Chapter 28 (penultimate chapter)

Schubert is admitted to the hospital, in a coma. Power returns to Ottawa, determined to raise hell. Eventually Schubert wakes—he has no memory of Genevieve or what landed him in the hospital. 

Chapter 28

Schubert lay in a coma for nearly a month. Not only did the blast debris shatter his leg but he’d also suffered a serious head injury. By the time the Americans arrived, Schubert looked more dead than alive. There had been a few tense hours in Carcross when neither Peters nor Geneviève knew if Schubert would survive. On the journey back to Whitehorse, his pulse had become critically low and the leg wound continued to weep blood. Geneviève was worried an artery had been pierced and if that were the case, only the metal lodged in his leg had stopped him from bleeding out. 

Doc Pedersen had met the crew at the Emergency entrance of the clinic. Peters was the first to step off the half-track. 

“It’s not good, Doc. We lost Tournamille. Schubert’s barely hanging on.”

“What’s his status?” Pedersen asked Geneviève, directing stretcher bearers to collect Schubert. He would mourn Tournamille another day.

“We’ve done what we could. The metal in the leg is what worries me the most.”

Pedersen lifted the bandage and noticed the blood weeping. The wound was worse than he thought.

“Get this man to an operating room, now!” he shouted at the orderlies, something he never did.

Schubert was wheeled away. Pedersen was about to follow when Peters grabbed his arm.

“I know Bart, we’re all worried. We’ll do our best,” Pedersen said. He threw open the doors to the Emergency wing and was gone.

The rest of the crew stood around, not knowing what to do. After the intensity of the past twenty-four hours, the absence of action left them at a loss.

Peters thanked the Americans for their help. “He’d be dead without you guys.” There was nothing else to say. Then, he turned to Geneviève. “I’m going home,” he said to no one in particular.

Simpson followed the orderlies who wheeled Tournamille’s body to the morgue. Geneviève watched them go. Power sat on the half-track’s bumper, his ankle forgotten in the wake of Schubert’s emergency. Geneviève helped him into the hospital. He sat down heavily, waiting for a nurse.

“You’ll be OK?” she asked. 

Power looked terrible. His skin was nearly as gray as Schubert’s. A nurse appeared, appraising them both. Yes, Geneviève thought, we’ve come through hell and back. The nurse took Power through to another room. Geneviève rested her head against the wall and within seconds, was asleep.

Power had a follow-up with Doc Pedersen the next day. According to Pedersen, Power hadn’t sprained his ankle—it was broken. He asked Pedersen how he’d been able to walk on it.

“You’ve been living off adrenalin,” Pedersen said. “Don’t be surprised if you sleep for the next week. Your body is going to demand its due.”

Power did sleep for nearly three days and after enduring another three days of boredom, he decided to return to Ottawa. Before he left, there were some people he wanted to see.

“When I get back, I’m going to raise holy hell,” Powers said, his crutches lying on the squad-room floor.

Peters laughed, although there was no humor in his voice. 

“About what? A squadron of P51s and a couple of DC-3s stopping over here for only God knows why? I talked with Herschel. There’s a lot of confusion over at the base—most of the guys he’s spoken to don’t know what all that fuss was for.”

“I was used. We were used, duped and for what? A goddamned empty train!” 

“Fat chance you’ll get any answers. Quinn won’t saying anything more, not until Schubert’s better. You and I will never be told what led German agents here.”

“People died. Tournamille’s wife deserves answers.”

“She’ll never get them. Don’t you get it? We were pawns in someone else’s elaborate game. That’s war. That’s the game of war.”

Peters listed off all of the dead, the Irish, German and Canadian.

“What happened here happened in the last war, all the time. Operations are devised from on high and the little guy at the bottom takes the heat. We were cannon fodder. I’m not going to waste anymore time trying to get answers. You might as well accept that, ‘no answer’ is answer enough.”

Power sighed, his anger spent. “Yeah, ‘no answer’ means ‘Classified,’ ‘Top Secret’ and all that other bullshit.”

Before he left, they shook hands.

Power said: “You kept me alive. I’ll never forget that.”

Power’s goodbye with Geneviève was bittersweet. 

“If I’d known what you experienced in France, your betrayal, torture, I would’ve…”

“Would have what?” she interrupted. “Disobeyed your orders? Orders are just words that eventually become tarnished by the blood they demand. You knew that.”

“I’m still angry,” he said. “I should’ve guessed this was all a blind bluff. MOD was too eager to send me here, not to mention getting you and your brother involved. What would they have suggested if you weren’t here? I guess none of us would be the wiser. We’d have a train at the bottom of Bennet Lake with more questions than answers. But most of all, I have a hard time believing what I’m doing in Ottawa has any meaningful effect on the war. I came here, full of myself, and so goddamned naive…”

“You were thrown into a fight that was brutal and unforgiving. Maybe training would’ve helped—I don’t know. We’re all lucky to be alive.”

“I push paper that in turn affects people. Like you and Schubert and Peters. Good people. I’m ashamed of what I do. I work for a puppet-master.”

Geneviève sensed he had something to say, but he remained silent. 

She said: “I bear no ill towards you for sending me into harm’s way. When I enlisted, I knew the risks. When I was discharged, there was always a possibility of reinstatement. I simply thought that living in Whitehorse would be the safest, most remote place for the war to touch me. I was wrong.”

She kissed his cheeks and smiled. But it was a smile tinged with the knowledge of sins committed and unconfessed.

* * *

Peters spent many nights by Schubert’s hospital bed. The rhythmic hiss of the respirator and the occasional “beep” of a machine were the only sounds in the room. His friend was slowly recovering. Schubert’s head was still bandaged. The leg wound had become infected—at one point, there was talk of amputation but somehow Schubert’s immune system kicked in and the penicillin worked its miracle.

Miracle, Peters thought. How did I survive Carcross? Twice lucky, I guess. I lived through the Great War and now this. He didn’t want to think about life and work without his friend. But that was out of his hands. 

He gathered his coat and hat. He held Schubert’s hand and said, “Don’t you be dying on us, you hear me? Keep fighting.”

As Peters was about to leave the hospital he spotted Geneviève walking his way.

She asked: “How is he? Any change overnight?”

Peters shook his head. “No change but his breathing has improved. Temperature’s steady so the penicillin kicked the leg infection.” He paused. “But the head wound, that has the doctors worried.”

“What’s the latest word?”

“Hitting his head was one thing. The concussive blast from the explosion is the wild card. At least they’re honest—they don’t know much about head wounds, concussions or what Schubert might remember when he wakes.”

“There’s the possibility of amnesia?”

He nodded. “Apparently so. Speech, memory, walking—he could wake up an infant and have to learn everything again.” He yawned. “I’m going home to be with my wife. You take care, OK?”

Geneviève entered Schubert’s ward. A nurse nodded “hello” and continued checking her patients. The hall was quiet, unnaturally so. In the distance, a doctor was paged. She entered Schubert’s room. Doc Pedersen was already there, checking Schubert’s vitals.

“Hi, Geneviève. His blood pressure is steady and the heart is ticking just fine. This is good news.”

Geneviève said, “He’s an ox, after all. I can’t believe he was a singer.” 

Pedersen smiled. “I’ve got to check on another patient. I’ll see you later.”

She pulled up a chair next to Schubert’s bed and reached for his hand. It felt like dry paper. She wondered what the tube in his throat would do to his voice. She brushed a few strands of hair from his face. Suddenly, she had to sit down. If he died, at least the uncertainty would be over. But if he woke and had no idea who she was, well, she didn’t think she could face that. That would be worse than death. Both men in her life, James and Karl, would be gone. 

Geneviève was asleep in the chair when she heard a sound. She woke with a start. Had someone coughed? She looked over at Schubert. His eyes were open but unfocused. She called for Pedersen.

Outside, it had started to snow. It wasn’t a serious storm—occasionally the sun broke through and bright sunbeams shone across the linoleum floor.

Schubert began to moan. He was agitated—the intubation tube, the IV drip, the heart monitor all seemed to worry him. He didn’t know where he was or why.

Pedersen said: “It’s alright, Geneviève. Waking from a coma is unpredictable. So far, so good.”

After a while, Schubert settled. “Why am I in the hospital?” he asked, fiddling with the various tubes inserted into his body.

“Easy now. You were in an accident. You’re with friends,” Pedersen said.

Pedersen’s words seemed to ease Schubert’s fear. He leaned in closer. “Can you tell me your name?”

Schubert hesitated a moment. 

“Karl…”

Pedersen waited.

“…Schubert.”

“That’s right, your name is Karl Schubert. Can you remember what happened? Why you’re in the hospital?”

Schubert felt the bandage on his head. The wound on his leg needed no further clarification. 

“I must’ve hit my head. Other than that, ‘no,’ I don’t remember much else.”

“Can you tell me where the accident happened?”

Schubert shook his head. “I have no idea.”

“You’re doing great, Karl. Stay with me, OK? What’s your occupation? Can you tell me what year we’re in?”

Schubert hesitated. It took him a few minutes to speak.

“I…I think I’m a policeman. The year? I have no idea.”

Not good, Pedersen thought. It was clear Schubert’s memory was damaged.

“Sometime in the 1940s, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Can you remember your wife’s name?”

“I’m married?”

Pedersen did his best to remain hopeful.

“Yes. Her name is Louise.” He changed tack. “How about your occupation before the war? Anything there?”

“I think…no, there’s nothing.” Pedersen waited, sensing Schubert had more to say.  After a while Schubert said,  “Was I a singer?” 

Pedersen nodded. “That’s good, Karl, yes—you had an international career. Can you tell me my name?” He pointed to Geneviève. “And hers?”

“You’re a doctor, I know that much.” He looked intently in Geneviève’s direction. “But I don’t recognize either of you.”

Geneviève leaned into Pedersen and wept. 

By mid-June the snow had finally melted and the promise of spring arrived in the Yukon. A few trees along Schubert’s street had begun to bud and the canopy of minted green was a welcome change to the dull brown of dead grass. Geneviève continued to visit Schubert as often as she was able. She helped with his recovery, walking with him down the long hospital corridors, talking, playing cards. His company was all she wanted. 

One day, after they had enjoyed a game of chess at his bedside, he suddenly uttered, ‘Crepes and a broken window.’ 

“Tell me more,” Geneviève said, trying to not get excited. How much of that day had returned?

“You own a little store in town, don’t you? A bakery? Did I fix your window?”

He had asked these questions in all innocence, like a child’s recollection of an important event.

“Yes, I have a bakery. You cannot resist my pastries. My window was broken…”

“It was Pete Harms’ boys, wasn’t it?”

Geneviève covered her face. She began to cry.

“What’s wrong?” Schubert asked, concern in his voice.

“Nothing…I’m glad your memories are returning, that’s all.”

“I think you’re a terrible liar.”

She nodded. “If you say so.”

He set the game aside. “Why have you taken such an interest in my recovery? You’re here nearly everyday.”

Geneviève had hoped her continued presence would remind Schubert of what they had shared. She couldn’t tell him the real reason, so she lied again.

“I thought the routine of conversation, chess, walking—this might help you. We were friends, before your…accident.” 

“Granted, but why you? And no more lies.”

“The Inspector has returned, has he?”

He waited.

“No, Karl, I can’t.”

He folded his arms, and looked intently into her eyes.

She turned away.

Schubert wanted to remember but there was nothing.

 When June gave way to the warmth and color of July, Schubert was discharged. He was given a wheel-chair and crutches. His leg was taking a long time to heal. He now had a “distinctive limp” according to Pedersen, and should avoid the dance hall for as long as possible. Schubert was going to need help—a lot of it. His strength was slowly returning but without the aid of someone else, everyday tasks would eventually take its toll. Pedersen wanted to send a nurse every few days. Schubert had declined. In the end, he invited Geneviève. It was her companionship he valued most.

It was in the middle of July, during the splendid days of summer warmth, on a picnic near Kusawa Lake, when a flood of memory returned. They were sitting on a blanket, glad that the black flies were driven away by the wind.

“We were fighting…there was a battle,” he said, no emotion in his voice. “A half-track to Carcross…we were tracking…” He stopped and scratched his unshaven chin. Then he laughed. “Nazis? It sounds too absurd to be true.”

“It’s true. The war came to the Yukon. Nazi spies blew up the railroad. The Irish gave them help. We followed them to Carcross. Tournamille was killed.”

“Your brother died—we found him. A German killed him?”

“James was only one of many. But yes, a German soldier killed my brother. The killer’s name was Josef Jäger. Do you remember him?”

Schubert lay on his back, his hands behind his head, squinting into the sky. He shook his head.

“No.” 

He watched a pair of swallows darting overhead, feasting on mosquitos. After a long pause he turned to Geneviève and asked: “So what are we going to do, you and I? My memories are returning.”

Geneviève waited.

Schubert said: “I get fleeting sensations when we’re together, like something is banging on the door of my memory, trying to get out. The key hasn’t been found.”

High above, billowing white clouds beat a hasty retreat across the azure-blue sky. On the lake, white horses were blowing towards shore. 

Geneviève said: “I want nothing; I’m asking nothing of you. You were close to death. How Peters and I kept you alive, I’ll never know. When I thought you were going to die I felt a sense of loss nearly as great as my brother’s.”

Thunderheads were building in the southern skies. In the distance, a faint rumble echoed across the lake.

Whether or not Schubert was taken aback by her revelation, she didn’t know. He simply said, “I think we should leave. The weather seems to be turning against us.”