The Last Witness (4 page)

The article was the alarm that triggered a heated reaction from NYU’s student body, but only a small portion of that student body. The Jewish Law Students Association, representing a formidable group within the NYU School of Law, countered with its own piece citing sources and statistics to document the claims of one Jack Fisher. If that wasn’t enough, the president of the Jewish Graduate Students Association challenged the writer of the original article to a debate about the
veracity
of the Jewish Holocaust. That was the word used – veracity – and just to make a point, the ‘H’ was capitalized. But there was nothing from anyone else. Not a word.

7

The summer of 2031 was Christine’s last one before she would start university. She wanted to pursue a degree in English, but tuition was expensive, and while her parents would help pay her way she needed a job. Jack, her 91-year-old great grandfather of all people, gave her an idea.

“Why don’t you work as a reporter?” he said. “You like to write. Here’s a chance to get paid for it.”

He always seemed old to her. The day she was born he was already seventy-five, and by the time she started to discern the meaning of age, he was well into his eighties. The very number seemed ancient.
Eighties
. Especially to a child. He was the oldest person she knew in the whole world and when he turned
ninety
, well, that was something else again.

“Old Jack will live forever,” they used to say. His heart was good, his lungs were good, but even back in those days he never smoked. His blood pressure sometimes acted up, but was regulated with the latest beta blockers, and aside from his arthritis and that bad shoulder he always complained about, his health was pretty good. But then his wife Eve – Christine’s great-grandmother – died and it was a shock. She went quickly. It was an aneurysm. They were married so long no one could picture Jack without her, but he surprised them, even those who were closest to him. His children. His grandchildren. His great-grandchildren. That Jack was one tough character.

“He’s made of deep moral fibre,” said Christine’s Uncle Ernie, who was her father’s younger brother and one of Jack’s grandchildren himself. “He has seen a lot.”

Christine would visit with him at family functions. Weddings. Anniversaries. Christmas. He was a slight man in stature, and Christine knew why he was short. His roots were Polish, and
for some reason people from Eastern Europe just weren’t as tall as those from the West. Weren’t the Dutch the tallest people on earth and weren’t the Scandinavians right behind them? But Poles? Forget it.

Christine’s father Bill was Jack’s grandson, and not that big either. Luckily, on Christine’s mother’s side there was some height, which no doubt accounted for Christine’s size. Indeed, by the time she was thirteen she was taller than Jack, and it wasn’t long before she outweighed him, too. But he was strong and surprisingly agile for a man his age. He got around without difficulty even after hitting ninety. For as long as Christine could remember, he could lift her up, perch her body on his hip, and tickle her behind the ears. And she always called him by his first name.

Jack.

“Why don’t you work as a reporter? You like to write. Here’s a chance to get paid for it.”

It sounded like a good idea.

The biggest news journal in Wellington County was the
Kitchener-Waterloo Record
with more than 150,000 e-readers daily. But Christine never got further than the human resources department, so she set her sights a little lower and talked her way into a job with a local community newspaper.
The Reflector
. It still had a newsprint edition, the only one left in Wellington County.

“We don’t have an office manager right now so that position is open. You’d handle reader correspondence and keep the place clean. Make everyone happy. And if you can string a few words together you could do some features.”

The hard copy version of
The Reflector
was distributed to a few hundred rural subscribers, who lived outside the perimeter of Kitchener-Waterloo, two small cities in Southern
Ontario that had grown on either side of the same street and were forever destined to share a hyphen. The readers were largely Old Order Mennonites, most of them farmers and owners of small businesses, and the modern world had passed them by. They still wanted their newspaper. They and many others in the area had deep roots in these parts.

There were four types of features that Christine would write for
The Reflector
. The Events Calendar was straightforward. People sent in news about their coming bake sale or fundraiser, and it went into the calendar.

‘Antique auction sale at 40 South St., Elmira. Antiques and collectibles include small pine storage cupboard 175 years old, and a stove, a high-quality teak sideboard, and three good teak lamps.’

The Personals column wasn’t much of an exercise in writing either, but it was a good way to learn about people. Readers filled out a form and added a few words, which often had to be rewritten. The Personals came in different categories: Projects and Causes, Personal Development, Travel Plans, Miscellaneous, and the best one of all – Friends and Companions.

‘Beautiful, well-educated woman, mid 30s, tall and slim, with oodles of energy and a curious approach to life, searching for a gentleman to share long-term relationship.’

Then there was the Genealogy column, which allowed readers to explore their family trees. Christine liked doing that because she could delve into the old shipping lists. Records still existed from a steamboat passenger line. The steamers picked up travellers, who had come across the Atlantic, and took them to Quebec City and Montreal where they would stay, go south to the United States or continue west to what was then called Upper Canada. Most of them were immigrants making a new life. What with the winds and tides along the St. Lawrence River, the passage from Quebec City to Montreal could take thirty hours. It was all there in the ship’s list.

One steamer, the
Malsham
, arrived in Quebec City on July 3, 1819. According to the passenger records, the prime occupant of the stateroom on that trip was the Earl of Dalhousie, who had come from Halifax aboard
H.M.S. Mersey
on June 30 with his wife Lady Dalhousie. She had her own suite because all the other stateroom dwellers were men. There was Lord Ramsay, Mr. Temple, Lord S. Kier, Major Cooper, Captain Collier who was the captain of
H.M.S. Mersey
, Mr. Hays, Mr. Woodford and Lieut. Torrians. There were one hundred and nine people on that steamship, and the surname of every one of them was recorded in the ship’s list. Christine’s job was to check those names against families still living in Wellington County and then contact these people. Every week she would focus on a different family.

It was a revelation to find that Veronica Hays, who worked at the university, was a descendant of that same Mr. Hays or that Pete Collier, chef at one of the Salem diners, could trace his lineage back to Captain Collier of
H.M.S. Mersey
. There were many old steamers and lots of lists, so Christine was never wanting for material.

But the best part about the job was writing obituaries, and Christine’s instructions were clear. Make sure the name of the deceased was spelled correctly, mention what kind of work they did, and include whom they left behind. That was it. It was an impersonal way to report on one’s passing, but space was limited. Then she came across an old British writer, Hugh Massingberd, who by the time his own obituary appeared in 2007 was best known as obituaries editor for
The Daily Telegraph
of London. Massingberd had made a lasting impression. In fact, he made the obit an art form. He single-handedly changed how the obit was written, hastening its evolution from a dry, paint-by-numbers summary to a personal, often witty essay on what made the deceased unique. In short, he made the person human, and because readers flocked to what he did, he was given more space. Christine wanted to write obits like that, too.

But there was a process and like the Personals it started with a form. Along with the photo was the name of the deceased, their age, dates of birth and death, where they died, occupation, names of any predeceased, and survivors. If the person was old and had left their mark, the number of survivors could go on forever. But the whole thing was flat and without substance, every obit pretty much the same, and it left Christine hungry for more. She wanted to know how the person died, whom they influenced, where they traveled, what kind of contribution they made to the world, or whether they were known for a certain trait or turn of a phrase. Something, anything, to identify them as an individual. So she asked about expanding the obit and they said no. Space was limited. Then came the tragic death of a two-year-old boy, the son of a couple who ran the bakery in Salem.

It broke her heart.

What arrived was a 3D email relating how little Brian Shepherd died of leukemia after a long hospital stay. In the 3DE, Christine could see the pain and sorrow oozing from the face of the boy’s mother. She had provided the form with all the blanks filled in – name of deceased, the tender age of two, and the list of family members left behind. There was a photo – a head shot with big brown eyes and cherubic cheeks.

Christine called the family to see if there was anything about him they might like to include and indeed there was. Brian loved animals. They said when he was in hospital they would take him outside where he chased the squirrels, listened to the sparrows, and was mesmerized watching the geese. The family also had a dog, a Dalmatian named Spotty, and ‘Spot’ or rather ‘Pot’ was the first word Brian ever said. What’s more, ever since his passing, the bewildered dog had been going around the house sniffing for him and coming up empty. The Shepherd family
was more than happy to talk about their son – it was a way of healing – and they spoke to Christine for a long time. She decided to go for broke.

On October 24
^th
, 2029, Brian Shepherd was welcomed into the family of Richard and Anne Shepherd, long-time proprietors of Shepherd’s Village Bakery in Salem. He was born on a beautiful day when the autumn leaves were full and he was the best friend of the family’s Dalmation Spotty. In fact, Brian’s first word was when he called the dog ‘Pot.’

Brian was a happy child, but at sixteen months he was diagnosed with leukemia and for the next nine months he spent most of his time in hospital. He never complained, preferring to treat the hospital stay as an adventure where he met interesting people and fascinating creatures, which were plentiful in the luscious gardens of the hospital grounds
.

Brian’s favourite time was going for walks with his family and Spotty. He scampered after the squirrels, always stopping at the foot of whatever tree they climbed, staring at them dumbfounded. He liked sharing his snacks with the sparrows and learned that breadcrumbs would bring them around in an instant. While he never got close enough to the geese, the arrival of a new friend on his second birthday, a toy figure named Mr. Goose, made him content. That same Mr. Goose rests with him today
.

Brian’s last visit at home was a traumatic day for Spotty, who knew something was amiss. No sooner was Brian out the door that the dog stuck his nose into every corner of the house, relishing the scent that would no longer be. Brian died in his sleep on November 6
^th
, 2031 with his family around him. They don’t know what he might have become or the wonderful things he would have done, but in his brief life he brought love and joy to everyone he knew. The squirrels, sparrows and geese, and a special dog named Pot, have all lost a friend
.

At a tad over three hundred words, that wasn’t the standard obit. It was an article. But Christine controlled what got into the obit section and what didn’t, and since that was the only entry this time it stayed. It immediately prompted a letter suggesting that the practice continue. Then came another letter and yet another. Three letters from readers about the same thing was enough for the editor to take notice, and soon more space was made available for Christine’s obituaries.

“We’re going to expand the Obit section. Do one in every issue. Keep it the same length.”

Deaths of young people always aroused the greatest sorrow. One of them was an infant who hadn’t yet spoken her first word, so Christine made that part of the story. She wanted to make that little baby human. Soon her obituaries became a popular staple in
The Reflector
.

“I loved your piece on Jeannie Bremmer. I knew her. She was a lovely lady. You summed her up perfectly.”

“I know the family of Andrew Blinkney who was killed in the Turkish uprising. A fine young man. What a horrible loss. But you captured how everyone feels.”

Andrew Blinkney was an army platoon commander. A local boy from the town of Fergus, he was part of the international peacekeeping team in the troubled Malatya province of southeast Turkey. Tensions against minority Christians in that part of the country, which sat on the Syrian border, had been bubbling over ever since the 2029 attacks grew into full-scale hostilities. What set things off in the first place were Muslims converting to Christianity.

This was a military death and that made it different from the others, but the family still wanted to talk. They always wanted to talk. Christine learned that the soldier’s death occurred a mere two weeks before he was to come home. He left behind a little daughter.

Andrew Blinkney’s death in Malatya, where he was serving with the 2
^nd
Battalion of Prince Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry, came two short weeks before he was to return home from his final tour of duty. Eagerly waiting for his safe return were his wife Joan and daughter Felicia, who is three
.

Andrew was the son of Sean and Andrea Blinkney, long-time residents of Fergus. Sean has coached minor hockey and baseball for fifteen years and coached all his boys. The Blinkneys, who have been a fixture at the local arena since their sons first put on skates, have deep roots in the military
.