A Rock Fell on the Moon Read online

  Within two years, her mother married another Mennonite—Heinrich Werle, a university-trained agronomist responsible for ensuring the late August harvest of the area’s wheat crop. The state, aiming to be progressive at all times, forbade the use of horses and insisted farmers use combines. However, there was not a combine in sight, only a darkening sky that threatened rain. Werle ordered farmers to hitch up the horses and bring in the harvest. Once the crop was secured, he was banished to a northeastern hard labour camp.

  In 1940, Helen and her mother moved to a larger town, Stepnoye, where Helen attended high school and her mother found employment as a store clerk. Previously, she’d worked as a milkmaid. Helen’s brother Peter, now seventeen, stayed in Ebental to care for the family’s small house and few animals. The following year he too was arrested and summarily sent to the Gulag, where as far as his mother and sister knew, he’d disappeared and probably died. (As fate would have it, Helen would be briefly reunited with her brother again—fifty-six years later.) In 1941 the Nazis marched into the Caucasus, their commandants riding in long, low black Mercedes. Maria welcomed them as liberators—they had a common language and a common hatred. When the Russian army launched its massive counteroffensives in the winter of 1943–44, Helen and Maria retreated by foot, horse and cart, and cattle car along with the Germans. The only belongings they took were a few clothes, a handful of family pictures and a precious home-cured ham, useful for bribing train conductors.

  Like other war survivors, Helen would later keep the best stories to herself. But certain dramas she divulged. At seventeen, her first sweetheart, a Russian partisan, a resistance member, knocked on her bedroom window one night, swept her up on his horse and galloped into the woods where his comrades were hiding. He introduced Helen to his commandant and then returned her home before her mother noticed her absence. And when Helen and her mother first arrived in German-occupied Poland, nineteen-year-old Helen was forced to attend the Bund Deutscher Mädel (Hitler Youth school for girls). After two days of lessons on how to be a good German wife, mother and homemaker, she and a girlfriend scaled a wall and fled.

  Making their way to Germany, Helen and her mother were greeted by bombs and falling brick shattering heaven and earth. Terror spread like a plague as Helen and thousands of other civilians dove into basements, ducked under beds, bellied beneath railcars and fled from the fury of Allied forces. But the struggling Reich was desperate for skilled workers and Helen secured a respected job as a Russian–German translator for Kommission 28, a division of the German Reich evaluating applications from “Volksdeustch”—refugees who claimed German ancestry and were fleeing Eastern Europe. Helen worked long hours but at the end of some weeks, she danced till her bare feet bled. During that year, her mother was in a sanitarium recovering from tuberculosis.

  At the war’s end, Helen and her mother crowded into a small room shared with two other families in a former barrack in the American Zone—the most desirable section of Allied-occupied Germany. But with identification papers nailing them as Russian citizens, they were slated for repatriation to the land of their birth. In the American Jeep motoring east, Helen wept and in faltering English told the Yankees what the Russian army would do: rape them and then, if they lived, heave their ravaged bodies onto a Siberia-bound train. The soldier turned the truck around. When a chest x-ray was required for emigration to Canada, Helen disguised herself as her mother and went through the examination twice so that her mother’s Swiss-cheese lungs would not be revealed. In the fall of 1948, Helen and her mother boarded the SS Cynthia, landing in Quebec City ten days later. From there they chugged across the country to Matsqui, BC, where Abraham and Helene Rempel, the Mennonite family who sponsored them, gave them a home, a community and work in the fields, primarily picking berries and hops. They worked to pay back their boat and train fares, which the Rempels had paid—$500 for both.

  Although Helen’s identity papers stated she was twenty-two, she was twenty-four and felt great pressure to marry. Marriage during the war was unthinkable, though, despite proposals from the United Nations: a Russian, a Pole, an Italian, three Germans and an American. She knew what war did to husbands, brothers, fathers and sons. Once in Canada, however, amidst a Fraser Valley enclave of Mennonites, she soon had a marriage offer from a young man who planned to work overseas as a missionary. He was kind, fair-haired and not far from handsome. She declined, not least because she felt her travelling days were done. It was complicated. Mennonites were honest, industrious and generous, but, in her view, simple-minded. They were her people, but she was not wholly of them. Her world was not a temporary testing ground where God and the Devil battled for each soul. Where only piety, prayer, charity, righteous living, Bible study and full-immersion baptism brought peace of mind, and where only death brought eternal happiness. While Helen had no doubt God guided her through the war and ushered her safely to a new land, her world was an exhilarating mystery, full of ambiguity and equal parts fear, sorrow, joy and pleasure. She’d tasted the richness of a cosmopolitan life and wanted more. After crossing two continents and the Atlantic Ocean, she felt reborn—and not in any religious sense. What better way to cement her new self to her new nation than to marry a real Canadian?

  Later, in the Yukon, Helen was an exotic, if somewhat peculiar, beauty—a cardinal in a town of sparrows. A flat outdoor surface was rare in Elsa. No sidewalks, no streets, only roads covered with snow, ice, mud, dry dirt or gravel. Yet Helen dressed in taffeta gowns, billowing skirts, velvet jackets and tight side-zippered slacks, all of which she sewed herself after seeing them worn on the silver screen by the likes of Lana Turner, Rita Hayworth and Elizabeth Taylor. Once home from the movies, she would quickly sketch a dress or other article of clothing and trace precisely sized outlines on newsprint or scrap paper. With help from her nimble-fingered mother, she’d create a chic wardrobe, and had no qualms about showing it off in a jerkwater mining town. The dresses fitted her petite figure like a hug, and with a full skirt flaring from her cinched waist down, she rivalled any southern glamour queen.

  As the mother of two girls born 360 days apart, she designed and dressed her children in matching ensembles; everything from fluffy butterfly dresses to plaid cowboy shirts to traditional Ukrainian dancing costumes with shamrock green skirts, puff-sleeved blouses and hand-embroidered aprons. She always wore pumps with two-inch heels and never owned a pair of jeans. Gentle and trusting by nature, when you met her, she would smile shyly, lock your eyes with hers and extend her delicate, manicured hand for a firm, warm touch. If she’d met you more than once, she’d greet you with an embrace. She never coloured her nails but filed them into almonds and painted them a shiny clear finish. She was the spirit of vitality and spontaneity, as long as you didn’t look too closely. Tragedy called, and for decades she answered with a disarming mix of grace, instinctive practicality and childlike charm.

  Chapter 3

  The Brunette Flower

  What of the wonder of my Heart,That plays so faithfully its part?

  How did this disparate twosome, who began at opposing ends of the Northern Hemisphere, ultimately meet, bond and, for a long while, have a really good time? After paying back their ship passage, which took two years of Fraser Valley farm work, Helen and her mother Maria confidently moved to Vancouver, where they planned to settle permanently. They shared a house with a Mennonite family at 451 East Forty-seventh Avenue in South Vancouver, a growing and tight-knit enclave of urban Mennonites, anchored by three large Mennonite churches. Maria found employment as a “dayworker,” or cleaning lady, and Helen as a receptionist at a dry cleaner’s. As someone who had come to life on city energy in Prague, Vienna, Strasburg, Berlin, Frankfurt and other European cities and then laboured two years on a farm, Helen revelled in what little Vancouver had to offer: shops, shows, fashion and free concerts in Stanley Park. And she began to make a few friends, in particular a newlywed woman named Gisella whose husband, Egon Busse, and his mothe
r had been on the same transatlantic ship Helen and her mother were on. Gisella told Helen that Egon had found well-paid work somewhere far up north but that she missed him terribly.

  On January 10, 1951, Helen received a mysterious letter. The return address bore no name, only: Torbrit Silver Mines Limited, Alice Arm, BC. Alice Arm—now one of the most inaccessible ghost towns in the province—was then a remote mining community in a thickly forested fiord called Observatory Inlet, an arm of lengthy Portland Inlet, 85 miles northeast of Prince Rupert on the BC coast, near the Alaskan border. The town, built for the families of mine employees, was 17 miles from the mine, and located deep in the traditional territory of the Nisga’a.

  The one-page handwritten letter was in German and its signature—fluid and bold, with the first letter of each part dwarfing the rest—was Gerald H. Priest. The signature was obviously penned by a different hand. Mr. Priest had heard “good things” about Helen through Egon, his assistant, and asked if she would be interested in exchanging letters as a way to improve her English. She was intrigued and on January 13, 1951, wrote back. Monday was mail day. On Tuesday, he responded.

  Weekly and then twice and thrice a week, Helen’s and Gerry’s missives flew north to south and south to north like migrating birds. Often typed on Torbrit Silver Mines stationery, Gerald’s letters told of 50-foot snowbanks, blizzards, bears, ravens and mountain goats, of families of geese and grouse. Most often, though, the pages bore the burdens of his heart, which lured her into the labyrinth of his mind. In impeccable English, he poured out selected fragments of his history, his aspirations and his beliefs. Often, they echoed her desires and dislikes. She loved going to shows and movies. He did too and would take her to one next time he was in town. She loved music. He listened to opera and the classics whenever he had a chance. She loved to dance. He would like to learn how. She couldn’t swallow the litany of Old Testament “thou shalt-nots,” but believed in God and the teachings of Jesus. He preferred the United Church and once walked 17 miles to attend a service, and 17 miles back.

  Helen corresponded in tentative English at first, but it didn’t take long to improve. The new language, which she had started studying in Germany, came easily, and she was soon writing two to three pages, enchanted to be corresponding with a pensive, sensitive and philosophical soul, someone grounded in goodness but searching for deeper meaning—as was she. By mid-February, Gerry was sharing his innermost musings and broodings:

  Feb. 16/51

  One thing about these places, a person has a great deal of time to do nothing but think, and that would be good if a person always came up with the right answers. But they don’t. After awhile up here, a person begins to consider himself as separate from the rest of the world, as if he were standing still and the whole world were moving around and never quite touching his own sphere. That isn’t right though and occasionally, I have to give myself a good mental shake and come back to earth.

  In March, after learning that Helen had lost her job and was looking for another, he offered to lend her money. And confessed that he too was a true believer.

  March 4, 1951

  I so hope I don’t offend you… it’s just that I earn a lot of money here and I get very little satisfaction out of it, it just goes to the bank every week and I don’t feel as if it’s doing any good… I get the feeling sometimes that time is going by and I’m not getting anywhere, not in a material sense, but spiritually. It seems everywhere a person looks these days, why there’s only unhappiness. I really don’t know and sometimes I wonder if people haven’t lost the simple art of living honestly and simply. I guess a person just has to figure out what makes a decent and God-fearing life and try to live by it.

  God flits in and out of his letters. But his deity is far removed from the austere patriarch of her upbringing.

  March 10, 1951

  It’s too bad that often we’re blinded by work and worry so that we can’t see all the wonderful things God has given us… I look around me here and see such a number of hard, bitter, twisted people, I think “what an awful shame”… Whenever I feel bad, I think of that Psalm, “I shall lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help.” Probably that’s misquoted, because I don’t read the Bible enough to fix any of it in my mind… too many religious people think that to believe in God one has to go around with a long face, singing Hallelujahs right and left, and denying themselves any kind of pleasure. I can’t see that at all.

  And by this time, his sign-off changes from “all my best wishes” to “all my love.” By April, German expressions of endearment creep into their letters. He calls her Schatz (Treasure). She calls him Liebchen (Sweetheart). As a pale, spring sun softens the heavy snows blanketing the dark woods, and hummingbirds and robins reappear, his mood lightens. Slightly. He teases, writing that their correspondence would flow easier if she were Spanish, given that he is fluent in the language, and throws in a few Spanish phrases. “You teach me German and I’ll teach you English. But there are things I’d like to say that wouldn’t take any language at all.” In April, he suggests they exchange pictures. She agrees, knowing like all women that looks are her greatest asset. Despite the flirtations, though, his pen, more often than not, records sentiments of alienation and eerie isolation.

  April 7, 1951

  It’s about 8 in the evening here, Loyla, not dark yet but just that soft gray that comes to the mountains at dusk. Out my window, long streamers of mist float down the valley and along the sides of the mountains. Sometimes I think they look like lost souls just drifting by and not going anywhere… I like to sit here and look down the valley and watch it grow darker and darker. It makes me feel sad and lonesome and so far from everything. But still I do it so I guess I enjoy it.

  They both have pictures taken at professional photo studios—his in Prince Rupert—the custom of the day. In early May, Helen’s picture arrives in Alice Arm and that settles it. They must meet. A date is set for mid-June. He will show her the Vancouver sights: Stanley Park, Grouse Mountain, a harbour cruise. He puts her picture in a thin, gold-rimmed oval frame and places it on his table, which doubles as his writing desk. Her dark eyes follow him to every point in the room. He tells her he will rent a car and have two weeks in Vancouver as he has given notice at the mine and accepted a position at the Prince Rupert pulp mill. But that too would be only temporary, he writes, given that he and his father plan to start up their own newspaper in some as yet undetermined BC small town. He’ll never go back to Alice Arm.

  May 3,1951

  Lately, I’m afraid, I’ve been thinking less and less about my work and more and more about you… I’ll try not to be shy, so that we can talk about lots of things. I’ll tell you how pretty I think you are and what dark and lovely hair you have. About how long it’s going to seem from now until we meet, about the nights I’ve lain awake and thought of you, oh yes Loyla, I’m so sure I can find a great deal to say to you.

  As their first date draws nearer, Gerry becomes more restless, more miserable and dissatisfied with where and who he is, telling Helen that many men lead “wasted lives” and that “for more years than I like to think of, the world has been a dark and lonesome place for me.” Nature, however, soothes his soul and comforts his heart. He concurs with Victorian-era poet Bliss Carman: “The greatest joy in nature is the absence of man.” One night he wakes at midnight to hear a large flock of wild geese overhead, returning north for the spring. What wonderful birds they are, flying across the moon in arrowhead formation. And when they mate, he writes, “it’s for their whole lives.”

  On June 15, Gerry rents a mint green Cadillac convertible and drives to Stanley Park, where they rendezvous at the third bench on the main walkway. He wears a doeskin brown suit, a white shirt and a cornflower blue tie. She stands when he approaches, dressed in a rose red, waist-hugging, full-skirted frock. His knees buckle. She’s the most terrifying creature he’s ever met.

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sp; Helen continues to work during the days but for two weeks they spend every other waking moment together. They take in movies, go for long drives and ride up the Grouse Mountain chairlift. Mostly they walk, talk and sip the intimacies of courtship. Where had she learned to kiss like that? Soft, slightly open lips with a firm backup. A girlfriend took her to the graveyard one night and taught her how, she confesses. Their union will be passionate, playful, spiritual and intense. She is infinitely better than he deserves, and he wishes only that she love him half as much as he loves her. An incessant kidder, a tease and a joker, he continually seeks declarations of her devotion. He also meets her mother, a short, plump, pink-cheeked and green-eyed woman, who blushes and smiles but doesn’t say much.

  Toward the end of the second week, Gerald goes to O.B. Allan Jewellers on Granville Street and buys a 14-karat gold diamond engagement ring with a speck-sized single-cuts bracketed by two minuscule single-cuts. That evening, on a hidden pathway on Little Mountain, also known as Queen Elizabeth Park, he proposes. She accepts with one condition. My mother, she says, is part of the deal. He replies, “I’ll take seven mother-in-laws if I can have you.”

  Lovesick and nearly broke, Gerry returns to Prince Rupert and takes a position as an analytical chemist for Skeena Cellulose, a pulp and paper plant. His starting salary is $350 a month, rising to $400 after one year. Known as Canada’s wettest, darkest city for its record levels of precipitation, the town is rough and weather-beaten and housing options are grim. He lives in a small, scruffy two-bedroom wood-sided house at 528 Seventh Avenue West—with his parents. His plan is to move them into a furnished apartment and then move Helen and her mother into the house after the wedding. But within a month, his taste for the new job sours and he begins looking for work elsewhere. Jobs up north are plentiful and pay well, he tells Helen, and they would only stay a year or two. Would she be willing to move north? She is aghast. Even farther north? But where would that be? “Wherever, that would be so hard, especially now that Mama has made friends at her church.” “Yes, of course,” he writes. “I understand. We will not go north. That’s for sure.”