Once Upon a Time by Barbara Fradkin

behaved himself.
    â€œWhat did Ruth tell you about her life in England and about meeting Eugene?”
    â€œNot much. She was very loyal to Eugene and seemed to act like everyone thought the worst of him. She said both her parents had died just after the war, so she really had no reason to stay in England. She had a brother, but he’d been killed in the war. Eugene was the big mystery, though.”
    Green glanced up sharply. “How so?”
    â€œRuth confided to me once that he had no idea what his life had been before the war.”

Five
    May 13th, 1940
    Three days three nights blurred together by my fear.
    Eyes shut, ears tuned to every sound.
    Her screams, the sibilant hush of Marzina’s voice,
the squeak of bedsprings and footfalls around the room.
    Dimly from down below, the drumming of hooves up to the gate.
    Later Marzina weeps in prayer, rosary beads clicking,
And a black terror swamps me.
    I drown, washed numb by my liebling’s screams
until a thin wail wavers out through the door.
    They invite me in to the miracle, swaddled in white,
And she wraps tiny fingers around my thumb.
    Smiles and vodka all around, but new sadness in the farmer’s eyes.
    His own two sons kidnapped to serve the master race.
    Deutschland has devoured us, left only the old and powerless.
    We must hide you, Tadeuzs says, erase all sign that you are here.
    So the farmer and I begin to dig.
    â€œThis case gets weirder and weirder,” Green remarked as they headed back towards the OPP station in Renfrew. “Now we’ve got a dead German World War Two vet who claimed he didn’t know who the hell he was.”
    â€œYou don’t really buy that crap, do you?” Sullivan asked.
    â€œMaybe he really doesn’t remember. The stuff we’ve learned about sexually abused kids—about them blocking the whole thing from memory—that tells us anything is possible if the trauma is horrible enough. War’s a horrible trauma, for sure, but the question is—is it horrible enough? As Don Reid said, lots of men went through the war.”
    Sullivan grunted but drove in silence, hunched over the wheel, his brows drawn down over his eyes.
    Green frowned at him. “You were pretty quiet back there. This is your home turf. You should be full of impressions.”
    â€œThat’s the problem,” Sullivan muttered.
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    Sullivan shook his head. “Nothing. Just brings back memories.”
    â€œCome on, didn’t you have one of those idyllic, big family, down-on-the-farm types of childhood?”
    â€œYou got part of it right.” Sullivan glanced over. “Let’s forget it. You’re right, this is getting weirder and weirder.”
    â€œI wonder what Gibbs has unearthed about Walker’s immigration record. I want you to call him when we get back to Renfrew.”
    â€œHey! You know Gibbs will run circles for you. Don’t ride his ass.”
    Green let the silence lengthen, but Sullivan’s mood piqued his curiosity. “Tell me, are things as bad as people say about these country cliques? About the importance of religion and lineage and sticking to your own kind.”
    Sullivan nodded. “Especially with the old timers. It’s opened up now, with the younger generation coming and going, but when I was growing up, boy, it was the Poles, the Irish and the Protestants, and you bloody well toed the line. But I can tell you, a hell of a lot of nasty, unChristian stuff went on in the name of religion and Christian morals.”
    Tell me about it, Green thought wryly.
    By the time the two detectives arrived back at the Renfrew OPP station, Karl Dubroskie had been waiting for over two hours. The farmer paced the outer hall in his mud-caked boots, which looked ludicrously oversized on his spindly legs. An old army peacoat hung open over his sunken chest, and his blue eyes glowered in his leathery face. Green realized that any