Dot’s brave expression collapsed, and Dash held her tight. “I won’t be far,” she promised through the lump in her throat.
“We’ll be fine,” Dot said again.
The train arrived on a rush of air, lifting coats and hats, and Dash reached for her suitcase. The porter opened the nearest door and set out stairs, then all at once she was on board, her face pressed to the window. Her family, huddled together for support, smiled and waved, and Dash did the same. The train whistled, a railway man yelled something she couldn’t hear, then someone blocked her view as the engine lurched into motion. When she could see outside again, the train had left the station—and her family—far behind.
nineDOT— October 1942 —Oshawa, Ontario
Merci!” Dot called, but the young newspaper boy was already moving on to the next house. She crouched to retrieve their copy ofThe Oshawa Daily Times, then she returned to her father in the living room.
“Tu dors?” she whispered, noticing his eyes were closed.
He blinked slowly. “Just resting.”
“This just arrived,” she said, handing him the paper. “Would you like a cup of hot water?”
“That would be lovely, thank you. Cream and sugar as always,” he joked.
Before the war, Dot and her father had enjoyed a little coffee on Saturday mornings while they worked on their weekly crossword puzzle together. Rationing had put an end to that. Their calendar reminded them every week that they had to wait until the fourth Friday of the month to pick up tea and coffee rations. Rather than do without completely, they’d decided between them that it was simple enough to boil water and convince their imaginations that it was coffee. It didn’t work, of course, but it was better than nothing at all.
When she brought in his steaming cup, she could see he was distracted by something in the paper. Curious, she set the cup on the table beside him and peered over his shoulder.
The article was about a U-boat attack. That was a little odd, because distant war events didn’t usually show up on the front page ofThe Oshawa Daily Times.
“Port aux Basques,” she read out loud, alarm quickening her words. “That’s at the southwest coast of Newfoundland, am I right?”
“It is. A small community.” He passed her the paper then took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and fore-finger.
Practically in Canada, she thought, shocked. How had the war come so close? She read on and caught her breath on the next sentence.
“The SSCaribou…They torpedoed a passenger ferry in the middle of the night? Oh, Dad,” she whispered.
One hundred and thirty-six men, women, and children on their way home had perished. Their families, who had probably done much the same as Dot had, holding the war at bay for as long as possible, had lost everyone they loved.
“Aren’t passenger ferries supposed to be safe from attack?”
He put his glasses back on, his face pale. “No one is safe in war.”
“But how? How could this have happened?”
“I cannot imagine the U-boat was aware this was a civilian ferry,” he said. “Not even the Germans would do that on purpose. They would have been hunting something more valuable to their cause. It’s simply a terrible tragedy.”
“What would have happened to the U-boat after?”
“Who knows? It would have dived immediately after firing, and the escort ship would have dropped depth charges, but the article does not say if the U-boat was caught.”
Dot’s mind brought her the screaming victims, the churning black water, and the Atlantic’s icy teeth. All the little children, lost and confused and freezing to death in the depths. All those mothers… Bile roseup her throat at the thought of so much violence. So much death. She had almost accepted that bloodshed was practically an everyday occurrence in Europe, but that was far away and easier to bear. Not here. Not in Canada, where she felt so secure. Her father must be right; this attack had to have been a mistake.
She sank onto the couch, mulling over the story. Shouldn’t there have been a way for the ferry to communicate with the enemy? To let them know they were not a warship? Could the tragedy have been prevented?
“I have a question, Dad. I know what you did in the Great War with your Marconi radio. If you’d been doing that now instead of then, using new technology, could you have flown over the U-boat and transmitted its locations? Could you have warned the ferry or notified the submarine?”
“That would have been a very different situation,” he replied. “I would not have been flying over the open ocean or in the pitch black of night. Even if I had been there in the daytime, it would not have been easy to detect a U-boat underwater. Of course, things have changed over the years. It is possible now to send messages great distances through radio transmissions.”
“You were able to prevent some attacks back then, I imagine,” Dot said softly. “It must have felt good, knowing you were saving lives. Did the military tell you if your efforts were successful, or was it all kept secret?”
“Most things in war are top secret, but occasionally someone in a high-up place would let something slip, or I’d receive a little ‘Well done!’ message.” He paused. “Once in a while, I learned about a small victory that had come about because of my transmissions. Yes, it was a fulfilling sensation, knowing I had helped in some way.”
Dot leaned back in the cushions, wondering. What if a message could have been delivered ahead of time through radio transmissions, like her father said? How did that work? Might it have saved lives?
