“Is it too early to call?” Uncle Henry asked. “I hoped you’d be up.”
It was 10:00 a.m. Rebecca was nursing a cup of coffee at her kitchen table, reading the Saturday Globe.
“I found your Mittverda. It took some digging. I checked all the books I had on concentration camps, but it wasn’t in any of the indexes at the back — that would’ve been too easy. Well, I’m a stubborn old geezer so I started reading. And reading, and reading. You sure you want to hear this? It’s pretty disturbing.”
She put down her coffee. “Go on.”
“Well, I’ll summarize and save you the more upsetting parts. Mittverda’s not indexed because it wasn’t a real camp. It was supposed to be part of Ravensbrück — that was a camp for women. The Nazis gathered sick and weak prisoners at Ravensbrück and told them they were going to a sub-camp for young people nearby called Mittverda, where life would be easier. They actually called it Schonungslager Mittverda, which translates into ‘indulgence camp Mittverda.’ The Nazis were clever. They knew they’d have less resistance this way. Then they loaded the prisoners onto a truck and drove them a short distance to where they’d built a gas chamber. It only took a half-hour or so for the trucks to come back empty, except for the clothes of the dead inmates. Pretty soon the other prisoners realized what was going on. Mittverda was a code name for the gas chamber.”
Rebecca pictured the old woman’s face in the yard, thin and scared. Mittverda says to poison me. What had Birdie suffered?
“Where was Ravensbrück?” Rebecca asked.
“About fifty miles north of Berlin. The only camp the Nazis built specifically for women. It was one of the bad ones. But see, people would’ve believed them about the youth camp. There were other sub-camps, so at the beginning there was no reason to suspect.”
Uncle Henry rarely got worked up about anything, but his voice had taken on a higher pitch. “What kind of animal tells prisoners headed for the gas chamber they’re going to a special place where they’ll be safe? I thought I’d read it all. This takes the cake.”
“I’m sorry I asked you to do this. It sounds gruesome.”
“No, no. I learned something. I’m a history teacher, and I should know the details of what happened. That’s how you get to understand. What good is it if I can list all the events of the Second World War, the dates, the generals’ names? That may make a neat and tidy high school exam, but to really understand history, you have to know what happened to people. And if it upsets me, well, that means I’m really getting into it. Or maybe it’s like your dad says, I’m a big bore and my life is that dull.”
Rebecca smiled.
“So, what does my niece with the exciting life have planned for today?”
“Your niece leads the most unexciting life imaginable. Otherwise she wouldn’t be going to a fencing tournament this afternoon.”
“A what?”
Rebecca walked past the round field of brown grass in the centre of King’s College Circle where young men were kicking around a soccer ball. North toward the Soldiers’ Tower, a memorial to those who had perished in the Great War. Before people could comprehend there would be a greater war to rival it. How many men like those playing soccer now had been killed before their lives began?
Hart House stretched along the other side of the tower, a handsome neo-Gothic structure in limestone donated by the Massey family, who had made their fortune manufacturing farm equipment. On one of the cement steps leading up to the ponderous wooden doors, Erich Sentry stood smoking. His brown hair was mussed from the wind. He looked accustomed to standing around with a cigarette in his hand. She didn’t know a lot of doctors who smoked.
“Waiting long?” she asked, stepping up the stairs.
“Got here early so I’d have time.” He lifted his hand with the cigarette, watching her with eyes narrowed from the smoke. “What, no reprimand from the doctor?”
“You’re an adult.”
He looked off toward the soccer players. “He’s very hard to please.”
“Your father?” He was nervous. “You’re not competing today.”
“I’m always competing. With real doctors. You know, the kind who treat live people.”
“It’s not what he thinks that’s important. It’s what you think.”
“In that case I’m in real trouble.” He flicked an ash into the air.
“Have they told you the results of the autopsy?” she asked.
“Sub-arachnoid hemorrhage from a fractured skull.”
“I’m sorry. How well did you know her?”
He took a drag on his cigarette. “She was my crazy aunt. The only other relative I ever had.”
“Aunt? Not cousin?”
He squinted at her. “Women thirty-five years older than you are automatically aunts. My first vague memory of her is when she had her breakdown. I was four. It happened while she was looking after me.”
“Looking after you?” Rebecca echoed in disbelief.
“She wasn’t always like that. I don’t remember, but my parents talked to me about her sometimes. And there’s a picture of her with me on her lap. She was beautiful. It scares the hell out of me, what happened to her. So while she was still okay, she took care of me when my parents worked. The day it happened, all I remember is her sitting staring at the floor like a statue. There was no bomb going off. Just silence. Like some monster had swooped down and sucked her soul out of her body. I remember crying my eyes out because I was hungry and scared. My aunt had disappeared inside this statue that wouldn’t talk to me or move.”
“What happened to her then?”
“My parents tried to find places for her to live. Institutions. It never worked. She hated every place, and none of them could deal with her. She’d go on her meds, seem to get better, then insist on leaving. Then, of course, once she got out, she’d go off the meds and be back to square one. Every now and then, my parents would bring her to the house, see if she could live with us. She’d be okay for a week, then she’d wander off and they’d have to get the police to look for her.”
“Must’ve been a terrible burden on your parents.”
“They didn’t complain. My father loved her. And you know, I didn’t expect it to affect me. But I feel it ...” He made a fist with his free hand and hit it against his chest.
She knew that feeling. “It’s natural. You’re in mourning.”
He put out his cigarette and opened the massive oak door of Hart House, standing aside for her to enter. “Not a word to my father.”
The time-worn stone stairs took them down to the basement. Their running shoes made no sound along the linoleum of the long hallway. She felt closer to Erich, now that he had confided in her. Maybe they could be friends after all.
“You know, when I was an undergrad,” she said, trying to keep the dialogue going, “women weren’t allowed in Hart House for sports. We didn’t mind — it was a musty old place, even then. The university felt guilty and built us the Benson Building. It was spanking new when I took fencing there.” She didn’t say so, but from the looks of the cement block walls of the dingy basement, the men were moving out of Hart House just in time. And ironically starting in the Benson Building. She looked sideways at Erich. He made eye contact with her, but distractedly, with no feigned interest in her undergrad days. They strolled toward the subdued clamour of a crowd.
She followed him into the salle — the routine use of French in fencing lent the sport a cachet that had always given her guilty pleasure at the snobbery. The referee was called the president and, in keeping with the lofty title, wore a suit and tie.
Three fencing bouts were progressing at the same time, each with their coterie of hangers-on seated in the first few rows of the bleachers. Everyone’s attention was fixed on the fencers, old-world debonair in their white padded jackets and breeches, with wire mesh masks to protect their faces. Pockets of spectators sat scattered higher up. Along the sidelines of each bout stood fencers-in-waiting, also in white uniforms, their faces intent on the action. A section of bleachers was taken up by the storage of carelessly deposited winter jackets, briefcases, and gear bags. Three blue-lettered signs were displayed on the highest seats at the back: University of Toronto, Queen’s University, and University of Western Ontario.
Erich began to lead Rebecca along the perimeter of the wooden floor to one of the strips where a bout was taking place. The room echoed with the clashing of steel. Two fencers assailed each other with swords on a regulation piste, a rectangle of floor mapped out with tape that defined the limits of the bout. The elder Sentry, in navy sweatpants and jacket, stood at the side, arms across his chest, engrossed in the duel. On either side of him a young fencer, dressed all in white, had planted himself in the same posture with the same absorption on his face. Though shorter than his students, Sentry stood out. He had a presence, a rare intensity in his eyes below the mass of dark, greying hair that appeared to rise from the bounds of a haphazard morning brush. Despite the energy he exuded, Rebecca noted the strong shoulders were rounded with a fatigue the students wouldn’t know for decades. The young men leaned toward him, listening while he spoke. Yes, she could see why he continued to coach past what was probably retirement age.
She had always found it difficult to follow a bout when others were fencing. In foil, unlike saber, a hit only counted if delivered on the torso. Yet each time a foil touched the opponent, the president would shout, “Halte!” The judges, positioned behind each fencer, notified the president of every legitimate hit. Most often the hit didn’t count because it was on a leg or an arm, but the action went by so quickly, Rebecca barely saw them. It was all very civilized, but hardly a spectator sport, she thought.
“Good hit!” Sentry called out. “Keep it up!”
Erich hung back, several yards away from his father, watching the bout. Finally one of the fencers delivered a fifth hit on his opponent, the bell rang, and the bout was over. Will Sentry turned a moment and spied his son. He smiled broadly, strolling over to embrace him and shake hands with Rebecca.
“You’re just in time. It’s the quarter-finals.” He gestured to the young men to approach. “Laszlo! Pawel! This is my son, Dr. Erich Sentry, and his friend, Dr. Rebecca Temple.”
Erich looked at her sideways, embarrassed. She wondered if his father always introduced him as Dr. Erich Sentry.
They all nodded politely at each other. “Laszlo is up next, then Pawel. They’ve done very well today. Maybe they’ll take home some medals.” He beamed at them with pride.
“Good luck,” Erich said, his face blank.
“Vlad!” Sentry motioned a reprimand to a young man talking to friends. To Rebecca he said, “I don’t let them spend time between matches fooling around. They should be watching the next opponent to learn his idiosyncrasies. Something they can use when their turn comes.”
“Sorry, Maestro!”
Vlad, tall and blond, took Laszlo’s place beside Sentry. Laszlo, a wiry young man with neatly trimmed brown hair, stepped onto the piste facing his opponent from the Queen’s team. They saluted each other, a gallant gesture Rebecca remembered with fondness. Each fencer stood with his mask in his left hand, sword-arm extended, the point of the weapon several inches from the ground. The sword was raised gracefully till the guard was chin level, the blade pointing up. A pause, then the sword swept down again on an angle. The whole thing took a few seconds. Salute the opponent, then the president and judges, and the coach. So civilized. One could almost forget it was a sport derived from combat, a sport in which people tried to kill each other, metaphorically. Finally each fencer drew his mask over his head, starting with the chin.
The president said, “Prêts? En garde! Allez!”
Each fencer stood with feet at right angles, knees slightly bent. One shoulder pointed toward the opponent, sword raised; the unarmed hand lifted behind the head in a fluid arch for balance. The body turned sideways to the opponent to offer less surface area to hit.
Laszlo extended his sword and lunged at his opponent, who parried and began his own return thrust. They took turns lunging at each other. After a few minutes the Queen’s opponent scored a hit on Laszlo. After the third hit by each player, they changed sides. A momentary pause in the action.
Enough time for Rebecca to look up and spot a figure in the auditorium entrance that astonished her. Imposing in a calf-length grey cashmere coat, Dr. Mustafa Salim, square-jawed, his dark eyes grim. He stood searching the room as Erich had stood and searched it moments before. And like Erich, his eyes stopped on Will Sentry.