The young man nodded, and thanked him. The priest was struck by the steely blue of his eyes. A fire burned there, a longing. And the priest’s heart filled with compassion for these young lads whose lives were being taken from them, to be gambled in this huge game of chance.
“And here,” said the guide, “you see drawings and paintings by wounded German soldiers.”
This wasn’t Brett’s idea of a museum – junk shop, more like. Just a shabby collection of letters, bits of uniform, rusted grenades, ancient black and white photographs. The paintings weren’t much either: fussy drawings and splodgy watercolours. Churches, graveyards, trees. The only one he liked was a drawing of a dog – flop-eared, rough-coated, bright-eyed. It reminded him of Bobby, his nan’s fox terrier.
That night, in the hostel near Ypres, he sat with the other Year 10s for the daily writing-up of their journals. We stopped at a church, he began, and that was about all he could think of. He glanced across at Trudi, who was writing busily. Leaning across, he read: The best bit was when Joel found the grave of his great-great-grandfather in the German cemetery.
Yeah. He could put something about that. The grave of Gefreiter Samuel Goldstein, ranked among countless others like soldiers standing to attention, was the only one marked with a star.
“What’s that for?” Brett had asked.
“It’s a Star of David,” Joel said. “To show he was Jewish.”
“So are you Jewish then?”
“Course. Didn’t you know?”
Brett shrugged. Didn’t matter one way or the other.
“So you’re German?” Trudi asked Joel.
“Half. My dad’s family have lived in Berlin ever since eighteen hundred and something. They own a whole load of jewellery shops.”
“Cool,” said Trudi.
“So, wait.” Brett was trying to keep up. “If we were in the war – like, now – you’d be on the other side?”
Joel grinned. “You got it. Faster than a speeding bullet.”
Joel’s great-great-grandad was killed in 1914, Brett wrote, and added, copying Trudi: His name was Samuel Goldstein.
Next day, returning to the crypt, the priest found no patients at all – just the two nurses, cleaning and tidying, making ready. High on the ridge, the guns had been rumbling since first light. It was bitterly cold. The priest wished the nurses good day, and asked after yesterday’s casualties, the Bavarians. They’d been sent down to the field hospital, he was told. The younger nurse, the pretty fair-haired one, coloured up; he guessed she’d taken a fancy to one of the soldiers. It would be the blue-eyed boy with the intent gaze, he felt sure.
As he wasn’t needed here, he decided to walk the three miles by road to the hospital, well back from the German line. Words of comfort and cheer, a prayer, might do the men some good. Sometimes he was called upon to deliver last rites, or hear a confession. But he did not reach the field hospital that day. Father Antonius intercepted him in the ruins of the town square and directed him to a nearby farm, where a local woman was dying from pneumonia.
Next day, he set off into the biting wind. The hospital was a cluster of tents, the ground much muddied. Someone was groaning horribly; another voice pleaded for morphine. The sister, too busy to be interrupted, frowned and shook her head at the priest.
Then a man recognized him and called out; it was the corporal who had spoken to him in the crypt. His head and arm swathed in bandages, he propped himself up painfully in his truckle bed.
The priest hurried over. “How are you, my friend?”
“As well as can be expected,” said the corporal with a grimace. “We lost Leo, though.”
“What?”
“He died this morning.”
“Died?” The priest was aghast. “But I thought his wound was only slight!”
“Sepsis, they said. Took hold very quickly.”
The priest crossed himself, and prayed silently. Although he’d seen Leo only once, the thin face and yearning blue eyes had seared themselves into his memory.
“He started raving,” the man went on. “Insisted on being moved away from the bloke in the next bed – reckoned he’d be contaminated. The nurses moved him along the tent just to give us all a bit of peace. Then they both died, anyway.”
“It is God’s will,” said the priest.
The corporal nodded without much conviction. “He was a funny chap, Leo. Brave as a lion – rescued his officer last month, dragged him in under heavy fire, cool as you like. But he kept himself to himself. His drawings, though… He gave me one.” He gestured towards his pack, which lay near by on the tarpaulin floor. “Have a look. That pocket there.”
The priest unfastened the flap and took out the folded paper inside. It was a drawing of a dog – a flop-eared terrier, rough-coated, bright-eyed.
“Loved animals, Leo did,” said the man. “That stray dog turned up near our lines. Foxy, Leo called it. Wouldn’t be separated from it. Fed it from his own rations.”
The priest looked at the pencilled signature. “So his name wasn’t really Leo, then?”
“No!” The man laughed. “That was just my nickname for him. Leo, short for Leonardo. Our own little Leonardo da Vinci. Why don’t you take it? You’ll look after it better than I will.”
In Ypres the three teachers were rounding up the Year 10s, who were investigating the marketplace’s cafes, bars and chocolate shops. Chocolate could wait till tomorrow, Mr Wade insisted, shooing them along. Tonight they were heading for the Menin Gate, and the last post ceremony.
Arriving early, they had time to look at the Memorial to the Missing, a massive arch of brick and stone that spanned the road, each face carved with thousands and thousands of names.
Mr Wade gave the usual lecture about behaving respectfully during the short ceremony: no chewing, pushing, shoving or even talking. “It takes place at eight every evening, and it’s a solemn occasion. Yes, Trudi, I know it’s ancient history to you. But it’s important to remember the World War. The War to End All Wars, people called it; and, well, there have been wars since, of course – Vietnam and Iraq to name just two – but none that involved as many countries as the World War. Not since the peace treaty of 1918.”
A small crowd gathered by the arch; police on motorbikes stopped the traffic. Then uniformed buglers, three of them, sent out into the spring evening their plaintive notes, which seemed to lodge in Brett’s chest, and wrench at him. Tears sprang from his eyes; he blinked them away before anyone saw.
It was over in minutes, then the crowd dispersed and the traffic flowed again.
“Is that it?” said one of the girls. “That’s why we’ve come all this way?”
Mr Wade made himself tall and took a deep breath, ready to explain all over again.
Brett nudged Trudi and Joel. “Come on! Let’s make a dash for it.” If they were quick, they’d find a chocolate shop that was still open.
The funeral was conducted by an army padre. There were three to be buried, in simple wooden coffins, and only three other mourners besides the priest: the young nurse and two patients from the hospital, one on crutches. The corporal was too ill to attend. It was a brief, almost businesslike service. There were so many burials that this was a routine event. A chill wind cut in from the east, beneath a cloudy sky. Up on the ridge, the guns boomed. Prayers were said, responses mumbled. Tears coursed down the cheeks of the young nurse.
Afterwards the priest stayed by himself to meditate for a few moments on these three latest losses.
Gefreiter Samuel Goldstein.