so I told him thank you and drove off. I figured if I couldn’t find the uncle’s house first, I’d turn around and we could go into the church and ask someone after the service.
I started down the road the old man indicated. Two kilometers. So a little over a mile. Not far at all. As I drove out of town, I got the feeling that the war had skipped over this village. Hadn’t seen a single soldier or crater anywhere. It seemed peaceful, and I felt good about leaving the girls with their uncle—if I could actually find him.
The road was little more than two worn tire tracks straddling a strip of prickly grass, so I had to go slow. It had seen more donkeys than autocars, I’d wager. On each side, the wood fences ran on without end. Where’s the cottage?
Finally, in the distance. I saw the dark outline of a cottage and barn and turned down a lane that looked like it hadn’t seen traffic since the Romans. I pulled up in front of the dark house, and the girls, hearing the engine shut off and the car stop moving, slowly raised their heads. I stepped outside. The grass crunched under my feet, frozen under a glittering frost. But still, no snow. Checked my watch again—11:20.
“Here?” Celeste tugged my sleeve.
There was no movement and no light. Maybe the uncle was at church after all. Beyond fifty meters, the world faded to dark outlines and hulking shapes. To the left was a row of trees, while to the right I assumed was another field. Above, the stars were striking—wide streaks of silver and gold, nebulae still blooming in the firmament. It was silent and sparkling, tender in its vastness.
I opened the back and pulled my torch out of my pack. “This way,” I motioned to Celeste, who in turn motioned to her sisters.
My boots crunched on the frozen dirt, and I heard their light feet crunching after me. I shone the light over the cottage as we approached and then stopped. At its heart, the cottage was missing a whole bite out of its roof—shattered with boards sticking out like broken bones. I walked around the side and saw that all the windows had been blown out, walls were missing, and the furnishings were charred splinters. No one had been living there for a while.
I had been wrong earlier—the war had touched every town, every family. Including the Moreau’s.
Bernadette threw her traitorous dolls at the ground when she saw it. She was cranky, cold, and hungry and up way past her bedtime, without a bed or anyone to tuck her in. Her nose ran, and hot tears fell down her cheeks. It was so cold that I could see fog coming off of her wet, red eyes. Tears are always lonely, so soon, Adele was sniffling as well. Celeste pulled them both close to her, assuring them that Peré Noël would not pass them by this year because they could not find a mantle to set their shoes on.
My watch now said a quarter to midnight. Was there an inn where I could drop them off? It was too late for that; the inns were all closed. There was the church we’d passed back in town. Midnight Mass would just be ending.
I pulled the girls in close—the tallest barely reached up to my chest—and hugged them tight. “Come on. Let’s go back to the church in town.”