Forgiveness (5 page)

“Dear Jesus,” he said, “thank you for this food, bless it to our bodies. Thank you for our safe travels and for the time we can all spend together. Dear Jesus, bless our little Alayne. Keep her safe and bless her father. Please keep Douglas safe over Europe’s skies. In your name, we pray. Amen.”

“Amen,” the table responded in unison.

With that, they dug into the meal with a clanging of utensils, passing of serving dishes, offers to pass the salt, the milk, the butter, more potatoes, and praises to the cook. The night ended with a game of cards, but the prayer was needed. The next day would be the most difficult of Mabel’s life.

Ralph woke to his favourite breakfast, a soft-boiled egg with butter, salt, and pepper. Mrs. McArthur placed a cup of Scottish breakfast tea in front of him. He was still in his pyjamas, with a borrowed housecoat to cut the November morning chill. When he heard a knock at the front door, he instinctively stood up to answer, but Mrs. McArthur put her hand on his shoulder and told him she’d get it.

The opened door ushered in a wave of cool, damp air. A cold front had moved in overnight. Ralph heard a man’s voice ask for
Mabel Stevens. Who would be looking for Mabel here? The only person who knew they were there was his mother. And then it hit him like an ocean surge.

Ralph didn’t need to read the telegram in the messenger’s hand. He knew what it said. He slowly got to his feet and went upstairs. He put his ear to the door of the room where Mabel slept. He heard Alayne cooing, so he knew Mabel must be awake. He knocked and cracked the door open.

“Mabel, there is a messenger here for you.”

Ralph knew this was the sentence she had been dreading since Douglas left her arms. He could see she was paralyzed with dread. He helped her sit up on the side of the bed. Alayne continued to coo as he scrambled to find a wool shawl for Mabel to throw over her shoulders in the room’s half-light. He helped her to her feet and quickly swaddled Alayne.

As they made their way down the stairs, Mabel turned to her brother. “I can’t do this, Ralph. I just … I just can’t bear it.”

“Lean on me, dear. Let’s do this together.”

Mabel really
couldn’t
do it. The sight of the messenger was too much. He was Death. Her legs gave out. Ralph passed Alayne to Mrs. McArthur and picked his sister up—propped her up—to take the shock of the news.

“Mrs. Stevens, I regret to inform you that your husband, Douglas Stevens, died in a plane crash. He died in service. Please accept my condolences and this message from the Royal Air Force.”

With that, the messenger bowed his head and offered a final “I’m sorry” as Mrs. McArthur closed the door. The foyer was freezing but Mabel seemed completely unaware. Her knees buckled once again and this time Ralph eased her to the ground. He sat beside her, rubbing her back. She was motionless, silent. Finally, as if the weight of the news had just then hit her, Mabel let out a frightful moan. It was deep, low, and sorrowful, and it came up from the pit of her stomach. She was in the middle of a hell that abandons all reality, all manners, all social graces. Mabel lay on that landing
for over an hour. She wailed, trembled, and sobbed herself into a state of sheer exhaustion. Ralph stayed at her side on the cold floor. Blankets were offered but Mabel eschewed them. She sought no comfort. She knew there was none to be had.

She and Alayne were alone.

That afternoon, Ralph sent word to his mother and to the Stevens family. Mr. and Mrs. Stevens had already heard the news and had gleaned additional bits of information from telegrams from Douglas’s friend, who had been serving with him in Great Britain.

Douglas’s squad had been training for night-bombing runs into France. He had gone up with a group of Wellingtons over the English Channel. His plane malfunctioned and he and his co-pilot struggled to make it home. They almost made it.

As Douglas’s comrades landed and were getting out of their planes, they saw his screaming into a hillside cliff, a thick trail of black smoke behind it. An emergency crew recovered his plane and he was found in the cockpit, still strapped in. He hadn’t ejected. He had never given up on getting his buddies home safely. Douglas Stevens was buried in Uxbridge, England.

Ralph promised Mr. Stevens that he would have Mabel call him as soon as she was able. He hung up the phone, went to his sister, and picked up her limp body. She was long beyond being hysterical. She was beyond anything. Ralph took her back up to the bed where he’d found her a mere hour ago—a lifetime ago.

He returned downstairs and kneeled beside Alayne’s bassinet and listened to her coo. This little soul would never know the pain of the moment—there would be no scars. She would only come to know this day by the emptiness it would leave in its wake. She would never feel the warm, deep hug that only a father can provide. Ralph cried for Alayne that afternoon. He cried for her, and he cried for Mabel. He cried for himself.

The next morning Mabel emerged from her room seared by loss. It would never leave her eyes. She never really got up from the landing. She went somewhere for those few hours. The experience
pierced her and took something from her. Some things you just can’t ever get back.

As Ralph had promised, Mabel called Douglas’s family. She sat at the table and he stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder, as she picked up the phone and dialled the number. “It’s Mabel … yes … well, I’m doing better now … the baby? … She’s fine … sleeping now … I can … okay … I will. Mr. Stevens, thank you. I’ll see you soon.” With that, Mabel hung up the phone and bowed her head.

Ralph gave her time. She blew her nose, wiped her eyes, and looked up at her brother.

“Mr. Stevens said, ‘Mabel, you come to us,’” she reported, crying tears of gratefulness.

Two days later, Ralph bundled up Alayne and saw her and his sister off on the train. Mabel was taking up the Stevens’ invitation. She would stay with them for three years. Alayne’s father would never hold her, but her grandfather was there for her. At the Stevens’s, Mabel and Alayne recovered. There, Alayne grew.

On his own now, Ralph struck out for Halifax, where he would be staying with his sister Greta, who worked at the harbour magazine depot. Walking down Front Street with his suitcase to catch the train, he got it in his mind to follow Douglas’s footsteps into battle. Revenge was in his heart. The war had hit his family and he was never one to back down from a fight: not from the Downroaders, not from his dad, and certainly not from the Nazis. As with most of life’s major decisions, there was no fanfare, no fireworks. There was just Ralph MacLean walking down Front Street. He took the train and got off at the Pier 21 exit, then he hiked up Water Street and went to the docks. He walked into the naval recruitment station.

There, Ralph was told the damnedest thing he’d ever heard.

“Sorry, son,” said the naval official, “we are just taking boys from the Prairies.”

The Prairies?

Ralph looked around the room. He didn’t see a single fellow who looked like he was from the Prairies.

He pleaded his case: “I’m fit to serve, sir. I know my way around a boat.”

He made sure to make eye contact with the official.

“I want to fight.” Not much more could be said.

“I don’t doubt any of that, son. But I got my orders. We’re only taking men from the Prairies. I’m sorry. Come back in a few months,” the official said, making it clear the conversation was over.

With nothing more to do, Ralph nodded, picked up his suitcase, and left the building. Shoulders slumped, he trudged along the boardwalk.

“Prairie boys,” he mumbled to himself, still shocked.

After visiting with Greta for a few days, he decided to go home to Grindstone. He didn’t really want to, but he didn’t seem to have much choice. He was flat broke and, not being from the Prairies, was of no use to the Navy. He wired his buddy Deighton Aitken, who came to pick him up at the island dock.

The two friends spent a few weeks celebrating. Deighton had spent much of the last summer out at sea and had had several good hauls of mackerel and lobster. Unlike Ralph, he had money in his pocket. They spent the next few weeks in and out of various rum bottles.

Life went on like that for some time. They’d pick up odd jobs, make enough to run around with, find another job when they ran out of money. As the spring turned to summer, both grew tired of this routine. They were restless. They could feel the grass growing under their feet on that tiny island and they both sought adventures. They wanted to do something—anything—with their lives. And Ralph still had the gnawing of revenge in his heart. The summer wore on and their restlessness grew more intense. They would go from house to house, visiting friends, drinking beer, all the while growing more frustrated with their station in life.

On the night of August 25, 1940, Deighton knocked on the back door of Ralph’s house. They had a routine night of gin rummy planned
with Lloyd and Ada Geddes, long-time neighbours of the MacLeans. Lloyd Geddes had a way with cards—but a terrible sense of humour. After a couple of hours of stiff drinks and crummy jokes, Deighton kicked Ralph under the table. That was the cue to leave. They finished the hand, thanked Ada for the hospitality, and made a quick exit.

They walked down the main road, hands in pockets, kicking small pebbles along the gravel road. Deighton raised his collar to shield himself from the sea breeze. Ralph didn’t seem to notice. His mind was elsewhere.

“You know, Ralphie, a team of chaps came today recruiting from
Quee-bec.
I hear they are looking to fill two regiments full of men: one English and one French. That’s a couple thousand men they’re looking for—just from around these parts alone. They’ve been through the Eastern Townships and they’re fixin’ to make their way straight through to Nova Scotia’s South Shore.”

Ralph tried to keep his cool. “Oh yeah, where have they set up shop on the island?”

“The hospital.”

“Well, whatdya think?” Ralph asked—knowing full well what Deighton thought.

“Might be worth heading down there and takin’ a look-see.”

“God knows, I can’t take another night of Lloyd’s jokes,” Ralph said.

“Okay then, we’ll go first thing tomorrow. I’ll pick you up after breakfast.”

Ralph spent that night dreaming of gallivanting around Europe with his buddy Deighton. They could see the world. They could see the world’s women. He’d be far away from Lloyd’s jokes, his father’s insults, and the mundane jobs he was picking up. He’d have a uniform, a gun, and a duty to discharge. He’d have purpose.

The next morning Ralph watched the sunrise from the back door step. Deighton arrived soon after, and together they went to the hospital. Neither of them had discussed this move with their families. They had decided—together—to enlist.

Walking up the hill towards the hospital they saw a group of chaps loitering around the entrance. Inside the hospital, recruitment was an orderly affair. There were two tables in the main foyer and a Canadian flag pinned up behind them on the wall. The green Royal Rifles of Canada—unfamiliar to Ralph—hung on a portable flagpole. The insignia read:
Volens et valens.
The Latin was lost on them both. A recruiting officer pointed to the unfamiliar words as he translated: “Willing and able.”

At the table on the left sat a man with a buzz cut and a clipboard. Ralph took his turn with the officer.

“What’s your name, son?”

Ralph examined the army badge on the officer’s shoulder, the First World War medal for something or other, the sidearm.

“Son, what’s your name?” the officer repeated.

“Ralph Augustus MacLean, sir,” he offered, standing as he guessed a soldier should stand.

“Live here in Grindstone?”

“Yes sir, just down the ways above Splendid Beach.”

“Age?” The officer’s face was buried in the clipboard.

“I’m eighteen, sir.”

“When were you born, son?”

“1922.”

“The date. What day were you born?”

“June 27, 1922.”

“You’ve only been eighteen for two months then, huh? Well, we’re going to have to change that.”

Ralph flashed the office a confused look.

“Son, you can’t go overseas until you are nineteen. So we need to fix your birthdate if you’re going to go overseas with your buddy here.”

Ralph and Deighton looked at each other; Deighton flashed his toothy grin. Ralph nodded.

“There, that’s better,” the officer said as a few scratches of a pencil aged Ralph ten months.

The officer waved his hand and gave them both a
we’re in on it
smile.

“We’re done here, gents. Go to the next table.”

The two buddies sat side by side on chairs at the next table and signed what was put in front of them. That was that. Rifleman Ralph Augustus MacLean. E30382. Headquarters Company. 4 Carrier MD5 Platoon. Over time he’d shout that combination of words and numbers to more drill officers than he could count. He’d whisper it once with a sword at his throat.

Both Ralph and Deighton were riflemen in the Royal Rifles of Canada, 1st Battalion. In two weeks, they were to be shipped to Valcartier, Quebec, for basic training.

My grandma was born Mitsue Oseki. She was her family’s first-born daughter. In Japanese families, the eldest daughter is called
ne-san.
Her brothers and sisters called her Nenny for short. That name stuck, and to this day, the ones who are still alive call her Nenny. Their kids, and their kids’ kids, call her Aunty Nenny.

Her name, Mitsue, means Shining Branch. Her father gave her the name because her parents and those that came before them were the roots and the trunk of the tree. They grounded her and gave her life. And as the eldest, she was to support them in turn, to keep the tree alive and well, to grow. She tried her best.

Mitsue was born on June 10, 1920, in Eburne, British Columbia. She was born Canadian. She was lucky to be born into the home of Yosuke and Tomi Oseki.

Yosuke and Tomi had a special kind of relationship, ahead of their time, founded on mutual respect, rooted in love. The two of them would speak late into the night, holding hands across the kitchen table. They had a lot to discuss. Neither had anticipated living across the Pacific Ocean from their land, away from Japan and their beloved families.