The Willow Wren - excerpt

This is the first chapter of my forthcoming novel, The Willow Wren, which will be published by ECW Press on March 23 of this year.

February 20, 1944

 

            This memory stands out above many others. A glinting nickel in a fistful of pennies. I can feel my mother’s hand gripping mine, a thin leather glove squeezing my thick woolen mitten, squeezing it maybe a little too tightly. And I can smell the smoke - sharp and somehow metallic - mixed with the dry smell of powdery cement dust and the tang of brown coal fires, and perhaps something else that I didn’t recognize at that age, something charred. I did not like the smells.

But this is principally a visual memory. The picture is detailed and clear in my mind’s eye, like a large format photograph taken by an expensive camera. The front of our three-story building had been neatly peeled off, as if by an enormous can opener wielded by a fairy-tale giant. The only evidence that there had ever been an outside wall was the still lightly smoking pile of debris on the street out front. But then debris was everywhere in the city, so it was difficult to connect this particular debris to the wall that had once defined the outer limit of our domestic life. It was more as if the wall had magically vanished or had been excised and carried off.

We stood and stared, wordlessly, just staring. Bomb damage was not surprising given the air raid the night before - we saw plenty enough of it as we hurried from the train station – but what was surprising was the precision. The wall was gone, but just a meter beyond it the interior was absolutely intact. Nothing was out of place. No chairs had been knocked over. Even the paintings on the walls still hung straight. We were looking into our living room as if into a life-sized doll’s house.

This doll’s house impression was so strong that it distorted my sense of perspective. I remember suddenly feeling very small, as if my mother and I had been shrunk to doll size. I longed to grow to my full ten-year-old boy size again so that I could reach into the living room and delicately pick up a wooden chair between my thumb and forefinger. I even made the pinching motion inside my mitten with my free hand.

“Where is Papa going to sleep now?” I asked, when I finally found a way to make words.

“Don’t worry. The Party will find something for him.”

I nodded solemnly in response, trying to visualize Papa sleeping on top of his desk, papers pushed aside, a blanket and pillow brought by an aide. He had one rigid leg, the result of tuberculosis in his knee when he was a child, so my mental picture showed that leg sticking out from the end of the desk while the other one was tucked up.

“He’s an important man, your Papa.” She said this flatly.

“Shall we go to his office now Mama? Is that where he is?”

“Yes, I suppose that makes sense. I’m sure he’s very busy dealing with this, but since we’ve come all this way.”

Just then an older teenager came rapidly peddling up the street on a bicycle, weaving amongst the piles of rubble. He was tall and very pale, with black hair slicked back to reveal a high acne pockmarked forehead. His dark grey uniform was slightly too small for his long thin arms and legs. I recognized him from Papa’s Ortsgruppe office (local Nazi headquarters), although I did not have reason to know his name yet. Later I would find out it was Erich. I remember being envious of his bicycle as it was a relatively new dark red Kalkhoff. But honestly, I would have been happy with any bicycle.

Erich waved to us frantically when he spotted us.

“Heil Hitler Frau Schott!” Erich’s right arm shot up as he rolled to a stop.

“Yes?” Mama’s arms remained at her side. My mother was a solid and serious looking woman. She was not large, but with her strong voice and her ability to wield an unblinking stare she certainly could be intimidating. That day she wore a very businesslike tan-coloured suit and had her hair pulled back severely into a tight bun.

Erich swallowed and blinked several times before continuing. “Ortsgruppenleiter Schott sends his regards and he also sends his regrets that he was unable to meet you at the train station or here at your home.” He paused for a response, but as there was none he went on, “As you can see the enemy attacked again with many bombers. It began at 3:15 this morning. Leipzig Connewitz was especially heavily hit. There are hundreds dead. Killed where they slept.” He stopped again, perhaps realizing that he was striking the wrong note. “But of course, our Luftwaffe shot most of them down before they could do even more damage. So, I am sure they have learned their lesson.”

“I’m sure they have,” Mama said dryly. “I suppose this means that Herr Ortsgruppenleiter will not be available to see his wife and son at any point today?”

“You are correct Frau Schott. I’m afraid that will not be possible. He has arranged train tickets for you on the 13:20. He is concerned there will be another attack. Please stay away from the city until you hear from him.” Erich reached into his satchel and pulled out two brown cardboard tickets that had red swastika priority stamps on them.

This was of course a disappointment. This was to be a special treat to mark my tenth birthday a few weeks prior. For the first time I was traveling without my irritating siblings. And for the first time Papa was going to spend time with me alone and show me some interesting things. I had obtained special leave from camp to do this. I was still going to have a day with Mama in Mellingen, but that was more afterthought than main event. Feeling only disappointment and not horror or sadness in the midst of all this destruction and apparent death may seem odd, but that is honestly all that I felt then. Sometimes small boys have small concerns.

And as it happened, Papa was right. The train was only a few minutes out of the station when the air raid sirens began to scream. I put my hands over my ears and began to rock as I could not tolerate loud noises. I squeezed my eyes shut as well. When I opened them again, I saw that Mama looked very upset. She was looking down at her lap, frowning, and her eyes were moist. She clutched an elaborately embroidered white handkerchief. The transformation to this from the tough woman who had spoken to Erich was unsettling. I remember wishing I could comfort her, but I had no idea how to go about it.

She noticed me looking at her. “I’m sorry Ludwig.”

“No, it’s okay Mama. I am scared of the bombs too.” I felt brave and grown-up admitting this.

“It’s not that. But I shouldn’t make you worry. We’ll be fine.” She wiped her eyes and nose and turned to the window. I had some inkling as to why she spoke that way but pushed it out of my mind. I was just happy that she looked a little less upset now.

The train began to accelerate. I wondered whether the speed of the train affected the chance that it would be hit by a bomb. I surmised that it probably would and willed the train to go even faster, but then I saw smoke rising far in the northeast. We were heading in the exact opposite direction, so I felt better and smiled at Mama, but she did not seem to notice.

I never saw our beautiful doll’s house home again.

Mr. Barky Barkerson

My own dog is a beautiful Shetland sheepdog named Orbit. In common with many dogs he also has a number of nicknames: Orbers, Orbie, Orbiedo, the Fluffmeister, Shithead and, more recently, Barky Barkerson because, in common with many Shetland sheepdogs, he has learned to bark. He didn’t bark much at first, but you could tell he was often thinking about it. Lorraine and I, both being veterinarians and knowing the breed, were very careful to discourage barking. Some people make the mistake of trying to train their dog only to bark when a stranger comes to the door. Perhaps they’ll succeed, but more often than not, once a dog is allowed to bark for one reason, they will find justifications for barking for a dozen reasons. “That leaf, it could have been a threat! Never trust a leaf.” Or, “Ok, now I know that that noise was just a figment of my imagination, but it could have been the start of a barbarian invasion!” We did not allow Orbit to bark for any reason, but this was like trying to keep the lid on a jar of nitroglycerin. You just know it’s going to blow someday. (Yes, yes, I know that nitroglycerin doesn’t come in jars and that if it did, keeping the lid on would be the least of your worries, but you get the picture.)

That someday was one evening when a group of four of my friends showed up, hammered loudly on our front door and then waltzed in before I could get to the door, startling Orbit and rearranging four of his five neurons (I said he was beautiful, I didn’t say he was smart). He began to bark furiously at them and since that day barks whenever there is a knock on the door. Not only does he bark whenever there is a knock on the door, but he also barks whenever he thinks there is a knock on the door. This encompasses a breathtakingly wide array of knock-like sounds associated with cooking, cleaning and just life in general. After years of counselling people to avoid letting their dogs bark, here I had a dog that barked like a deranged fool when I so much as accidentally hit the side of a saucepan with a wooden spoon.

So, the problem is clear, but what’s the solution? Dogs are like humans in that acquiring a bad habit is the easiest thing in the world to do, but unacquiring is an entirely different matter. It takes a lot of work and it takes a lot of time. At its most basic level you want to negatively reinforce the bad behavior and positively reinforce the good. Now, before I go on, I should emphasize that negative reinforcement is not the first choice for most behaviours. For example, when you're housetraining a puppy, you ignore the bad behaviour (and positively reinforce the good), and when you're trying to stop a dog from chewing your shoes, you redirect away from the bad behaviour (and reinforce the good). In most cases ignoring or redirecting is the way to go. But ignoring does not work for barking, and in Orbit's case, redirecting did not work either. He was that dedicated to his task. A workaholic barker.

In theory, this all sounds simple enough, but the real trick is that you have to do it consistently. For a barker, the positive is easy enough. If ever someone happens to knock on our door and Orbit doesn’t bark, he gets rewards and lavish praise. This doesn’t happen very often. The negative reinforcement is tougher though. I recommend a squirt gun or a plant mister accompanied by a firm no. Squirt him in the face each time he barks and say no in as gruff a tone as you can muster. The problem is the consistency. The barking is self-reinforcing, meaning each time he barks he feels even more like barking the next time, so if you only squirt him one out of three times, the barking is winning two to one. Practically speaking this means having squirt guns or bottles placed all around the house so that one is always at hand. Or I suppose you can keep one in a holster, but you might get funny looks. Regardless, you will have to do it a thousand times in row to be effective. It’s exhausting.

Incidentally, if your dog is one of those weirdos who likes being squirted in the face, you’ll have to find something else he doesn’t like, such as perhaps a blast from an athletic whistle. And I don’t recommend the bark collars, certainly not the shock ones. The ones that spray citronella had potential when they were first released, but I found that many dogs just learned to tolerate the citronella spritz. They have the advantage that you do not need to be home for it provide negative reinforcement, but if you can do the spraying with water you can control the dose, as it were, to get the desired effect. The first few times Orbit ended up with a dripping wet face before he stopped barking, but now we often just have to reach for the bottle and squints his eyes, lowers his head and, yes, stops barking.

I wish I could end the story there. Unambiguous success. Clever veterinarian triumphs over foolish barking dog. But life is rarely so simple. Recall that I said that consistency was key. Too often I can’t find a squirt bottle at that moment, or my hands are full, or I’m not near enough to where he is, or… insert a dozen other excuses. In short, we are not consistent. He barks less, but still too much. However, should the barbarian invasion actually come, we’ll have ample warning. There’s always an upside.

Yes, You Climb Volcano

I'll start this blog by exhuming a short travel story that was first published back in the '90s, and was read by Bill Richardson on CBC radio.

A number of years ago Lorraine and I were traveling in Southeast Asia when we ended up in a little flyspeck cluster of isles in eastern Indonesia named the Bandas. The Banda islands are each quite small and low and are arranged in a kind of loose bracelet around Gunung Api, an active volcano that rises in a perfect cone out of the sea in Banda harbour like a child's naive drawing of a South Sea's volcano. There is little to do in the Bandas other than snorkel and stroll and fully exercise one's passion for sloth, but after a week or so of staring up at that magnificent volcano I could sloth no more and began to think about climbing it.

The idea was, evidently, not original. Our host smiled and nodded vigorously - "Yes, you climb volcano!!" - and arranged for Bapa Saleh, the guide, to meet me at five the next morning. I say "me" and not "us" as Lorraine has an uncanny intuition for detecting when I'm being an idiot.

So Bapa Saleh and I set off across Banda harbour in a dugout canoe at five the next morning, with me in splendid anticipation of the magnificent view from the peak of Gunung Api that would be had of dawn breaking over the glittering Banda Sea.

This anticipation was almost immediately replaced by bewilderment and then ever-higher states of anxiety as it became painfully clear that this thing was actually going to be bloody difficult to ascend. The volcano was entirely covered by loose sharp rocks on a slope as utterly steep as gravity and the established principles of physics would allow a slope of loose sharp rocks to be. Consequently I was reduced to scrabbling up on all fours with three slips down for every four scrabbles up. In short order, despite the pre-dawn coolness, I was completely saturated in sweat, coated in grime (albeit exotic volcanic grime) and both my knees were bleeding.

At this point it probably bears mentioning that I am a (relatively) young and healthy man. Bapa Saleh was sixtyish, wearing only bathing shorts and a Kentucky Fried Chicken t-shirt and was in bare feet. Bare feet! Moreover, the man could move at an incredible clip and, perversely, his only English was "Slowly, slowly!" which he would periodically shout down to where I lay gasping and panting as he continued to skip up the mountain.

Then it began to rain. Hard.

I have few recollections of the rest of that climb other than that of a strong smell of sulphur and a hazy photo taken by the hugely smiling Bapa Saleh with me looking like something that might have been found in the trenches at the Somme, clutching an Indonesian phrasebook and sitting at the utterly socked-in summit.