Chapter 5 & 6

Schubert return to Whitehorse, the investigation in Blue River at a standstill. 

December 5. Finally, Schubert felt like he was settling into his regular routine. The past few days had been quiet in Whitehorse. This was a welcome change from the frenetic activity experienced in Blue River. There were no unclaimed bodies in the morgue and no new cases demanding Schubert’s time. Even though this should have pleased him, the monotony of paperwork gnawed at him. There were numerous unread reports piled on his desk. The summations from Blue River took longer to write than he wished and since his secretary was ill and typing was the least of his favorite pastimes, he shelved them until his help returned. But the morning had been quiet and he’d managed to slip numerous files into a shelf labeled “Complete.” 

He leaned back in his chair and rested his feet on his desk. The questions surrounding the murders in Blue River continued to dog his waking hours, even though he’d reached a dead-end. But it was the faces of the dead that hounded him and the senselessness of it all. He wondered if he would ever forget the sight of Dickinson’s body. He doubted it. 

The late morning sun warmed his office and he felt drowsy. Schubert tossed his pencil on the desk and closed his eyes. He fell asleep. 

Around noon, Peters knocked his boss’s door. Schubert woke with a start.

“Sir, a telex from Blue River,” he said while handing it over. “Sorry to wake you.” He wasn’t going to make the mistake of asking his boss if he was sleeping OK at home. 

Schubert yawned and stretched. “News of the killer?” 

Peters shook his head. “Not exactly. Something else.”

“Related?” Schubert was faintly hopeful the telex might have some answers.

Peters shrugged. “Read it first.”

To inspector Karl Schubert RCMP Yukon STOP Examined Rempel’s cabin STOP Nothing of note STOP As we suspected STOP Returned to Lundin’s cabin STOP Strong box discovered in chimney STOP Item of interest STOP Prussian Twenty Mark gold coin STOP Kaiser Wilhelm II STOP Johnson END

Schubert dropped the telex onto his desk. 

“That’s not what I expected. How would Lundin come into possession of such an item? I imagine it must be valuable.”

“Maybe he fought in the Great War and the coin was a souvenir. He wouldn’t be the first soldier to bring loot home.”

“It’s possible. He was old enough to be a veteran,” Schubert conceded. “I’m curious. Telex Veteran’s Affairs in Ottawa. See if Lundin served and where.” 

“I took the liberty of sending a request to VA after I received the telex. Lundin was conscripted and trained as a cook. A few weeks later, Armistice was declared. No active duty overseas—he was one of the lucky ones.”

Peters’s service in World War One was a subject they rarely discussed. Aside from knowing Peters was at Paschenndale, Schubert remained ignorant of other details.

“Well done, Peters. I appreciate the forward thinking.” 

He filed the telex in the “Blue River” folder. Schubert mulled over the stack of files on his desk. Satisfied with his progress during the morning hours, he said, “I’m going to take an early lunch today. There’s a new café in town. Care to join me?”

“Thanks, but the missus is expecting me today. It’s our day to lunch together.”

“Right—another time then. Give Laura my love. I’ll see you later this afternoon.”

Schubert returned to Le Petite Pain, this time as a customer. He was looking forward to a real lunch instead of his usual cheese, margarine and bread. His larder was increasingly bare and his appetite when at home was nearly non-existent. 

Geneviève met him at the door. 

“Hello again,” she said. “I noticed you walking this way. Already news of the vandals?”

“I’m afraid not. I’m in here in an ‘unofficial’ capacity—lunch.”

She smiled, genuine, he thought and led him to a table. Outside, a steady flow of people passed by his window. He studied his reflection in the glass. It accusingly asked how another woman’s smile could so easily lift his spirit. Simple, he thought. Louise had ceased smiling years ago. Nevertheless, he missed her greatly.

“Menu?” Geneviève said, placing a card in front of him. “You must be solving the riddle of my broken window.”

He turned towards her. “Sorry—lost in thought.” He reached for the menu but then hesitated. “How about you surprise me? I have a feeling everything on the menu is excellent.”

Schubert eyed the patrons with as much suspicion as a vicar examines his flock. Everyone held a secret or two but it (usually) didn’t result in crime or death. He envied Geneviève for the simplicity of her life: preparing food brought pleasure to her customers, not unlike his previous life as an artist. Those were years of straightforward simplicity—the naïve assurance of youth that life would continue as it should, in a straight line with no deviations. 

A short while later Geneviève returned with plates in hand. 

“Your lunch, Inspector.” 

She placed a feast before him: coq au vin, spinach and roast potatoes. 

Schubert leaned in, inhaling the goodness. “Ah, Paris has arrived in Whitehorse.”

She laughed, big and free. “I’m afraid the only thing fresh is the ‘vin.’”

Schubert laughed too, for the first time in weeks he realized. He tucked into the meal and lingered over every mouthful, the flavors sharp yet subtle, a rainbow in mid-winter for the senses. When Schubert set his napkin down, the place had mostly emptied. He checked his pocket watch, marveling how two hours had elapsed without notice.

Geneviève returned to his table and set down two cups of coffee. From the dessert tray she reached for a pitcher of heavy cream and an apple galette.

“I see you enjoyed your lunch. You were oblivious to everyone and everything.” 

“That obvious, was it?” he said accepting the coffee.

She served him a slice of galette. “It was a gift to me, seeing your enjoyment. Thank you.”

Their conversation came to a lull. He sensed her life had also been less than straightforward, for rare was the person in Whitehorse not looking to escape from someplace else in order to start somewhere new.

“You said you had a brother?” Schubert asked, distracted by the buttery pastry melting in his mouth. “A trapper?” 

“Is this an interrogation?”

“My apologies, Miss Si…”

“Please, call me Geneviève.” 

“Yes, I’m afraid I’m a conversational invalid. Good at interrogation, mind you.”

She smiled again, her second gift to him that day.

“My brother James has a trapline at Mile 21 on Telegraph Creek. Mostly beaver, wolf, some arctic fox. He pans for gold in the summer months. It’s a worthless claim but it cost him next to nothing. The money he’s paid for the furs barely covers his supplies but he doesn’t care—he needs the solitude. We try to see each other as often as we’re able.”

“Did your brother serve overseas?”

“Yes, in Italy. He was discharged from active duty last year. No disease, I’m afraid.” She laughed again but with no hint of mirth. “He was badly wounded in Sicily but I’m not sure how well he ‘survived.’ 

“When James volunteered, I was studying in Paris. After he completed his Ph.D at Oxford he accepted the post of Director of Sumerian Antiquities at the Louvre. When the war began, I begged him to seek an exemption but he’d have none of it. He resented me thinking him a coward but it wasn’t that—it was purely selfish on my part.”

“You must love him very much.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d visited his brother or sister. Their lives had taken them far from each other.

“We’re twins. We’ve always had a connection, something nearly metaphysical. The day he was wounded, I felt pursued by a river of blood. It was palpable, almost as if I would drown in it. I could taste it. When he nearly died I was unable to get out of bed. It lasted for a week. The knowing and not knowing was the worst.”

“I’ve heard elsewhere the such a bond exists between twins. I’m glad he’s with you here. It must give you strength to be together after nearly losing him.”

“Boys sent to their deaths by arrogant old bastards. God damn them all,” she said, seeming to have missed Schubert’s last remarks. 

Schubert sensed no passion behind her words. He didn’t know if it was anger or resignation. 

“Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori,” he continued, reciting the ancient Roman ode. “Horace said it thousands of years ago: the lie told by the powerful who consider the powerless cannon fodder. ‘It sweet and glorious to die for one’s country.’ Complete rubbish.” 

Schubert was unsure of what he had said, but Geneviève’s earlier geniality had evaporated. It was as if her silken white skin had been cast in stone and began to slowly crack, soon to be obliterated by wind and rain.

“I’m sorry, Miss Sinclair. I seem to have misspoken myself.” 

He rose from the table, any earlier feeling of optimism gone. 

“Thank you for your kindness. The food was superb.” He left a few dollars beside his plate.

He gathered his hat and coat and returned to the cold. He briefly thought of his conversation with Geneviève. It had been a strange turn in an otherwise amiable conversation. But then, his thoughts turned towards Louise in Toronto, probably staying at her parent’s estate. Those thoughts provided no warmth.

When he arrived home after work, he tried calling Louise. He spent the better part of an hour waiting as the operator tried to connect the various trunk lines to Toronto. By now he’d had two whiskies and was well into his third. 

Finally, the operator came on the line.

“Sorry, sir, we can’t make a connection.”

Schubert’s frustration got the better of him. 

“Damn it! All I want to do is talk to my wife, tell her I don’t want a divorce.” 

He slammed the phone onto the cradle. Shit, he thought. We can’t make a connection. He saw the irony but it only served to hammer deeper the knowledge Louise had slipped away from him. He sat in his chair, in the dark. He fell into a blue funk and cried, mourning his loss. The piano held no interest; there was nothing he could sing that would alter his mood. After a while, and ascended the stairs, to bed.

Chapter 6

December 6. After work, Schubert came home and poured himself a triple measure of Scotch. Not entirely uncharacteristic of him, but he knew a stiff drink would be required if he ended up speaking with his father-in-law. 

Schubert tried calling Toronto again. This time, the call went through without a hitch. As the phone began to ring on the other end, his gut tightened and he started to sweat. What was he going to say? If he knew one thing for sure, Louise wouldn’t change her mind. 

Her father answered. “Yes? Hello? This is Roy Thomson.”

Schubert immediately regretted his decision to call. For a second he debated hanging up.

“Hello Roy, It’s Karl.” 

Silence.

Early in the marriage, Schubert tried calling his father-in-law “Dad.” Such familiarity, he quickly learned, was frowned upon in the Thomson family.

“Karl, so good to hear your voice. How’s life in the wilderness? Keeping the territory safe, I presume?”

Thomson’s smooth baritone never missed a beat. His ability to fake bonhomie had always bothered Schubert. Of course, there was no mention of Louise. He’s not going to make this phone call easy for me, Schubert thought.

“Just the usual suspects and booze-fueled fights.” 

Schubert’s anger rose. You’re going to make me ask about your daughter, my wife. You bastard, he thought. 

“I’m calling to speak with Louise. Is she home?”

“She doesn’t want to speak with you.” The earlier faux-bonhomie had melted away.

Or you’re still controlling her life, Schubert thought. Damn it! Why can’t I tell him the truth?

“It’s not that simple, I’m sure. I would like to hear her say that. Put her on the line—I want to talk to her.”

Schubert faintly heard voices speaking in the background.

“I can hear her voice. Don’t be a bastard, Roy. She may be your daughter but she’s still my wife. Put her on the line.” 

“Let’s get one thing clear…”

But Schubert interrupted him. “Yes, let’s. I’m calling to speak with Louise. For the love of God, put her on.”

“Get one thing clear,” Thomson continued as if Schubert hadn’t spoken. “You’ve got nothing to say to her. You dragged her into that godforsaken tundra and expected her to come along willingly? You’re more naïve than I thought.”

“You can’t control her forever. A conversation Roy, that’s all I’m asking for.”

“You can forget it.”

“Roy. Roy!” 

He hung up on me, Schubert realized after a moment. For the love of God! He slammed the phone onto the cradle and swore loudly. His anger boiled from deep within. If there were an axe in the room, he could have hacked his piano into pieces.

But why was Schubert surprised? Thomson had never liked him. He’s knows I’m powerless to challenge him, Schubert thought. I not from old money or connected to the Ontarian elite. Thomson had an army of lawyers to shield him from people he no longer had use for, like his son-in-law. When Schubert had found out exactly how wealthy Louise’s family was, she’d said none of that was important—who he was mattered. Did she lie from the beginning? Did she say whatever I wanted to hear, just to reel me in? 

He poured another single malt, for good measure, grabbed his coat and went for a walk. 

December 7. Schubert called in sick. He didn’t have the strength to face Peters or the other men. Choir practice had been bad enough, what with silver-haired matrons patting his arm, the patronizing gaze (or so he thought), or the immediate shift of attention as he entered the sanctuary. 

He eventually got out of bed and went straight to the liquor cabinet. Today, he was going to drink single malt from morning until night. He read through every newspaper in the firebox. After lunch, he started writing a letter to Louise, but he couldn’t control his sarcasm or hide the hatred he harbored towards her father. The letter ended up in the fire, where he should’ve thrown hers but he couldn’t. It was the most recent and last vestige of Louise’s presence in his life.

At some point in the morning, before he was completely inebriated, Schubert decided to call his father in Winnipeg. Schubert didn’t know if his father was teaching or not. It didn’t matter. He dialed the number.

After a few rings, his father answered. Schubert felt ashamed, calling his father, almost drunk, but the truth was, he didn’t know how to mourn his loss.

“Hi dad,” Schubert said, trying hard not to slur his words.

“Hello son. Everything OK? It’s not like you to call this early in the day.”

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” Schubert lied. There was a long moment of silence after which he said, “Louise left me.”

The silence lingered. Over the phone, Schubert heard his father sigh three thousand miles away. 

“She wants a divorce,” he continued. “And that shit-excuse for a father won’t let me speak to her.” Finally, Schubert realized what his father must have felt when his wife left him alone that winter’s day, so many years ago. “I’m sorry, dad. You don’t need to…”

“It’s all right, son. I still grieve the loss of my wife, but I can carry on.” 

“Louise left without speaking to me. My friend told me she’d left.”

“Remember my words to you at your stag?”

“Yeah, all too well.” Schubert felt his breath catch. It was his turn to sigh. “But I didn’t believe you. Didn’t want to believe what you said could be true.”

“You didn’t speak to me for, well, how long was it?”

“Too long.”

“I wasn’t judging you, Karl. I’m not judging you now. It’s only that I have the advantage of age. It allowed me to see some things about Louise that you weren’t able to. I gives me no pleasure to be proven correct. In fact, I hoped I was wrong about her.”

“She left a letter on the stove. I was out of town, on a case. A letter, dad.”

“Hmm. I hadn’t expected that level of cowardice, even from a Thomson.”

There was much Schubert wanted to talk about with his father, but the thought of dredging up his failures left him feeling numb.

“Have you heard from Charlotte?” he quickly added.

“Yes, her courses are going well. She’s writing another book about Mennonite self-governance in the Molotschna. She’s found new documents that shed light on the ‘Selbstschutz’ movement. It appears quite a few of your mother’s ancestors dropped the practice of non-violence after the October revolution. And she has a particularly bright grad student named Patricia Churchill.”

“Any relation to the Churchill?”

“His niece, of all things. She was sent to Canada just prior to the Blitz. Apparently she has quite the story to tell.”

As we all do, Schubert rued. Except I’ll never be able to tell you about mine. MI5 had sealed Schubert’s records for the next fifty years.

“I rarely hear from your brother. When he does write, the letters sound as if they’re written by someone else.”

“No one really knows what goes on at Latchmere House. It’s top secret stuff so his private life is closely monitored. The letters probably are written by someone else.”

The subject of Karl’s brother Eric was quickly ended, since neither knew what he did at Latchmere and even after the war, might never be told.

“Come for a visit, Karl. We can put on a recital for a few friends. How about it? We could work up Copland’s ‘Old American Songs.’”

“I’ll think about it. I’m involved in a case right now that I can’t get my head around.”

His father chuckled. “Both my sons are involved in work they can’t talk about. Makes for sort conversation. Look, my next student's about to arrive. Let's catch up another time. Thanks for calling, son.”

“Goodbye, dad.”

The line clicked and the dial tone emerged. Schubert stared at the phone in his hand, as if a kernel of wisdom might still emerge from the silence.

He had another shot of whiskey, lay down on the couch and covered by a large, woolen blanket, fell asleep.

He awoke just after noon, with a fierce thirst. His head was beginning to pound. Instead of drinking water, he reached for the single malt. He wandered around his little house, singing snippets of opera arias and songs he had performed in recital. He recited poetry sotto voce, as if someone were listening nearby and then shouted, gesticulating wildly, and indiscriminately hurling the words into the air. By five in the afternoon, he couldn’t stand up. At some point, he crawled to the piano bench and hauled himself onto the seat. It took him a few tries but he finally grabbed a folio of music by Schumann.

“I’ll slay ‘Ich grolle nicht,’” he thought he heard himself say. After breaking the spine of the folio, he set the music on the piano and began playing. He hit more wrong notes than right and everything was played fortissimo. He couldn’t remember ever singing louder. By the end, his voice hurt.

I bear no grudge. My heart is broken,

My love forever lost. I bear no grudge.

Even though you are clothed in diamond-radiance,

No rays can pierce the blackness of your heart.

You were in my dreams,

I saw the darkness surrounding you,

And saw the worm which feeds upon your heart;

And saw, my love, how utterly wretched you are. 

His hope for a catharsis was unsuccessful. He had never experienced this kind of hatred or depth of sorrow. He threw the folio from the piano and hit a vase. It crashed to the floor. He tried standing once more but fell to the floor, dizzy, hitting his head on the coffee table, hard enough to bleed profusely, but not enough to send him to oblivion. He thought about getting up, about putting on a plaster but instead lay on his back, eyes closed, the room spinning. He let the blood flow. Maybe it would release the poison inside him.

December 10. Sunday. A light north wind began to blow and soon the white scudding clouds turned grey and threatening. High above Whitehorse, on the escarpment, a man lay in a copse of spruce, nestled between deadfall. The temperature started to fall—snow was coming, he could feel it. He adjusted his binoculars and began to survey the Conscientious Objector camp. After memorizing the layout, he placed the binoculars in his kit, next to his pistol. He slipped the knife into his coat. He pocketed the CO identity papers as well as a letter of military exemption into his coat pocket. Both would guarantee him access to the camp. The kit he carefully hid. He would pick it up later. 

He slipped into the camp that afternoon and became one of a few hundred men milling about the grounds, some kicking a soccer ball, others leaning against walls, talking, passing away the day. He spied a man sitting alone on a bench, smoking.

“Spare a cigarette?” he asked, sitting next to him. “Walter Penner,” he offered, extending his hand.

“Mathias Wall.” He shook a cigarette from the packet. “Nothing like freezing your ass off on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.”

Penner nodded. “Drinking tea is not chopping wood. You should be grateful for a day of rest.”

“Chai pit’–ne drova rubit. I haven’t heard that since I left Isulkul. Where are you from, brother? Your dialect isn’t familiar.”

“Papenburg,” he said. “Up north, not far from Emden.”

“Ah, so your relatives refused Catherine the Great’s offer of free land in the middle of her god forsaken Siberian tundra?”

Penner took a long, slow drag. “No, we stayed. My great grandfather had little use for Russians.”

Wall spit on the ground. “Fucking communists. They took everything. I lost both my flour mills and my estate.”

“You’ll have no argument from me. Let us hope the Reich will right the situation,” Penner said, testing the man’s loyalty.

Wall shook his head. 

“Your faith in Adolf is great, too great perhaps. He’s going to lose Stalingrad—probably within the month, if the news is to be believed. Europe is a wasteland; Rommel was beaten in Africa. We hear there aren’t enough bullets to kill the number of Russians protecting Leningrad. No, I shall finish this war penniless and return to Winnipeg with less than when I arrived.”

A bell began sounding at the far end of the compound. Wall turned toward the sound. 

“Fuck! Another hour wasted,” he said, pointing with his thumb, “listening to more pietist bullshit.” 

He threw the cigarette butt onto the ground and crushed it with his foot. 

“That’s what I love about the Brotherhood. Act Christ-like on Sunday and fuck your brother on Monday, or any other day of the week.” He rose to leave. “Good day to you, brother.”

Penner called out, “Which block are you in? I would enjoy hearing more about your life in Isulkul.” 

Wall shouted, over his shoulder: “West block, building five.”

Penner tossed his cigarette and walked to the administrative hut. He had little difficulty finding it. It was unlocked. 

“Hallo,” he called. “Ist jemand hier?” Is anyone here? 

Nobody answered. On one wall stood a bank of file cabinets. He found the appropriate drawer and removed his contact’s file. Then, he located Wall’s file and placed it in the empty folder. 

Next, he walked to the Quonset where the infirmary was housed. It was exactly where he had been briefed but the large red cross painted on the wall made it impossible to miss. He entered. A lone figure, unpacking supplies, looked up. 

“Worship service. Emergencies only,” the clerk said, in English.

Penner answered in Plattdeutsch, attempting to flatten his accent like a North German.

“I shall be in church momentarily. I arrived in camp a few days ago and was told my cousin, Siegfried Janzen, works here.”

“Yes, he is often here.” The man extended his hand. “Abram Funk,” he said, switching to Platt.

“Walter Penner,” he said, making no effort to respond.

Abram nodded. “My grandfather was a Penner. He settled in the Molotschna. Perhaps we are related?”  

“Tell Siegfried I would like to meet him, as soon as possible. It has been many years,” he said, ignoring Abram’s interest in geneology. “He knows where to find me.”

The man left as abruptly has he’d arrived. Abram was puzzled: anyone unfortunate enough to be stationed in Whitehorse building the highway would gladly take the time to talk about the old country and find common ancestry. After all, the Russian Mennonite family tree was not that large. What’s his problem? Abram wondered. He surveyed the amount of work to be done and resumed his inventory.

Over the next few days, Abram’s conversation with Walter Penner continued hound him. As much as Abram tried to push it aside, to more it refused to leave him be. Abram finally had to admit: there was something about the man that seemed off, but what it was, he couldn’t be sure. Maybe he was imagining it or overthinking his brief conversation. There was nothing egregious about one CO asking to see another. He mentioned the conversation to his bunk-mate, Ferdinand Giesbrecht whose opinion was Abram was looking for a villain where none were to be found. 

Finally, Abram decided to speak to Dietrich Friesen, the camp administrator. 

He knocked on the Friesen’s door.

“Hello? Come in,” Friesen said without looking up from his desk.

Abram entered. “Thank you, Dietrich.”

“What can I do for you? All is well in the infirmary?” Friesen asked, setting his pen down.

Abram nodded. “Yes, but that is not why I am here. I met a man yesterday, in the infirmary, inquiring after Siegfried.”

“Men continue to arrive. The Lord convicts but men respond to the Spirit’s prompting in their own time.”

Abram marveled how Friesen, the camp’s foremost pietist could also run a thriving black-market business. Apparently faith and economics lived on two dissimilar paths.

“Granted,” Abram replied, “but this man, a Walter Penner…”

“Relatives, perhaps?” Friesen interrupted. “I have an uncle by the name of Penner in Gretna. Maybe you’ve heard of Gretna, in Manitoba. Beautiful farmland. The Lord reunites his flock even while in exile.”

Abram shook his head. “That is not what I meant to imply. He was no more a Mennonite than I am a Canadian. His accent was wrong and he said he came from Papenburg, of all places.”

“What is your point, Abram?”

“Why would he lie?” Friesen had a lot of experience with lying, Abram thought. Maybe he would shed some light.

“Men lie for many reasons, if in fact he did lie.”

Funk pressed him further. “Siegfried has never mentioned relatives, either from Europe or Canada.”

“Abram, I have work to do. The Lord requires much of his servants. The parable of the Ten Talents tells us so, or have you forgotten it?”

Guilt. Friesen always resorted to guilt when he didn’t want to talk, Abram thought. 

“No, Dietrich, I have not. At least check the camp roster for his name.” 

“Good afternoon, Abram. Peace be with you.”

“And also with you.” 

Abram despised Friesen’s misuse of the familiar benediction. The issue was not closed in Abram’s mind. He would talk to a few of his friends, for their opinion. “If he felt the Spirit’s leading” (he laughed at Friesen’s misquoting of Scripture) he would speak to the local police. Time would soon settle the matter for him, which was in his experience, more reliable than waiting for the Holy Ghost to speak. The Spirit, Abram had found, was remarkably short on vocabulary.