Chapter 29. That's all, folks!

OK people. I need to hear from you. Is the story believable? Are the characters sufficiently human? What works well? Anything strike you as completely off?  

I've written two endings. The first is, well, rather bleak you might say. There was a time in my life when I thought the loss I had experienced was only the precursor to a deeper stage of loss. Perhaps this is why I wrote the ending the way I did.

The second ending is decidedly positive, to a degree. Maybe I should say, "hopeful." I'm not sure how much loss Schubert can handle, although I know of people who have suffered tremendously. You decide. Let me know!

Chapter 29

It happened when the last hot winds of August gave way to frosty mornings and cool evenings. Fragments of memories continued to surface and he could nearly piece together the entire saga but one thing remained elusive: Geneviève. Her devotion to his recovery had humbled him. He began to have an inkling about their relationship prior to the accident, even though it remained partially in shadow. She had been more than a nurse, of that he was now sure, but since she never alluded to the kind of intimacy they had shared, he remained ignorant. During the last week in July her visits became sporadic—he attributed it to her preparing her business for the coming winter season. And then, by early August Schubert returned to work. The office wasn’t the same. There was a cloud hanging over the place, or so Schubert felt. Peters seemed distracted, distant, as if the events at Carcross were continually playing in his imagination. Simpson had a look of sadness his eyes couldn’t disguise: Tournamille’s presence was missed by everyone at the station.

That same afternoon, buoyed by the news that the Allies had taken Sicily, Schubert walked to Geneviève’s cafe, hoping for a good cup of coffee and conversation. Walking across the street, he noticed an absence of lights in the windows. As he neared the door, it became apparent the cafe was closed. The chairs were stacked on the tables. He tried the door handle but it was locked. He walked around to the rear and tried the back door. It was also locked. He peered in through the window, the one he’d fixed. No one was there.

“Peters,” Schubert said, after returning to the station. “Geneviève’s cafe is closed. Is she abroad somewhere?”

“Couldn’t say, sir. Haven’t really paid much attention, if truth be told. Maybe she’s gone to Vancouver—a holiday.” He realized the absurdity of that suggestion, especially after what they’d all been through. 

“You could be right. It’s just odd she never said anything.”

But Geneviève’s absence continued into the following week and after a second week, Schubert became anxious.

“Bart, this doesn’t feel right. She’s not someone who simply ups and leaves without a word.”

“She’s free to come and go, I reckon. I mean no disrespect, sir, but what do we really know about her?” Or about each other, he thought. Ever since Carcross, the nightmares plagued his waking hours and disrupted his sleep. 

“I’ve checked with the airline. She wasn’t booked on any flights to Vancouver.”

“Maybe she took a flight with an American supply plane. Could be possible.”

Schubert considered that a daft suggestion but refrained from saying so. 

Peters added, “Well, she did grow up on her father’s trapline. Maybe she’s gone to her brother’s cabin.”

“If that’s where she is, she’ll be rebuilding it—at least the front door and a window or two.”

It was obvious to Peters that his friend was concerned. 

“Why don’t we see if the Yanks will loan us a jeep? We could head out early tomorrow, if all goes well.” 

Peters called Herschel, who called the motor pool. The jeep would be waiting for them, fueled and ready to go. After their success at Carcross, the Americans were more forthcoming in helping the local police. 

Peters and Schubert left at dawn. Without daylight, the jeep’s pale yellow lights failed to illuminate more than a few yards ahead of them. For a long while, neither spoke. Then, as dawn eventually gave way to morning light, Schubert spoke into the cold morning air.

“Talk to me Bart. I know Carcross was difficult for you, for all of us.” 

Peters snorted, and shook his head.

Schubert waited. 

“I’m fine,” was all Peters said.

Schubert said nothing. Peters stared straight ahead, his eyes transfixed on some imaginary point. Then suddenly, he coughed, or took a ragged breath and then he slammed his hands on the steering wheel. He began to cry. He took his foot off the accelerator and the jeep rolled to a stop. His shoulders heaved. Schubert had never seen his friend this way. After a while, Peters calmed and said, “You can drive.”

“Since killing that Irishman, I can’t sleep,” Peters confessed while Schubert drove. “I’m back in the trenches every night. And during the day, I live with the fear of what I might dream when I do fall asleep. And after nearly losing you…” His voice broke and silence filled the space around them once more.

Eventually, the road came to an end. Schubert parked the Jeep and the two men hoisted their packs for the walk to James’s cabin. Peters had no trouble remembering the way—it never ceased to amaze Schubert how his friend could navigate through the wilderness without a map or even a compass.

After a while, the trees thinned and the cabin appeared through the forest. Schubert was filled with dread, as irrational as it was but the memories of that night rang clear and true. When they gained the clearing, both men stopped and looked at the place where James had died. The grass had grown thick where James’ blood had been spilled and turned an impossible shade of green. Then, Schubert called out. 

“Geneviève!” His voice sounded small and insignificant. “Are you there?”

FIRST ENDING

But the answer was apparent before he had called her name. The door was still leaning on one hinge, the evidence of violence still apparent. Schubert entered the cabin first. It was exactly as they had left it. Jäger’s blood had faded to black; the table was smashed and remnants of flour were visible on the floor. There were mouse droppings everywhere. Schubert kicked away some debris and sat down on the chair. It was obvious Geneviève hadn’t returned.

“I don’t understand, Bart. Where has she gone? And why hasn’t she said anything?” He noticed Geneviève’s knife mark was easily seen on the rough timber.

Peters leaned against the wall. He sighed heavily, the burden of truth falling on his shoulders. 

“She loved you, Karl. You want the truth? You were lovers before the accident. She couldn’t tell you because you didn’t remember. How fair would it have been to burden you with that truth? She wanted you to remember on your own.”

Peters rarely used Schubert’s Christian name.

“And when the weeks, months, passed and nothing came, I guess it became too much for her.”

Peters’s revelation washed over Schubert, but whether as a cleansing tide or a drowning, he didn’t know.

“Father confessor once more, Bart, or is this a hunch on your part?”

“Just a hunch, honestly. She never told me anything about her plans.”

Schubert didn’t believe him but wasn’t going to press him. What was the point?

Schubert rose from the chair. 

“Let’s go Bart. There’s nothing for us here.”

As they walked through the forest, a song began to surface in Schubert’s imagination. It was another song penned by his ancestor called Der Tod und das Mädchen. “Death and the Young Maiden.” In the blush of youth and filled with hope for the future, a young woman begs for death to spare her, to pass her by but death, deaf to her entreaty, tells her, her time has come.

Another death; another loss, thought Schubert. I am alone. He felt a sense of dread descend, the likes of which he had never experienced.

He breathed deeply the musk and pine air, and walked on into the early afternoon.

SECOND ENDING

 Schubert noticed the door had been fixed. 

From inside the cabin, they heard footsteps echoing across the little clearing.

“Hello,” she said. “Come to check up on me?”

“I was worried you’d left Whitehorse.”

She stood on the porch, leaning against the post. Schubert tried to reconcile this diminutive beauty standing before him with the soldier he knew she was.

“I remember, now,” Schubert said, filling in the silence. He walked toward her. “When I thought you had left the Territory, well, I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t face the thought of what might become of me, without you.” 

“So what are you telling me, Karl Schubert?” Geneviève stepped from the porch, into his waiting arms.

“It must have hurt, me not remembering and you not knowing if I ever would. And then not saying anything, I can’t imagine how that felt.”

“I’m not a stranger to pain.”

“No, I imagine you’re not. I guess none of us are.

“Could I tempt you with some dinner at my place? I have a can of mackerel and some old bread. I’m out of wine. Peters—any wine to be had at your place?”

“I’m sure I could dig out a bottle. But we should be leaving if we want to get home before the sun sets.”

“It’s August,” Schubert replied. “We’ve plenty of time.”

***

He and Geneviève had been playing chess in the living room. She was beating him, again. The piano was still covered in cards, wishing him well. There was even a letter of commendation from the PM himself. A copy of the Globe & Mail lay next to the cards. His story had been front and center. “Nazi’s North Of Sixty,” it had read. Most of the details had been redacted: no mention was made of Geneviève or her marksmanship: the Irish connection had been deleted, as well. The story never revealed why Nazi saboteurs had converged upon Whitehorse, only some vague mention of a railroad connection to the United States and the Schubert’s near-brush with death. 

Schubert sat at the piano and pulled a volume of Schumann from the shelf. He flipped to Opus 48, no. 2 Wenn ich in deine Augen seh. “When I look into your eyes.”

The accompaniment was sparse—Schumann had given this song to the singer. Long, slow soaring lines emerged and Schubert pulled everything he could from the text.

When I look into your eyes, my sorrow and pain vanish.

Ah, but when I kiss your lips, I am whole and completely healthy.

Geneviève was upstairs, when the duet began. She could tell his voice sounded rough. She silently descended, listening as she went. Schubert hadn’t touched the piano nor sang a note since his return home. Now, the sound of his voice filled the entire home; it was as if she were bathing within it. The beauty and pathos tugged at her, two forces joined together since time’s beginning, and like twins, always a part of the same whole. Beauty, it seemed, invariably rived the heart, leaving a cleft in which wounds found the solace necessary for healing.

She risked more than she knew when she entered the room. The salon had become a holy place, the threshold between Beauty and reconciliation. Would she be welcome there? Schubert continued to sing and he smiled at her, with his eyes. She stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders. 

When I lean on your breast, I am overcome with a longing for heaven, 

Ah, but when you say, “I love you!” then I must cry bitterly.

As the final chord slipped away, the room became still. She took a seat, next to him. 

“I owe you my life,” he said, after a long moment of silence.

“You’re an ox—you would have lived,” Geneviève whispered. 

“Not just my literal life,” he continued, stroking her hair. “You created the door for  my memories to return, for Beauty to return. I hadn’t even realized I’d closed the door—even abandoned it.”

“What do we do now, you and I? Is there a place in this room for another? I’m not a praying woman but I don’t know how to live with what I have done.”

“You’re speaking of forgiveness.”

“Perhaps, yes.”

“You know better than I how messy war is. Start and end by forgiving yourself, by loving yourself; let others love you.” He paused, leaving some thoughts unsaid. “You need no one’s forgiveness except your own. I think that’s where to begin.” 

He closed the anthology of songs. “I’m about to hobble my way upstairs. Coming?”