Camp X (7 page)

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I tried to enlist.”

“You tried to join the army?”

“I went down to the recruitment office in Toronto and offered my services. They declined.”

“But why?” I asked.

“They said I was too old.”

He was a tall man with dark hair just beginning to turn silver and muscular arms—probably from hefting heavy bundles of newspapers. “You don't look that old,” I said.

“Thank you.” He smiled. “I just turned fifty, but a young fifty. Besides, I thought my experience as a soldier would outweigh any difficulties caused by my age.”

“You were a soldier before?” Jack asked.

“I fought in the First World War.”

“Wow . . . that was so long ago . . . I mean, that's really interesting,” I stammered, afraid I'd offended him.

Mr. Krum laughed. “It was a long time ago, but war hasn't changed that much. Besides, I was not hoping to be sent to the front. I thought they could use me in communication . . . something related to being in the newspaper business.”

“That would make sense,” Jack agreed.

“Do you know what we used to call that war?” Mr. Krum asked.

I shook my head.

“It had two names. ‘The Great War' and ‘The War to End All Wars.' Both names have proven incorrect.”

“How long were you in the army?” I asked.

“Just under four years. I was wounded . . . twice. The second wound to my leg ended my career as a soldier, although it did add to my collection of medals.”

“You received medals?” Jack asked.

“Many,” Mr. Krum said, nodding his head slowly. “Would you like to see them?”

“You have them here?” I asked.

“In my office. They are not things you throw away. Come.”

We put aside the newspapers and followed him back through the loading dock and into the main office. There were other people sorting papers and answering phones and clicking away on typewriters. He opened the door to his office and motioned for us to follow.

“I do not usually show these,” he said. “But since we were discussing these things . . .”

He removed a large wooden box from a shelf filled with books, and with his shirt sleeve he brushed off a thick layer of dust. Obviously it had been a long time since anybody had seen them. He opened up the box and my eyes widened at the sight. There had to be a dozen medals, shiny, attached to pieces of faded, but still colourful, ribbon.

“You were a hero,” I gasped under my breath.

“Two were for given to me for being unfortunate enough to be wounded. Some for simply being in a battle. But this one,” he said, pointing out a large one in the very centre of the medals, shiny and silver with raised edges, “this one is for bravery. Would you like to hold it?”

“Could I?”

He nodded his head. Carefully, almost delicately, he reached down and removed it from the wooden box. He placed it in my hands.

“It's heavier than I thought it would be,” I said.

“Turn it over and you can see where it has been inscribed.”

Gently I turned it over. There clearly visible, was writing . . . but I couldn't understand the words except for a name: Rainer Krum.

“Who is Rainer?” I asked.

“That is my full name.”

“I thought your name was Ray?” Jack said.

“Ray is short for Rainer.”

“I can't read the other words. Is it Latin?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” Mr. Krum said. “German.”

“Why is it in German?”

“What other language would a German medal have on it?”

“German medal? Why would you get a medal from the Germans?” I gasped.

“I was in the German army.”

“But I don't understand,” I stammered.

“I was born and raised in Germany. My father is German, while my mother is English.”

“You're German?” I questioned.

“No,” he said, shaking his head.

“But you fought for them in the war.”

“Yes, I did. I was born in Germany.
Then
I was German.
Now
I am Canadian. I have lived in Canada since after the war. I've lived right here in Whitby for almost twenty years. I still have a little accent, no?”

“Just a bit,” I said.

“It was a different war at a different time for different reasons. I have chosen to become Canadian. I am a citizen and proud of my country of choice. Probably as your father is.”

“Our father?” Jack asked.

“Your last name is Braun. That makes you of German heritage too, does it not?” Mr. Krum asked.

“Yeah . . . our Opa, I mean our grandfather, came from Germany,” I explained.

“But we're Canadian!” Jack quickly added. “And so is our father!”

“As am I.” Mr. Krum took the medal from my hand and placed it back in the case.

“I would not show this to many people. They would not
understand,” he said as he gently closed the lid. “They hear or see a German name and they don't understand.”

Jack snorted. “We've met people like that.”

I lowered my eyes to the floor. We hadn't come across anybody like that until we moved here. Some of the boys in the neighbourhood had been calling me names—although never when Jack was around.

“I . . . we . . . we just didn't know you were from Germany,” Jack stammered.

“Many people here are of German descent. For example, our chief of police.”

“Chief Smith?”

“I am not the only one to use a slightly different name,” Mr. Krum said. “Smith is how the English say the name Schmidt. His real name is Schmidt.”

Of course I knew the Chief—or at least knew who he was. He was always driving around in his police car, looking at everything and everybody. He wasn't very friendly, and I was actually afraid of him.

“Some people, when they come to a country, try to hide their roots. This might be wise, I think, especially at a time like this. Some feel that those of us who have German roots are not trustworthy, or at best that we might have mixed allegiance.”

Neither Jack nor I said anything, but our expressions left little doubt that we'd worried people might think the same of us.

“Words are useless to convince others of one's loyalty,” Mr. Krum said. “As they say, the first casualty of war is the
truth. You must look at a man's actions as well as listen to his words.” There was a long pause. “Take your father. His actions are to serve his country. Could there be any doubt of his loyalty?”

“None,” Jack snapped.

“And I would have done the same, if allowed.”

“You were willing to fight against Germany?”

“Against the Nazis,” he said, nodding his head enthusiastically. “Do you know what the Nazis did as soon as they came to power? They closed down the newspapers. Their policies, their lies, could not stand the light of truth. They are evil. Fighting against evil is always the right decision. Even if that decision put me at odds with the place of my birth.”

A long silence followed. Nobody seemed to know what to say.

“Thanks for showing me your medals,” I finally offered, breaking the tension.

“Thank you, George,” he said, bowing his head slightly.

“You know what, Mr. Krum,” I said, “I think they should have let you join the army.”

“You do?”

“Yep. I know you would have been a hero again.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

I THREW THE NEWSPAPER
and it flew through the air, hitting the railing of the porch and bouncing back and down into the flowerbed.

“Nice throw,” Jack said, sarcastically. It was the first thing he'd said since we'd left the newspaper office.

I walked across the lawn, reached into the bed and retrieved the paper. I tossed it over the railing and it thumped against the front door. Back on the sidewalk Jack was waiting, the heavy bag filled with newspapers slung over his shoulder.

“What's eating you?” I asked.

“Nothing. Just thinking, that's all.”

We continued to walk along, tossing papers onto the porches or stairs of his customers.

“That was lucky that we talked to Mr. Krum today.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“What do you mean? He gave us a lot of information.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Is that all you can say?” I asked.

“Maybe. . . . Maybe not,” he said with a smirk.

“At least now we know that it's some sort of military base.”

“He said it was
probably
a military base,” Jack corrected me.

“And you think he's wrong?”

“I
don't
think he's wrong. I just think that there are things he doesn't know about.”

“Things like what?”

“Things like those men speaking German, and what we saw on the bridge.”

“Maybe we could tell Mr. Krum,” I suggested.

Jack grabbed me by the arm and jerked me around to face him. “We can tell him nothing. Understand?”

“Sure . . . I guess. But why not?”

“First, we shouldn't be saying anything to anybody, and second, you know what the poster says, ‘Loose Lips Sink Ships.'”

“What does us telling him have to do with boats sinking?”

“It doesn't have anything to do with boats sinking.” Jack shook his head in disgust. “It has to do with information and spreading secrets.”

“But who is Mr. Krum going to tell?” I asked.

“I don't know . . . you can never be sure,” my brother said. “Spies could be anywhere.”

“You think Mr. Krum is a spy?” I demanded.

Jack didn't answer. Instead he tossed another paper onto a porch.

“I don't really know what I'm saying,” he finally confessed. “I'm confused.”

“Just because he has a German last name doesn't mean anything, you know,” I pointed out.

“It doesn't mean anything that
we
have a German last name, but him we don't know about,” Jack said. “He even fought for Germany in the last war.”

“That was before. He's Canadian now. He wanted to fight against the Nazis but they wouldn't let him because he was too old.”

“That's what he said.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Maybe he
didn't
try to join the army, or maybe he tried but they wouldn't let him in for other reasons. Maybe they wondered if he was a spy,” Jack suggested. “Being an editor of the newspaper would be the perfect cover. He said that himself.”

“But if he is a spy, why would he tell us that he
could
be a spy? Wouldn't that be the last thing in the world he'd say?” I reasoned.

“Maybe it would be the perfect thing to say. If he says he
could
be a spy, then nobody would believe that he
is
one. Doesn't that make sense?”

“But how about showing us the medals? If he hadn't done that, we wouldn't have even known he was German,” I argued.

“Other people in the community already know, I bet, so that really wasn't anything one way or another.”

“You don't really believe that, do you?” I asked.

“I don't know what to believe,” Jack admitted.

“I think Mr. Krum was just trying to be helpful and nice. He's a nice man. He told us things about the land and explosions and stuff.”

“He told us things that would make us stop snooping around that camp.”

“But if he was a German spy, wouldn't he
want
us to snoop around the camp?” I asked. “You know, find out things and report back to him?”

Jack dug into his bag, grabbed another paper and flung it up onto the porch of a house.

“Well . . . I guess you're right . . . unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

“Unless that isn't really a Canadian military base.”

“What else could it be?”

“Maybe it's a secret base training German spies right here under our noses, and he doesn't want us there because he's afraid we'll expose it.”

“Come on, Jack, that's got to be the stupidest thing you've ever said in your whole life!”

“I don't know . . . I just don't know.”

“Because if you really believe that, we have to tell somebody . . . Mom or the RCMP or somebody.”

“Tell them what?”

“What we've seen and heard,” I said.

“We haven't seen or heard enough . . . yet.”

I felt my stomach drop down to my knees. “Mr. Krum said we shouldn't go back.”

“What else would he say?” Jack asked. “He doesn't want us to go there, and that's one more reason why we are going back . . . tonight.”

“You can't be serious.”

“I couldn't be more serious,” he said. “As soon as Mom goes off to the bus we'll eat and then head into the property. We'll come in the same way, by the creek.”

“Jack, I don't want to do that.”

“Who said I was even inviting you to join me!” he snapped.

“But you can't go without me!” I protested.

“I can . . . but I won't. If you want to come you're welcome to come with me. Are you in?” he asked.

“I'm in,” I said through clenched teeth, against my better judgment.

“Good,” he replied. “Now take this.” He pulled the newspaper bag off his shoulder and handed it to me.

I took it and gave him a questioning look.

“I'm going to take some papers and cut through to the next street. You keep delivering along here and I'll meet you at the corner. Okay?”

“Sure.”

Jack reached into the bag and started to pull out papers. He grabbed six, tucking them under one arm.

“Do you remember all the houses on this block?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Tell me the numbers.”

“I don't know the numbers, I just know the houses.”

“Sure you do,” he chuckled. “You know the houses
really
well.”