Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

Although the other NATO allies including the British have all made statements supporting the Americans, neither Britain nor Europe have obliged Kennedy by elevating their state of military alert, but that’s not unreasonable — any sudden move in Europe could light the spark in Berlin. But Canada isn’t Europe. Twenty-five Communist-bloc ships and several submarines are now on course for Cuba. If they breach the quarantine, the Americans are ready to fire the first shot. This is no time for Canada to play wait-and-see.

“Bonjour Jack.”

Jack waves but doesn’t pause. The U.S. military has gone to defcon 2: Strategic Air Command is patrolling the skies, more than forty ships and twenty thousand men are in position to enforce the quarantine. The American CINCNORAD — Commander-in-Chief of NORAD — has requested that Canada increase the alert status of its Voodoo fighters, allow USAF to disperse aircraft to Canadian bases and permit U.S. aircraft in Canada to load nuclear weapons. None of this is a secret; it’s all there in black and white, delivered to your front porch with the milk. But the Canadian armed forces are obliged to prepare for war under a cloak of secrecy, while trying to decode coy signals from elected leaders who want us to be kind of ready, but not to appear at all ready. Jack clenches and unclenches his fist.

Dief is courting disaster. Apart from the fact that we all stand to be killed, his mixed messages have put the government in danger of abdicating civil control over the armed forces, at the very least creating a gulf between the military and the civilian population. This is supposed to be a democracy. If the prime minister wants us on alert, why doesn’t he say so? And do it publicly? The Globe and Mail summed it up this morning: Any attempt to sit on the fence in this period of crisis, to remain uncommitted, would be interpreted around the world as a rebuke to the United States and as aid and comfort for her enemies. Such a course is unthinkable . Unfortunately, it’s the course we are on.

Jack checks his watch as he passes the PX and the phone. He is angry, but feeling less useless than he did this morning. He has a job to do.

“The following little girls will remain after three….”

Madeleine stands against the coat hook, waiting. If it bleeds again, what will she tell Maman?

Jack enters the Mobile Equipment building and walks across the concrete floor past a tractor mower, a bus and several forklifts, to a rank of black staff cars, and signs one out.

He pulls out into the full force of the afternoon sun. He touches his breast pocket but he has left his sunglasses at home — he had no way of knowing he’d be driving today. No point going home to get them, that would entail telling some silly fib to Mimi. Besides, the windows of the Ford are tinted and Jack does have his hat. He lowers the brim over his eyes, he’ll be fine.

He points the car south on the Huron County road. It’s a nice day for a drive. If anyone asks — which nobody will — he has zipped down to London to meet with a guest lecturer for the COS.

Simon called this afternoon. Oskar Fried is here.

“Proceed to the front of the class, little girl. Yes, you. The one with the pixie cut.”

The Spitfire is still visible in Jack’s rearview mirror when he returns his eyes to the road and recognizes the Froelich boy running on the shoulder, coming toward him. He is pushing his sister in her wheelchair with its homemade shock absorbers — sharp little rig — the big German shepherd trotting alongside, the little convoy kicking up a halo of dust. Jack smiles and touches two fingers to the brim of his hat as he passes. Rick waves.

He watches them retreat in his mirror and it occurs to him that the Froelich boy is missing school this afternoon — unless this outing counts as part of his athletic training — because it has barely gone three o’clock. He adjusts his mirror and gets the feeling he’s forgetting something. What?

Madeleine has left by the side door and is halfway across the field, running all the way home, when the siren sounds. Her legs seem to decelerate and — even though she can still feel the wind in her hair, still see her Mary Janes carrying her as fast as they can — everything goes slow-motion. The siren has changed the air, made it thick, her legs are heavy, thighs like wet cement; the sound rises, rises, wailing; she squints against it as against a blare of light, she cannot look up, the siren is obliterating the sky, painting it metal, it is thickening the liquid in her body and liquefying what was solid. She is cold, cold, there is terrible sorrow in the sound, it is the real sound of what it was like to be Anne Frank, and nothing can save you now, even the birds can’t be saved, even the grass…. And then it stops. It’s a normal sunny day again.

Jack reaches for the car radio and turns it on, twisting the dial across the band, looking for news of the crisis…. represents a major shift in the balance of power… . His excitement at meeting Oskar Fried has been put into perspective. It’s no longer an adventure, something to spice up the sleepy prime of Jack McCarthy’s life. No longer theoretical, as Henry Froelich might say. Oskar Fried has come to join our side in the war we call peace. When “Major Newbolt” called this afternoon, Jack went straight to the phone booth and returned the call. “Our friend has arrived,” said Simon. Jack was surprised. Fried already in London? Just twenty-five miles down the road? Simon had to have worked pretty quickly — Berlin must be locked down tight by now. Still, Jack had expected, if not advance notice, then Simon himself. Had looked forward to introducing him to Mimi, showing off his family, then sinking a few over at the mess. But Simon has already been and gone. Nothing personal, mate.

… on September 11 when Gromyko denied that the weapons were offensive in nature… . Jack turns up the volume.

Madeleine runs the rest of the way home, then all the way upstairs, and checks her underpants. It’s okay. She knew it would be. He didn’t do any poking today. Just strangling. Of himself.

Simon said, “You might want to look in on him tonight.”

Jack knows it was no mere suggestion. In any case, he has no intention of waiting until this evening. Not only is he eager to meet the man — to shake his hand in this week of weeks — but he’s also not in a position to disappear for an unexplained evening visit to London. He would have to offer an explanation, and that would mean lying to his wife. Lies are like clutter on a radar screen: they obscure your target.

… and the first direct confrontation between the two superpowers… .

Jack asked Simon about procedure. “Can I have him to the house for Sunday brunch? What’s the drill on introducing him to my family, making him feel at home?”

“Your call, mate. I suggest you meet him first.”

“Who should I say he is?”

“Tell the truth as far as possible. His name is Oskar Fried and he’s a German scientist.”

“At the university?”

“That’s right. On sabbatical. Keep it simple.”

“How did I meet him?”

“You met him in Germany, through your German friends — you did have German friends?”

“Of course.” But Jack and Mimi had the same friends. If the scientist were someone closely enough acquainted with Jack to look him up on arrival in Canada, Mimi would have at least heard of him. Simon makes it sound simple, but Simon isn’t married. “Here’s what you need to know,” he said, and gave Jack instructions as to how to pick up the money he would wire. No more than six hundred dollars a month. It sounds like plenty to Jack, and will seem like a fortune to someone who has spent the last seventeen years behind the Iron Curtain. It must be difficult even to get a decent meal there. In that respect it’s not unlike living in England, thinks Jack, and smiles, reminding himself to say that to Simon next time they’re talking.