Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

The car picks up speed through an amber light. Froelich stops in his tracks; he has found his glasses. They lie broken on the sidewalk at his feet. They were pushed back on his head the whole time. His baby is red-faced, tears and mucus streaking his face. “Shhh, shh, kleiner Mann, sei ruhig, ja, Papa ist hier.” But it’s no good. Froelich is weeping too.

On his way back to his own car, he makes a decision. He will tell his wife about seeing this man. But he will tell no one else. This means he will not tell the police, even though it’s clear this man must be in the country under false pretences and therefore illegally — but so are thousands of others. The government has turned a blind eye and, in some cases, recruited such men as immigrants — for whatever else these men are, they are not Communists. Henry knows; he waited years for a chance to emigrate to Canada, while men with SS tattoos under their arms received passage and the promise of jobs. But he has enough — his children have enough — to cope with, never mind taking on the past. To report this man would not only be futile; it would be to exhume what is cold and can never heal. To haunt his new family with the inconsolable griefs of his old one.

He places his baby, asleep now, into the basinette in the back seat, and tries to remember where he was going next. The orphanage, to pick up Karen. He gets behind the wheel. His wife, his children — he himself — living monuments to hope. The only possible response. Heinrich Froelich is an atheist. He pauses before he starts his car, still weeping, to thank God for his blessings.

Diefenbaker’s government was brought down in February, over his refusal to take American nuclear weapons, and Monday, April 8, is election day. Jack has just been to the rec centre and voted. He has a feeling of vindication, as though by a single vote he has struck a decisive blow.

He is fresh from a weekend, just he and Mimi. They stashed the kids with the Bouchers and went to Niagara Falls for their anniversary. He is relaxed and happy, spring has rolled in and, like a Hollywood studio team, Mother Nature has worked overtime, transforming the dregs of dreary winter into vivid spring, seemingly in the space of a day. In the poplars overhead, fat buds are ready to yield to the next warm breath; tulips bloom on the grounds of his building; and on the parade square, a flight of cadets in gym shorts jogs by. Soon there will be a wings parade and the cadets will leave the Centralia nest. This weekend Jack will see whether or not his fitness regimen has paid off, when he squeezes back into his mess kit for a formal dinner in honour of a visiting air vice-marshal.

He enters his office to find a message on his desk. “Mr. Freud called. Call back ASAP,” and Fried’s telephone number. He shakes his head—“Freud.” That’s about the size of it. He finds himself looking forward to hearing old Oskar’s reedy voice, it’s that nice a day, and as he picks up the phone he wonders to what he owes the honour of a call. Freud would say it was all Fried’s mother’s fault. He dials. Pictures what Fried’s mother must have looked like — like Fried in a bonnet.

The phone is answered on the first ring. The cautious voice. “Hello?”

“Hi Oskar, it’s Jack.”

He enjoys annoying Fried by calling him Oskar. Not only has Fried never invited him onto a first-name basis; Oskar, being an alias, is bound to be a double irritant.

“I have been recognized,” says Fried.

“What?” says Jack. “Recognized? By whom?”

“I do not know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Search me ,” he says earnestly.

Jack almost laughs aloud — Fried has been watching too much television.

“Where, when?”

“I was to the market on Saturday and I call you immediately and all throughout the Wochenende —how says one—?”

“Weekend.”

“ Ja , but you are not at home.”

“Just tell me what happened, Oskar.”

“I get away, I do not hesitate.”

“So someone saw you and you have no idea who he is or where he’s from?”

“I know where is he from.”

“Where?”

“I don’t tell you this.”

“Oskar, how am I going to help you if—”

“Tell Simon I am recognized.”

“Did this man call you by name?”

“He calls me by a name.”

“What name?”

“I recognize this name, this is how I know—”

“Is it your name, or not?”

Silence.

“Sir,” says Jack, “I don’t care what your real name is and you don’t have to tell me, just tell me if this fella called you by your real name.”

“No,” says Oskar, and Jack can almost see him licking his dry lower lip. “He does not say my name.”

Jack can feel the fear through the phone. He speaks gently. “Good, that’s good, now tell me, what was the name by which he called you?”

Silence again.

Jack is worried, but he is also weary. Oskar Fried does not understand the chain of command; the fact that, in the absence of Simon, Jack for all intents and purposes is Simon. Not merely the delivery boy.

Fried hesitates, then says, “Dora.”

“‘Dora?’ Why would he call you that?”

“He is from Dora.”

“Dora sent him? Who is Dora?” His wife? A KGB agent? Jack waits for Fried to answer. “Oskar? Who is Dora?”

“You are not qualified me to — you are not qualified to interrogate me.”

Jack bites his tongue and squints. Stay cool. Fried is frightened. Terrified of being taken back to the Soviet Union.

Fried says, “Tell Simon, ‘Dora’. He understands this. You tell him to call me on the telephone.”

“Fine. Meantime, just sit tight, Oskar—”

“Sit—?”

“Don’t leave your apartment. No drives.”

“I do not drive, he sees the car.”

“The car?”

“I am running to my car, he follows, he sees.”

The licence plate. Whoever saw it may see it again. May go looking for it. May find it on Morrow Street, in front of Fried’s apartment building…. “Where’s the car now, Oskar?”

“I park behind the building.”

“Good. Now don’t worry. You were spotted — you were recognized on Saturday. That’s two days ago. If anything were going to happen it would’ve happened by now—”

Jack speaks with more certainty than he feels, but it is not an unreasonable deduction. He feels a stab of guilt — he should not have allowed himself to be lulled by the silence of the past few months. He ought to have stayed sharp. On alert. He ought to have given Fried the phone number of the honeymoon suite at the Holiday Inn in Niagara Falls.

Jack is about to hang up, he has to call Simon—

“I need food,” says Fried.

Jack drops his head to his hand. “Weren’t you just at the market on Saturday, sir?”

“Yes, I am recognized before I buy.”

Jack sighs, reaches for his pencil and a pad of government foolscap, reflecting as he does that Simon will probably instruct him to move Fried immediately, straight over the bridge to Buffalo — there may be no time for groceries. He is already thinking of excuses for Mimi as to why he has to drive to London tonight as he says, “Fire away.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What groceries would you like me to bring?”

On the other hand, Jack may not have to do another thing but brief McCarroll. It’s typical, he thinks ruefully; the American gets to ride in at the last second and take the credit. McCarroll will spirit Fried away to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base and receive a hero’s welcome. No matter. The main thing now is to keep Fried safe. And calm. He listens and writes. “Butter, yup … mustard, yup I know, hot….”

The list is lengthy and detailed — Fried’s encounter with “Dora” seems to have done nothing to blunt his appetite. Jack scribbles. “Slow down, now…. Camembert and … what? Where am I going to find cherries? They’ll cost a fortune this time of — okay, what else?”