The Iron Curtain, East Germany, 1948
She ran for her life. Stumbling in the dark, splashing through the frigid water. Muzzle flashes all around her, and bullets flying everywhere. Some coming too close for comfort. Women, young children, running with her. Trying to escape. Screaming for help. Falling. Pleading and begging the guards to let them go.
‘Lying, rotten Russian bastard. I thought after I gave him those nylon stockings and the bottle of vodka everything would be OK.’ A rarity for a young twenty-three year old Adelgunde Kleister. To swear. Finally she stopped running. Exhausted, alone, frightened out of her wits, but now at least safe in West Germany. Then she began to cry. And the reality of what she had just done hit here like a ton of bricks.
‘My family. Our farm in Poland. All gone. My father, my mother and brother. I’ll never see them again. Gone. I hope my sister made it across?’ She continued crying and sobbing as she walked slowly away from the treacherous Iron Curtain, dividing East from West. Away from a life she had known, a family she had loved. But dragging with her the heartbreak and memories that would cling to her for the rest of her life.
……………………
In West Germany, around the same time, Walter sat stunned listening to the Red Cross worker. “I’m sorry, Herr Pyszczyk. We’ve looked everywhere, checked every known record. They’ve disappeared, vanished.”
“But that’s impossible. They must be somewhere. My parents, my three sisters, gone? You just haven’t looked hard enough, damn it. You don’t care enough. I’ve lost my entire family, and you just calmly stand there and prattle on.”
The worker sighed. He had heard all of this too many times before in the last few years. “I’m so sorry, Herr Pyszczyk. But, you must understand. Millions of Germans from Poland went missing when the Russians moved west in 1944. They tried escaping, but the reports we’re getting are grim. If we find anything more about your family, we will contact you.”
The worker left Walter sitting there, now crying pitifully. Later he got very drunk. To forget. That didn’t work. Wishing the bullet that had gone through his leg in the war, had gone through his head instead. To end this nightmare. Walking aimlessly for miles through the city, looking for what? A miracle? He couldn’t go back and look for them. He had to move on.
Pier 21, Halifax, Nova Scotia, 1954
Adelgunde pulled her large, heavy blue wooden trunk behind her toward the Canadian customs agent. Made by her friends in Stade, Germany before she departed for Canada. Heading for a new life, a new start. All her worldly possessions were in that big blue trunk. With her other hand she was holding tightly onto to her two-year old son, who was desperately trying to escape and go exploring.
“Muti, Ich muss gehen. Lass mich gehen.” (Mom I want to go. Let me go.) The young Heinz was restless, after being cooped up on the SS Arosa Kulm for three weeks while crossing the Atlantic.
He started crying. “Ich wollte auf dem Schiff schwimmen gehen. Aber, würden Sie mich nicht lassen.” (I wanted to go swimming on the ship. But, you wouldn’t let me.) Adelgunde, still looking a little pale, having suffered badly from sea sickness on the voyage, only sighed. On the ship they had to hang onto Heinz during the lifeboat drills because with his life vest on, he wanted to jump overboard and go swimming.
“Your passport and papers, please Ma’am.” The customs agent yawned as he unceremoniously dumped all the belongings in her trunk onto the counter. Then rummaged through them, caring little about keeping any order.
“Was sagt er Mama? Ich verstehe ihn nicht.” (What is he saying mom? I don’t understand him.)
Adelgunde looked worried. She didn’t either. Finally the custom agent took the papers out of her trembling hands and checked them.
After a somewhat lengthy appraisal, he nodded, pointed toward the doors, and strode away, leaving her pack her belongings back into the trunk.
‘Entlich. In Kanada.‘ (Finally. In Canada). And the start of her new life out west, in Saskatchewan, where Walter was already waiting.
RCMP Security Services Headquarters, Ottawa, 1956
Police Constable, 1st Class, Frank Bettner, Royal Canadian Mounted Police Security Services, walked stiffly into Chief Superintendent Samuel Rolson’s office, saluted, then spoke.
“You wanted to see me sir? On a matter of some urgency, I understand.” Bettner calmly waited for Rolson to respond. The man seemed to be too busy writing to pay full attention to his special agent. Showing off his self-importance to Bettner, after his new promotion to Chief ‘Super’.
Rolson finally looked up. “Ah, yes Bettner. Take a seat. It’s the bloody Germans, Bettner. Out west in the Swift Current – Leader area, in Saskatchewan. More have arrived recently. They might be up to no good, Bettner. All crowded together like that out there. This could be a national security issue. Of vast importance. We can’t let those people organize. They could be a menace to Canadian society.”
Bettner couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘All crowded together like that?’ There were more jackrabbits than Germans in that part of Saskatchewan. He had heard rumors about Rolson. Fresh out of a smaller center from eastern Canada. Hardly an authority on the West. Newly promoted to the RCMP’s Security Service Division and ambitious as hell. Always ’tilting at windmills.’ The worst kind.
“Sir, I hardly think a few farmers, just soundly beaten and bruised in the war, want to cause more trouble in their new country.”
Rolson, now staring at something on the ceiling, replied. “Bettner, Bettner, where have you been? I have all the reports right here. When that first wave of Germans settled in the area before the First World War, they tried to turn it into a little Germany. And it would have happened if we hadn’t stopped them. Did you know they initially called the town of Leader, ‘Berlin’ and gave all the streets German names. We put a stop to that of course, before they took over the whole province. No, I think we should go have a look and see what they’re up to.”
Bettner already knew where this was heading. ‘We’ meant Bettner was going into the area, and then report back to Rolson. So, he took the initiative. “Where do you want me to go Sir? And when?”
“I’m glad you asked Bettner. Leave as soon as possible. Go out into the Portreeve – Leader area. Take on some form of disguise and fit in, Bettner. I hear there are quite a few newly arrived Germans out that way. Some of them might even be Folksdeutsche.”
Bettner, looking a little bewildered, “Folksdeutsche, Sir? What are those?”
“The worst kind I’m told. Germans from other countries, like Poland for example. Some of them Nazi sympathizers. Some were even German soldiers. They’re here now. They have to be carefully watched. Who knows what they’re up to.” Rolson, by now, had driven himself into a bit of a frenzy, fueled by his endorphins, produced by his paranoia.
“Alright Sir. I’ll leave in a few days. And see what those ‘Gerries’ are up to. I’ll report back in a couple of months.”
“Good Bettner. Take as long as you need. And don’t let me down. These people must be put in their place. They could be troublemakers.”
‘And you want trouble. Hoping for it. Maybe so you can get another promotion, you ambitious, pompous ass. So, you need a little dirt on these people. Well, I’ll find something for you alright.’
…………………….
A Farm, North of Portreeve, Saskatchewan
Claud Vigar, owner of about six sections of land, and renting even more, north of Portreeve, Saskatchewan waved Walter and Adelgunde to come over. “Della,” as he liked to call Adelgunde, “Come and meet the new hired hand, Frank Bettner. Frank, this is Walter and Della, my farm hands. They’ll show you what needs doing. You can sleep in the bunkhouse, and join them for meals.”
Frank shook hands with the couple. “Gutten Tag, Herr Pyszczyk, Frau Pyszczyk.”
Walter, a little surprised at Bettner’s German, shook hands with the tall, blond man. So was Claud. But then he realized, this was a good thing. The couple’s English was still a little shaky. Frank could help them with it.
” Bist auch ein Deutsher? Wie lange sind Sie shon in Kanada?” Walter was curious.
“I’m third generation Canadian, Walter. Born and raised here. But, I can still speak a little German. And my German laughter is excellent.” Walter nodded and smiled. Bettner calmly looked around the little house. Taking it all in at one glance. Poorly constructed, but ‘German’ neat and clean. A big blue wooden trunk sat in the corner, used to put kitchen stuff on and for storage in the small kitchen. He wondered what was in it. Maybe secret plans for the invasion of Saskatchewan.
When Claud left, Walter took a closer look at Bettner, thinking: ‘About thirty-two years old, a good six foot four inches tall, all muscle. Well over two-hundred and twenty pounds. I bet he can throw bales up on the hay wagon all day long, without breaking a sweat. And take a forty-five gallon barrel of fuel and lift it onto the truck box. He’ll do fine.’
“Come, I show you where you sleep. Bring your stuff. In one hour come for supper and we talk about work.” Walter showed Bettner the bunk house and then went back to his own house to get cleaned up for supper. The cows were milked. Chickens, ducks, geese and pigs fed. It was almost time to wrap up the day.
…………………………
The weeks flew quickly by. There was a lot to do on the farm in August and September. It was harvest time. Bettner fit right in. And worked like a horse. Ate like one too, according to Adelgunde. He seemed to know a lot about farming and Walter was impressed. The two men got along well. About the same age. There was an endless amount of talking and the conversation occasionally turned to politics and the ‘old country.’ Whenever the conversation took this path, Adelgunde grew nervous.
“So, Walter, you were in the German army, yah?”
“Yah, air force first. When I puke all over the cockpit, they put me on the ground. Army supply transport truck driver. Until I was captured by Canadians in 1944 on western front.” Walter smiled at that. It could have been worse. He could have been captured by the Russians. He would now probably be quite dead.
“And your family, all still back in Germany I presume?”
At Bettner’s words, Walter’s mood changed. “No more family. All gone.” After that Bettner couldn’t get another word out of him about family.
“It must have been hard for both of you to pack up and leave? Everything. Everyone.” Bettner was gently probing.
“Not so hard for me. Families gone. Germany ‘kaput,’ broken. Nothing left. No work. No food. No hope. No future.”
“But your sympathies must still lie a little with the ‘Vaterland‘ and the loss of the war. That must have been hard?”
“We went through hell and back. Never knowing whether we would live or die, from day to day. I was a soldier. Did as I was told, and hoped I would see the sun rise next day.”
Adelgunde was getting more agitated by the minute. “Walter, I think that’s enough…”
“But not all soldiers were Nazi sympathizers. Not all of us believed or agreed with what Hitler was doing. In this country, they treat us like we are all Nazis.”
“Walter enough.” By now Adelaide’s voice had reached another octave. “Enough politics. That’s what we left behind. Don’t bring it into my house.” Walter shrugged and fell silent. Frank took one look at Adelgunde’s face, and didn’t prod any more.
After supper, when Frank had left and Heinz was sleeping, Adelgunde looked at Walter. “You shouldn’t talk about stuff like that. You don’t know Frank very well. Who knows what he could be telling others, the authorities.” She looked worried.
“‘Gunde, this isn’t Nazi Germany where everyone is an informant and a spy for the government. This country is different. You worry too much.”
“Maybe you’re right Walter. But, please try to be a little more careful. With our neighbors, the Schneiders and the Hecks, we can be a little more open. But you don’t know this man. Just be careful what you say.”
A few hours later, lying in bed, listening to her husband’s steady breathing, Adelgunde worried some more. Even out here in this desolate place, inhabited by few people, most of them Germans, she still could not rid herself of the repressive antics of the Third Reich that she left behind. That ghost was still following her.
And then there was Bettner. ‘Er ist zu wissbegierig und schlau.’ (He’s too inquisitive and sly.) ‘He seems to look around and take in everything at once, noting every detail. Watching us carefully. When we’re not paying attention. He reminds me too much of those German Gestapo fellows. Always on the prowl. Turning over every rock.’ But then she considered Bettner’s eyes. Those deep, deep blue eyes.
‘Seine Augen sind freundlich und vertrauenswürdig. (His eyes are kind and trustworthy.) I think he’s a good man, but there’s something about him that still makes me uncomfortable. I guess I can’t keep acting like this though. We’re in a new country and it certainly can’t be as bad as home. Can it?’
………………………
A few months later, when Bettner walked into Rolson’s office, the man was sitting behind his desk and seemed to be studying the same spot on the ceiling since the last time Bettner was here.
Bettner waited. And finally said: “Special Agent Bettner reporting back, Sir.” And then waited some more.
Rolson had seemingly solved the problem on the ceiling and looked his way. “Ah, yes, Bettner. You look tanned and fit. Farm life has treated you well? Report what you’ve found, special agent.”
Bettner merely shrugged. Then put a worried, concerned look on his face before answering.
Rolson wasn’t used to being kept waiting. “Well, Bettner, you did find something, right? All that time out there, you should have uncovered something. What are those ‘Gerries’ up to?”
“I don’t know where to start, Sir. You were right though. There are certainly some strange things happening out there. But, I’ll just describe them and let you draw your own conclusions.”
“Yes, Bettner, go on. Get it out.” Rolson was getting excited, now fully engaged. At last, maybe something he could take to his superiors.
Bettner shrugged again, taking his time. Rolson grew increasingly agitated. Finally Bettner began. “First of all they produce enough food to feed a small army, Sir. In the fall they work twelve to sixteen hours a day, harvesting the fields, gardens, canning, butchering. And there’s still more to come. I don’t know why they need all that food. My boss, Walter, put on at least ten pounds this summer.”
Rolson considered this. Food. Army. Yes, of course. Fishy-sounding alright. “Go on Bettner.”
“Most of the farm families have built these bunkers out of earth and timbers. With no windows and thick, thick, doors. I’ve watched them haul all this food in there. And store it. As if getting ready for something big, Sir.”
Rolson nodded. Maybe an invasion? Of course. Army. “Maybe we should do some aerial photography over those farms, Bettner, and see how common this really is.”
“Good idea, Sir. I never would have thought of that.”
But Rolson wasn’t listening, instead furiously writing. Already compiling his report to his superiors. As he wrote, he mumbled, “Any more Bettner? What else did you notice.”
“Perhaps the strangest behavior I noticed though is their soap making.” Before continuing, Bettner waited since Rolson was still madly writing.
Finally Rolson looked up, “Soap making? What’s so strange about that?”
“It’s how they make it and what they call it, Sir. That’s the interesting part. First they fill a large barrel full of ash from their cooking and heating fires in their stoves. The barrel has a small spigot at the bottom for drainage. When it rains the barrel fills with water. They drain off the liquid and then mix it with lard to make the soap.’
“That sound interesting Bettner, but I don’t get it. It’s just soap, right?”
Bettner, now looking grave, leaned over the desk of his superior, almost nose to nose with him. And almost in a whisper said, “It’s what they call the soap Sir. That’s what’s a little strange. They call it Lie soap, Sir.” Bettner looked conspiratorially into Rolson’s eyes, before backing off.
Rolson looked perplexed for only a moment. And then slyly smiled. “Lie soap, Bettner? How do they spell that?”
“Don’t know, Sir. They can’t write English very well, so I never asked.” Bettner did notice Rolson madly writing in his journal: ‘LIE SOAP’.
“Did they say how they used it Bettner? This lie soap.”
“Rumor has it Sir, if you wash your hands with it, you’ll come clean, if you’ll excuse my pun, Sir.”
Rolson looked flustered. “Pun? Never mind. Did you try it Bettner?”
Bettner thought this question rather foolish. But, then he looked solemnly at Rolson. “Sir, if I did that, well, my cover might have been blown. Anyway, I brought you back a few bars. Try it on some prisoners you are interrogating and see how it works.” With that Bettner plunked two large bars of white soap on Rolson’s desk.
Rolson, now looking more pleased than ever, asked, hopefully: “Anything else Bettner, that you noticed? I can’t help but think we’re onto something big here.”
Bettner only nodded even more solemnly, then went on. “Hockey, Sir. There’s going to be trouble there.”
“Hockey, Bettner? What does hockey have to do with new German Canadians?”
Two things, Sir. First, the Leader Hockey team calls themselves the ‘Flyers’. Leader Flyers. Could be nothing more than a name, but you never know. We’ve had troubles with those people before, as you pointed out in our last meeting.”
Rolson, was now rapidly connecting the dots as soon as Bettner opened his mouth. ‘Flyers, yes, maybe a secret German air force of some sort.’
Then he looked up at Bettner. “And the second thing, Bettner?”
“I noticed the young Heinz already has skates and a hockey stick. His father told me he is making great strides learning how to skate and play.” Bettner waited for Rolson to take the bait.
“What’s so important, or threatening, about that, Bettner?”
“Sir, think about it. Germans playing hockey! Where would that end? Strategic breakout plays, defensive zone coverage. Endless drills and practices. They would put skill and strategy into the game, and take all the fun out of it.” Rolson nodded again. Yes, he could see where that could ruin the game.
“And the worst of all, Sir. The father, Walter, is making a helmet for Heinz, so he wouldn’t smack his head on the ice. Can you imagine Sir, helmets in hockey? Those ‘Gerries’ with their helmets…”
“I see Bettner. That kind of thinking could ruin the league. Who ever heard of such an absurd thing? We can’t let them get started.”
Before Bettner could continue, Rolson interjected. “OK, Bettner, that will be all for now. I have more than enough information here to get me started. I have another meeting to attend in the next few minutes. What’s your next move then?”
“Oh, I’m afraid I have to go back for a few more months. This is the best time of year to gather the really good intel. You see, they all gather in the late fall, early winter, eat and celebrate. They’re having a huge gathering and fresh ‘Schwein–Gebratenes‘ (pig fry) this weekend. I can’t miss that.” Bettner was almost drooling with anticipation as he said these last words.
Rolson looked a little worriedly at his special agent. ‘Why do I get the feeling he’s really enjoying himself out there.’ He shrugged, stood, getting ready to leave for the meeting.
Before he could get around his desk, Bettner blurted out.
“A few more things, Sir. Of utmost importance. You need to hear this, Sir. Before you leave. It could really affect your career.”
Rolson hesitated. Thinking, ‘Well, so I’m a little late for a budget meeting. I hate those damn meetings anyway. And besides. What could be more important than the safety of our country.’ He looked expectantly at Bettner.
“Sir, I hear rumors about a gathering, and the words ‘sauerkraut’ keeps popping up when I’m among them. It could be code, Sir, for something. Remember, we always call them ‘Krauts’ during the war. Well, ‘Säure’ means sour. They might be putting together a crack fighting unit. The Säurer Krauts. A bunch of nasty young German mens with a chip on their shoulder. That would explain why all that food is necessary.”
“Good point Bettner. Anything else? Do they have weapons?”
“None that I’ve seen, Sir. But, sometimes when the German men get together, and have too much to drink, they start talking about, ‘Die Grosse Berta.’ (The ‘Big Bertha’). And they roar with laughter. As soon as the women approach, they shut up as if keeping some big secret.”
“Big Bertha.” I don’t understand Bettner?”
“As you recall, Sir, that was the name of the long-range artillery gun they developed in the Firsts World War. Could shoot your eye out, lobbing a shell half the size of this office all the way from Swift Current to Regina.” Rolson visibly shuddered at the thought.
“And when they get together they sing in German, and read Der Courier, a German newspaper out of Winnipeg. And occasionally I hear some sort of chanting. Something like, Sind Heil. Sind Heil. Not sure what to make of that yet, Sir. But, this next trip might tell me.”
“At their last party, one of the neighbors got so drunk, he hitched the horses backwards to the sleigh, to take his family home. They’re a rowdy bunch, Sir. That I can vouch for.” Rolson, nodded, now desperately trying to get away from Bettner, to attend his meeting. But, before he could escape, Bettner was at it again.
“But of all the things I’ve seen, what worries me most is that blue wooden trunk of Adelgunde’s. It’s always locked, and not one can look in for some reason.”
Rolson was thinking, ‘Maybe holding secret plans of some sort. What else could it be for.’
“And one last thing Sir before you go. Also, of utmost importance.” Again, Bettner leaned over conspiratorially toward Rolson, almost whispering in his ear. “I’d take this right to the top, Sir. Don’t go through the normal channels. Why, you may wonder? Well, think about it. What’s your superior’s last name?”
“Shultz,” blurted out Rolson. ‘Yes, of course, Schultz.’
“Can’t be too careful now can we, Sir? Your never know. They probably already have spies everywhere….”
Bettner winked at his superior and finally left the room. Rolson, a little shaken by these last words, just stood there, motionless. ‘That Bettner is right. Who can I trust these days?’ Then he turned and managed to catch the end of his budget meeting.
…………………….
Ottawa, Three Months Later
Special agent Bettner strode into the Chief Superintendent’s office, back after two more months of undercover work. Still a little hung over, and a little fatter. Gosh those Germans could cook. He looked around. ‘Strange, something’s not right here. The office is reorganized, a new secretary.’
He looked at the secretary. “Yes, I’m here to report back to Chief Superintendent Rolson.”
The secretary looked at him a little quizzically before answering. “I’m sorry Sir. Bettner is it? Chief Superintendent Rolson is no longer here. He’s been reassigned.”
Bettner put on a surprised look on his face. “Reassigned? But he just got here. Where did he go?”
The secretary shook her head. “It’s best if the new Chief Superintendent briefed you, Sir. He’s expecting you, so go right in.”
“Special agent, Frank Bettner, reporting, Sir.” Bettner eyed the new superintendent. Who was eyeing him as well. More like sizing him up. Boring into him, as if wanting to extract something.
“Sit down Bettner. How was the field work?”
“Tough, Sir. Hard keeping up with those Germans in the fall. They work their tails off to get ready for winter. And then eat and celebrate even harder.”
Superintendent Kirkland was in the process of closing a huge, fat file, with the bright red letters across its cover: CONFIDENTIAL. He continued to stare at Bettner.
“Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, what happened to Superintendent Rolson?”
Kirkland appraised Bettner further, as if deciding how much to reveal and whether to trust him. After what he had just read in the file, this one was a sly buggar.
“Yes, well, ‘Corporal’ Rolson was reassigned after what happened with this German investigation.” He waited for Bettner to speak.
“Reassigned, Sir? He’s a corporal now? Where too?”
“He’ll be working out of Cambridge Bay, and points north. All the way to Alert Bay in the territories.”
Bettner gasped in disbelief. ‘Holy shit, that’s almost in Russia.’ “May I ask why, Sir?”
“You may Bettner. But I’m sure you already know the answer. Since our now ‘Corporal’ Rolson has such a keen imagination for potential enemies of the state, we sent him north to deal with the next expected menace.”
“I didn’t know we had any menaces up there, Sir. Just ice and snow and hardly any people.”
“Oh, Rolson will find something. Real or not. He’ll conjure some up. You can appreciate that can’t you Bettner?”
Bettner gulped. He didn’t like where this conversation was heading.
“You see Bettner, his mandate up there is to warn us if the ‘commies’ prepare to invade Canada across the arctic. And the ice. He has to watch the ice.”
“Watch the ice, Sir? I don’t understand. It’s all ice up there. Nothing but ice.”
“That’s his job Bettner. To watch the ice doesn’t become a threat. And report back bi-annually, if he sees anything suspicious. Last time I talked with him, he asked specifically about you. Whether it would be possible to transfer you up there to help him out. You seemed to work so well together on this last assignment. Thought we might send you along with him.”
Bettner gulped again. A small trickle of sweat began running down his spine. ‘No. Anywhere but there. No.’ “I’m hardly suited for the arctic, Sir. I’m too tall. I would freeze instantly, and intimidate those shorter Inuit.”
Kirkland smiled. ‘Fast thinker, aren’t you Bettner. Now that your shorts are in a bit of a knot.’
“Agreed Bettner. You’ll continue to work here. For me. But, let’s get one thing straight. No more bullshit, like what I’m reading here in Rolson’s report to the Commissioner. The Commissioner. Can you believe that? Why would he do such a thing? Bypass the chain of command?” He looked suspiciously at Bettner, who now was studying that same spot on the ceiling as Rolson had before.
Gradually Bettner looked down, at Kirkland. “Yes, Sir. But, it wasn’t quite like that. I told him things and he probably used his slightly over-creative imagination I guess. Thought the information I gave him was really important to move right to the top.”
“Bettner, we’re starting off on the wrong foot here. Is there are real German threat out west? Or not?”
“No Sir. They’re a hard working bunch of people who just want some peace and stability in their lives. Good food. And, a little fun. They get together, mainly because there is no one else up there, and they understand one another.”
“The shit really hit the fan Bettner, when Rolson accused the land owner Claud Vigar of being a German sympathizer. Word got out and Claud got pissed off and went to the politicians. And reamed the crap out of them. Then they in turn reamed the crap out of us. And so on. Vigar contributes to all the strong political parties. He’s always got friends in government no matter who’s in power. Pretty stupid of Rolson to single him out. I wonder where he got that idea Bettner?” Kirkland was staring rather icily at him again. Waiting.
“Well, he might have misunderstood what I said, Sir. All I said was that Mr. Vigar seemed very friendly with his German hired hands, and his name didn’t really sound too English. That’s all I said, Sir.”
“Is that so Bettner. Maybe he should have checked his history. Vigars arrived in England, from Normandy, with the Norman Conquest of 1066. They lived in Cornwall.”
Bettner, now feeling extremely uncomfortable, just wanted to get out of Kirkland’s office. “Will that be all, Sir? I’m sure you’re busy with other more important things.”
Kirkland looked at him one final time. Again, as if sizing him up, as if fitting him for a winter parka for the Canadian arctic. “One last thing Bettner. The only good thing that came out of this pile of shit in front of me was the hockey helmet idea. The commissioner really liked that. He’s going to meet with NHL officials to discuss it. Right now we have Canadians’ brains being spattered all over the ice. That has to stop. It may take years though.”
Kirkland was already eying another file in his in-basket. Without so much as even glancing at Bettner, he just pointed towards the door. “Close the door on your way out.”
“Yes Sir. Nothing more important than national security and hockey.”
“Get out Bettner, before I change my mind and send you to Cambridge Bay. I’m sure Rolson will have a welcoming party ready for you. I hear you’ve been playing hockey with the Leader Flyers. Maybe in Cambridge Bay you could play all year ’round.”
Bettner left in a hurry. Wondering where his next assignment might be. Hopefully not in Cambridge Bay. Oh, Please God. Wondering too, ‘I never did find out what was in that wooden blue trunk of Adelgunde’s. Well, it sure wasn’t blueprints for a new weapon to take over Saskatchewan.’ He nodded to himself. Now that was solid intel.
A Few Final Notes:
I struggled writing this story. And when it was finished, whether to even post it. As I wrote it, I got a little choked up. Thinking about my parents and what they went through, as new Canadians. And, looking through those old photographs brought back a flood of memories.
I guess what finally convinced me to post it is our attitude towards newly landed Canadian immigrants. There is still a belief among some Canadians that immigrants just suck our tax money away. And somehow are a threat to our Canadian way of life.
We sometimes forget that many Canadian immigrants went through hell just to get here. Just happy to be alive. For many there were two choices: Leave, or die. I heard that a lot when growing up over the dinner table, from my parents. For my father, the loss of his family after World War II was so emotional that he didn’t want to talk much about them.
In 1999, my mother finally hooked up with what was left of her family in what was formerly East Germany. Over fifty years after escaping across the Iron Curtain, into the West. It was a very special time for her. For all of us.
As first generation Canadians, we struggled, but adapted quickly enough. Yes, we were discriminated against. The emotions of war were still raw among many Canadians. It wasn’t that long ago, we were the enemy. I was called a ‘Nazis’ at school. Some of the other kids had a great time with my last name. But we fit in a lot more smoothly than many other immigrants who come to this country. And most Canadians were considerate, sympathetic, and very kind.
How to tell this story? It runs the gamut of emotions and mood. In short story writing 101, you’re supposed to set a mood and then stick with it throughout the narrative. I had a hard time with that. The first part of this story is dark, filled with fear, hopelessness, grief and despair. The second part with the RCMP is mostly political satire and humor. Usually these emotions in one story don’t mix very well.
But, some of the things I hear about immigrants, and how they supposedly threaten our Canadian way of life, while dark, are almost humerus and hard to believe. Almost. But, scary as well. Because behind all that paranoia and xenophobia, are good people that I worked with, play hockey with, or go have a few drinks with.
I have the utmost respect for Canadian law enforcement and what our police are faced with trying to figure out who is ‘naughty’ and who is ‘nice’. There is a Rolson or two in every profession. Clearly, from the little literature I read, before and during the first world War and during the Second World War, our Canadian police were watching out for German and Japanese sympathizers. Even going so far as to inter entire families. As they did with many Japanese Canadians.
It is less clear how much RCMP surveillance there was after the Second World War, as another wave of German immigrants arrived in Canada. Many settling in western Canada. Including the Swift Current – Leader corridor. Was there an RCMP dossier on German Canadians? Perhaps on the Berg’s and the Pyszczyk’s? If those documents exist, they are probably so deeply buried in the Canadian archives it will take more than a century before they ever see the light of day.
Now that I look back on those early years, our families didn’t much ‘rock the Canadian boat’. Not even in hockey. Fancy breakout plays were not foremost on my mind when I played. I, like my Canadian teammates, was just trying to survive.