Camp 30 (5 page)

“Thank you,” she said as she pushed the carriage into the store.

“We have to get going,” Jack said to the old man.

“Come on back any time!” the old man called out. “And remember to tell your mother there's no better place in town for her to be getting her dry goods!”

CHAPTER FIVE

A FEW DAYS LATER
we were back on the road out of Bowmanville, walking east toward Camp 30.

“Do you really think we should be doing this?” I asked.

“What's wrong with us going to see our mother and joining her for lunch?”

“This isn't about seeing Mom or eating lunch with her,” I said. “We're going because you want to look at the camp again.”

“And there's nothing wrong with that either. Besides, don't you want to see it too?”

“I do, but it isn't
my
curiosity about Camp X that almost got us killed.”

“The key word is
almost
. We're alive, so stop worrying. Besides, what could go wrong here?”

I didn't answer, although I'd certainly thought about it. I never had trouble imagining what might go wrong. An escaped prisoner could take our mother hostage, or a
guard might shoot one of us by accident, or one of the prisoners might shoot us on purpose! And I was sure there were lots of other possibilities that I hadn't even thought of—
yet
.

The camp came into view in the distance. My eye followed the fence, first in one direction and then the other. It was really big. This time I could see lots of activity behind the wire. Men were moving about the grounds, walking between the buildings or just standing around in groups. There were three men in a clearing passing a soccer ball while others, hoes in hand, were tending a flower bed.

“Probably too early for a game,” I commented.

Jack shook his head. “Can't believe they let them play sports. That makes about as much sense as giving them beer and fresh fruit and vegetables. That old man at the store has to be wrong.”

“I don't know. His son works here.”

“And who gives a bunch of old men guns and tells them to guard prisoners? Shouldn't they have regular soldiers taking care of something like this?”

“You know we need all the regular soldiers fighting the war—they've got a more important job.”

Jack nodded his head in agreement. That was something that had been happening more lately—Jack agreeing with me. Maybe after all the life-and-death things that happened at Camp X—breaking in, being captured
and tied up and interrogated by Nazi agents, almost being shot to death, stealing the jeep and finally charging in to help save the day—he had more respect for me. I was still his little brother, but I wasn't his completely
stupid
little brother.

This time we made a point of staying on the road and well away from the fence. There were lots of prisoners around and we didn't want to talk to any of them. Maybe they were Nazis and maybe they weren't. Either way, they were the enemy, people who might have tried to kill our father.

Up ahead, across the road, we spotted the administration buildings. They were small, low, wooden structures—different from the big, brick buildings inside the fence. They looked as though they'd been newly built. We stopped in front of the first one.

“Do you think this could be where Mom works?” I asked.

“Only one way to find out.” Jack started up the path and I followed. He hesitated for just a second before pushing in through the front door.

“Hello?” he called out tentatively.

There was a desk sitting directly in front of the door but nobody was sitting at it. In the background, coming from another room, I heard the noise of a typewriter and a phone ringing.

“Somebody's here,” I said.

The words had no sooner come out of my mouth than a woman walked into the room. “Can I help you boys?”

“Yes. We're looking for our mother—Betty Braun.”

“You're Betty's boys!” she exclaimed. “Come this way.”

We followed as she retreated out of the room and down a corridor.

“Guess who I've got?” she asked as we entered another room. Our mother was sitting behind a big desk.

“Jack! George! What a pleasant surprise …” Her expression suddenly changed from happy to concerned. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything is fine! Honest!” I assured her.

“We just came up to say hello and it's almost lunchtime, and we thought we could eat with you,” Jack said, holding up the paper bag we'd packed our lunches in.

“That is so sweet,” she said, “but I'm going to be eating lunch with Colonel Armstrong … inside the camp.”

“What?” I gasped.

“You're joking, right?” Jack asked.

“Best food around,” the woman who had guided us in said. “I wish I had time to join you today but there are reports due that I have to complete. Could you bring me back a sliver of dessert?”

“I certainly can, Doris.”

“But I don't understand,” I protested. “You're going into camp to eat with all of those prisoners?”

“It's perfectly safe,” Doris said.

“Are you bringing in guards?” Jack asked.

“Just Colonel Armstrong,” our mother said.

“Will he have a gun?” I asked.

“No guns are ever brought into the camp compound,” Doris said.

“But that can't be safe!” I protested. “You're going into the camp without guards and without even a gun!” Even grandfather guards with guns were better than no grandfathers and no guns. This couldn't be right.

“Don't worry, it's perfectly safe. Ask the colonel yourself if you don't believe me,” Doris said, gesturing behind us.

I turned around. A large man in uniform had just entered the room. Two soldiers jumped up from their desks and saluted. He returned their salutes as he strode across the room, the heels of his boots making a loud staccato sound against the wooden floors.

“I see we have some guests,” he said. He was tall, had a neatly trimmed moustache and stood ramrod stiff. He was nobody's grandfather.

“These are my sons. Jack is my oldest, and my youngest, George.”

He stuck out his hand and we shook. His hand was big and rough and he gripped mine firmly.

“The boys were just worried about their mother having lunch inside the camp,” Doris said. I wished she'd just stayed quiet.

“It is perfectly safe,” he said reassuringly. “I imagine you two must be here today because you're curious about what goes on.”

“We just came to have lunch with our mother,” I lied. “We thought we'd surprise her.” At least that part was true.

“And maybe you also came to just make sure things were safe, what with her working so close to so many dangerous German prisoners of war,” he continued.

“Maybe a little,” Jack admitted.

“Then perhaps I can satisfy all possible concerns,” the colonel said. “You'll see that she's safe, find out more about the camp and even have lunch with your mother.”

Doris looked at the colonel and smiled. “You don't mean …”

He smiled back. “Certainly. Would you boys care to join your mother and me for lunch in the prisoners' dining room?”

“I don't think that's such a good idea!” our mother said, jumping in before either of us had a chance to answer.

“Why not?” Colonel Armstrong asked. “It really is perfectly safe, and I think rather than telling your boys that, it would be far, far better to
show
them. People are more likely to believe what they see than what they are merely told.”

“Please, Mom?” Jack asked.

I wasn't so sure I wanted to go there. Sharing a meal with Mom on this side of the fence was one thing, but actually going inside the camp …

“If it's safe for you, it should be safe for us,” Jack argued.

“He has a point there,” Colonel Armstrong said.

Our mother looked trapped. It was obvious that she really didn't want us to come inside, but she didn't have any choice. If she didn't bring us now, we really would be worried.

“Fine,” she said, with the tone of voice that I knew meant it wasn't really
fine,
but it was going to happen anyway.

CHAPTER SIX

THE FIRST GATE OPENED
slowly, folding inward, allowing us inside. The two guards—one of them had to be sixty if he was a day—saluted smartly, and Colonel Armstrong returned the salutes. The guards all wore the same olive-green uniform, with a fierce-looking lion patch on the shoulder.

“As you can see, there are two fences, with a gap of fifteen feet between them. Both fences are twelve feet high and are topped by a rather nasty array of both barbed wire and razor wire,” Colonel Armstrong said. “Along the outer fence at intervals of four yards are electric lights capable of turning night into day at the flick of a switch.”

As the first gate closed behind us, the second began to open. The three others started into the yard, but I hesitated. Was this really wise?

Colonel Armstrong looked back. “Nothing to fear, lad,” he said, and I hurried after them.

“As we travel, we are being observed from the guard towers. Each tower is twenty-two feet high and is manned by three guards equipped with rifles. There is not a spot within the fourteen-acre compound that is not visible from one of the nine towers.”

That was reassuring, until I remembered that some of those guards were so old that they probably couldn't see very far anyway, and I didn't even want to think about how well they could shoot.

Colonel Armstrong turned around to face the guards. “Aren't you gentlemen forgetting something?” he demanded.

Nobody answered.

“No one asked us to sign in,” Colonel Armstrong said firmly.

“Oh, yeah, sorry, sir,” one of the guards stammered. He opened up a wooden box and pulled out a large leather book. “I'll mark the four of you in,” he said.

The colonel started walking again, and we followed. “New regulation I've instituted to keep track of visitors in and out of the compound. The guards seem to have trouble remembering. I'm afraid it's hard to teach old dogs new tricks.”

“I can't believe how old some of them are,” Jack said.

“It's a reality of war that the younger men are on the front lines,” Colonel Armstrong explained.

“Like our father,” Jack said.

“Exactly. I have some fine men here, though. A bit long in the tooth, but many of them were good soldiers in their time.”

“The grounds are very well maintained,” my mother said, changing the subject. “The flowers are just lovely!”

“Yes, they are. The prisoners have established a horticultural club.”

“A what?” I asked.

“A gardening club. They also have a theatre company, book club, poetry reading group, painting classes, a bird-watching club, a newspaper, an orchestra—”

“An orchestra?” my mother asked.

“Yes. Forty-eight pieces. They mainly play the classics, but the conductor has admitted a fondness for Glenn Miller and they've started playing some big band and swing standards. There are also many sporting events.”

“Like soccer,” Jack said.

“We saw them playing the other day,” I added.

“And just what were you two doing up here the other day?” Colonel Armstrong asked.

“I sent them to see how long it would take to walk here,” our mother explained.

“But we hung around for a while because we were curious,” Jack confessed.

“Curiosity isn't necessarily a bad thing,” Colonel Armstrong said. “Although I remember something my mother always used to say: ‘Curiosity killed the cat.'”

 
As we continued along the path, two soldiers—two
prisoners
—came toward us. They walked crisply, the heels of their shiny boots clicking against the concrete walkway. I felt scared. I slipped back slightly so that I was partially shielded and protected by Colonel Armstrong. I looked anxiously around for the nearest guard tower, but didn't see any guards peering out from it.

As the distance closed to a few feet, the two soldiers smartly saluted Colonel Armstrong and he returned the gesture.

“Guten Tag,”
one of the soldiers said as he tipped his hat politely to my mother.

“Es ist ein schoner Tag,”
she said.

The man skidded to a stop and spun around.
“Sprechen
Sie Deutsch?”

“Ja, aber nur ein bisschen,”
my mother replied.

“Ah. A beautiful day, indeed,” the soldier said in very precise English. “It is so wonderful to hear even a few words spoken in my language by a woman. It has been a long time.”

“It's also been a long time since I spoke any German. I'm afraid my accent must be awful.”

“It was like music to my ears.”

“Perhaps introductions are in order,” Colonel Armstrong said. “This is my new administrative assistant, Mrs. Braun, and her two sons.”

“You are all German,” the other prisoner said, nodding his head.

“We're Canadian!” Jack snapped, stepping forward.

“My apologies,” the prisoner said, bowing slightly from the waist. “I meant no offence. I mean there is German heritage.”

“On both my side of the family and my husband's,” our mother said. “His family came to Canada more than seventy years ago. They worked a farm in an area of Ontario that was once known as Berlin, in honour of its many German settlers.”

“Berlin? But we live near Waterloo,” I said.

“That was the name Berlin was changed to during World War I. It was better to be named after a famous British victory than the capital of the country we were at war with.”

“War changes many things,” the first prisoner said. He spoke some more words in German, tipped his hat again and turned and walked away.

“Auf Wiedersehen,”
our mother said.