The Trunk
By Élise Brown-Dusssaul,

The Attic
By: Kelly Grenier (sec. 2),
 

Memories of a Trunk
By: Rebecca Rose Taylor  © 2008,

The Trunk
By Natasha Beaudoin aka Marie-Gisele Boulanger.
 

The Trunk
By Élise Brown-Dusssault   

    “Bamford!”
 Benedikt’s head snapped up sharply. He hadn’t been expecting anyone at the moment, and he was annoyed that someone should butt in on him while he was doing something important. Nevertheless, he turned and shielded his work from prying eyes. “Yes?”

 “Are you available at the camps today?” It was the general above him, Karl Wolff. He was one of the top Nazis, one of the ones who took orders directly from the Führer himself. Benedikt was always respectful to him, but inwardly he found that he was a very repulsing and vehement man, with a nasty temper.
    “I’m afraid not, sir. I must go and mail something to my… to my daughter.”
    “You have a daughter?”
    “Yes,” he lied deliberately.
    “Excuse accepted. What of tomorrow?”
    “Free.”
    “Excellent. Come see me then.”
    “Will do, sir.”
    Wolff left his office, closing the door none too gently. It seemed that generals always slammed doors, whatever mood they were in.
    Benedikt returned to his work, but after a moment of hesitation he went and locked his door. This was top-secret.
    What he was really doing had nothing to do with a daughter. He didn’t have a daughter. He did, however, have a very important mission.
    In an old trunk he packed more carefully selected handwritten papers, all of them bearing directions. They were directions to all of the camps that he knew of, which summed up to about every one he’d worked in. And Benedikt had worked in so many camps that it took immense effort to remember all of them. Each was as terrible as the next, all stinking with fear and sadness. It hurt to remember them, but it had to be done, should the trunk ever reach its destination. And if it didn’t, well…
    Convinced that he had put in everything he knew, he shut the trunk and closed the clasp. Then, he put on his hat, his coat and his shoes, and he left the office, whistling though butterflies filled his insides. He headed towards the mail station, trunk clenched tightly in hand. He took several deep breaths.
    The mail station was only a few blocks away from where he worked, and as soon as he reached it he went inside and placed the trunk on the counter and asked for a white page to write the address on. When he received it, he rapidly scrawled it and stuck it on the trunk surreptitiously.
    “Ivan Sidorov
    12, Main Street, Moscow
    Russia”
    He had not managed to hide it from the sneaky man behind the counter. He read it, and laughed a great nasty laugh. It sounded as if he felt intimidating.
    “Not interfering with the enemy, I hope?”
    Benedikt’s insides felt glacial. He forced a laugh. “No, sir.”
    “I’m afraid I’ll have to take a look inside that trunk anyhow.”
    He should have known that it would have come to this. Irked, Benedikt pulled out his wallet and removed his identity card. He placed it so close to the man’s face that it almost touched his spectacled nose.
    “I’m an S.S. guard,” he hissed. And I’ll decide if I want my mail opened by kotig die Krätze like you.”
    The man got the message. “Have you a stamp, sir?”
    “Indeed.” Benedikt pulled one out and stuck it on the trunk.
    “That will do. Thank you.”
    Without bothering to respond, Benedikt Montgomery Bamford, for the first time in his life, left a building slamming a door as if to make a point of his importance. The he walked to the coffee shop next door and collapsed in a chair. “One der Kaffee, please,” he said to the waitress, and while he waited he breathed in relief. It had gone well, after all. He had not been caught. And he had sent the addresses and the ways to enter the camps to an Ally officer in Russia. If it was not going to stop the war, at least he would save a few poor Jews from their otherwise inevitable fate. He was a life saver.
    When his coffee arrived, he thanked the waitress and guzzled it down in one go. Then he ran back to his office and sat behind his desk, pretending that he had not just betrayed the entire German army.
    “Bamford!”
    He looked up to see Wolff slamming into his office, and for a moment he wondered if he’d been caught. “Yes?”
    “We’re short on soldiers. We need you out.”
    Dutifully, Benedikt followed him into his automobile and they drove to the nearest camp, where line upon line of Jews were waiting to meet their unfortunate fate. He was to make sure none escaped. And as he saw the great look of pain and fear etched into their faces, he knew why he was risking his life to save theirs. It was just right.
    He caught a woman who was trying to run for it, but had bumped right into him. “Whoa, there,” he said, not unkindly.
    She looked up at him, afraid.
    “There’s no need to fear,” he said. “The war soon will have ended.” He smiled. “All you have to do is put your faith in good men’s hands.”

The Attic
By: Kelly Grenier (sec. 2)

“When was the last time you saw it grandpa?” I ask my grandfather who lost his manual saw again.
“If it’s not in the garage, then it must be in the attic.”
“You’re not answering my question.” I say, but he’s already heading to the stairs which lead to the attic. He pushes the door open in the cealing and enters.  I search for the tool trying not to cough through the storm of dust that emerges on my face every time I move something.
“When was the last time you actually came here?” I question my grandfather as he searches for the missing tool.
“Son I’m 88, and I have trouble remembering the date of my anniversary, so why would I remember the last time I came up here?”
He has a point, but he’s awkwardly in shape for someone his age. I remove a cloth the size of a bed sheet from a little rectangular box. I am blinded by the dust that elevated as I reached for the sheet. I coughed for a while. When I can finally open my eyes and breath, I realize that the box is really is a leather trunk.
“ Hey grandpa! Check this out!”
“Have you found my saw?”
“Forget the saw and tell me what that is instead,” I say, pointing at the trunk.
“For God’s grief,” he says like he can’t believe his eyes.” I totally forgot about this!” he says.
“What is it?” I ask again.
“This, son, is a souvenir box from the time I went to war,”
“You mean like World War II?”
“No I mean like World War III,” He says sarcasticly. “Of course World War II.”
I give him the look that says that his joke wasn’t funny.
“Why does it say B. M. Bamford?” I ask.
“That’s me, Barry Martin Bamford” He relpies like I was suppose to know that.
“Let’s open it!” I suggest,
“We might as well?” he sighs, “Since I can’t find that saw any how.”
He takes any old hammer that’s lying around and brakes off the lock. “I lost the key.” He says looking at me like it was a secret.
“You lose everything,” I replie.
“Hush hush!” he says knowing that I am right.
He opens the trunk. Inside is an army uniform with the name Bamford on it. The uniform is a green“one-piece.”
“I conclude this was your uniform, was it?”
“You bet it was!” he says proudly.
“With that uniform, I defended our honor, our pride, our dignity, and our country,” he says with a satisfied voice looking beyond with emptiness.
“This is so small! How did you fit in it?”  I say lifting the uniform out of the trunk.
“I was only 19 when I left to war,” He says.
I look inside the box again. There’s a letter in it.
“And what’s that?” I say holding up the paper.
“That’s probably the most precious material I have. That was the letter your Grandmother gave me before I left to war.”
“You kept it all those years?” I question.
“I kept it all those years.” He repeats looking like emotions were filling up his body, his mind and his soul.  It was only a year since Granny has passed away.
“May I read it?” I say trying to be polite so that he allows me to read it.
“Oh, sure,” he says getting back to me.
When I open the pink, old and delicate paper, I see beautiful hand writing. The letter is written in cursive writing. I start to read, it says:

Dear Barry,
    Though it has only been 6 months that I’ve known you, I can’t believe what my life would be without you. I cannot imagine giving birth to our 1st child, and you not being able to attend because of this war. Oh Barry, how shall I survive if you are not here to make me laugh, to re-assure me when I’m worried, to kiss me goodnight, and to feel your body next to mine when I cannot sleep at night? What shall I do Barry? Is this the end of us? Shall you ever come back to our little village of Minnesota?  Will you come back victorious of having defended our wonderful country? Or shall you be one of the unfortunate who must leave their entire selves in the battlefield? I will remember every instant spent with you and cherish them like your love in the bottom of my heart.

      With the hope, and the promise to see you again,
                                                
                                            Your Darling,
                                          -Elisabeth

“Did you ever see her again?”
“What a question, of course I did, she had promised,” He says sincerely.
“I did miss the birth of your father, but after the war, I found her.”
I remain silent.
“Come on, I’m getting hungry let’s go eat.” He says.
“Good idea!” I place everything back like it was.  As I head down the stairs following Grandpa, I take one last look at the trunk, and I close the door of the trap behind me.

    
The End

Memories of a Trunk                                                     
By: Rebecca Rose Taylor
 © 2008
 
            I have travelled across the seas to far away places; I have seen tragedy, destruction, and pain. Now, back home where I have been for the past sixty-three years, I am safe. I am made of hand chosen wood; I am the trunk George Bamford built and gave to his son Benjamin Michael before he went to war, an eighteen-year-old boy who became a man in 1939. I carried Ben’s uniform, a few other shards of clothing but most importantly the few reminders of home that he brought with him: a picture of his love Jenny, a handkerchief given to him by his younger sister, a Bible, and letters he had received from home.
 
            Often these letters were months old when he got them because the war forced him to travel many miles a day and sometimes the post didn’t get through enemy lines. The news was old but the love sent by Jenny, his parents and siblings was genuine and this was what kept him walking and surviving in the freezing cold, blistering heat and through the battles when he didn’t know if he would make it home to his loved ones. To have those amazing letters tucked away in my false bottom to protect the messages from falling into the wrong hands was a wonderful feeling.
 
            The more I got to know Ben and his family, the more I loved them. I prayed for them all during those six war torn years. When finally, the fighting had stopped and we were able to return home from Germany, I felt blessed and thankful. One of the worst days of fighting that I can remember is while Ben and I were fighting for survival and our beliefs in a trench. It was late at night and it was dark, only the light from the moon and stars shone on us, but the sound of our enemy’s artillery told they weren’t far away and we knew that if we lit the kerosene lamp our position would be compromised. Ben was crouched down in the trench on his belly beside me, firing his rifle whenever the dim light showed him someone sneaking our way. One of the enemy shots came very close to hitting Ben and taking him away from me, his military comrades, and his family back in the Eastern Townships of Quebec. But the bullet didn’t hit Ben; it hit me blazing a hole in my side. The shattering of my strong wooden body was unbelievable, I was stunned, but finally the bullet exited and hit the ground in our trench. I winced with the pain for several moments but finally when I looked over at Ben, his face lathered in sweat from his close call, I knew that we would be all right, because we had each other.
 
            Ben would have liked to patch me when we returned home but somehow he never got around to it, he was too busy catching up with his friends and family, marrying Jenny and having eight children of his own and eventually we all got used to the way I look. Ben’s daughter Amy says it is my medal of valour, for saving her father before she knew him. I’m grateful that Ben didn’t repair the bullet hole in me; it serves as a memory for all who look at me of what war can do. I wish more people would listen to my story, that is why I am writing to you tonight, to tell you that the world needs peace. Everyone fighting in a war no matter what side they are on has someone who loves and cares about them. I was lucky but there are a lot who return to their loved ones in caskets, and I wonder for what reason. Haven’t Ben, I, and all the others who have fought in wars shown that peace is necessary, that there has to be another way. I sit at the foot of Ben’s bed; he is now eighty-seven years old, but in fairly good health, a blessing for a man who went through as much as he did, trying to find the words to make myself understood. I think of Ben’s family and the looks on their faces the day we returned home, walking up the driveway into their loving arms. I reflect on Ben’s life with Jenny, who is also still with us, and the growth of their children, now we even have great grandchildren who come to visit. The summertime is a bustling place for us, a horrifying thought is jumping into my head, and I wish it would go away. What if one of Ben’s grandchildren, great grandchildren or a future generation has to go to fight for their beliefs and what if one of them doesn’t make it home. What will that do to this family or a family like it? I’d like to push that thought out of my mind but I know that it is too important to ignore. The time is now, the world needs to join together, and find a way to declare peace. Please help this happen, together we can stop the world from feeling the pain that so many families have felt and will feel if we don’t make changes. For now, I will go back to holding the memories of Ben’s family, from all the letters written during the war still tucked safely away in my false bottom as well as mounds of picture albums including one that holds the picture of Jenny that Ben took with him so long ago but I will not forget; you shouldn’t either.

The Trunk
By Natasha Beaudoin aka Marie-Gisele Boulanger


As she lifted the lid, the smell over powered her. Their smell. Twenty years had passed since it had arrived. Twenty years had passed since it had been opened.
She stole a glimpse inside; their clothes, their shoes, travel worn, still bearing the mud tacks of that fateful day. On top of it all were a box, two envelopes and a picture of a couple and their daughter. She picked up the box, unclasped the lid and opened it. Inside were two medals, both identical. A red ribbon with three blue stripes held each round silver medal. In the centre of each was a maple leaf surrounded by a laurel wreath. “BRAVERY-BRAVOURE” could be read on the back. Tears filled her eyes.

She picked up the first envelope. “RACHEL BAMFORD”, it read.
“WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU – STOP
YOUR DAUGHTER BRIDGET MARIE BAMFORD AND HUSBAND BRIAN JAMES CARLISLE – STOP
WERE KILLED IN ACTION AT THE 26th FIELD HOSPITAL IN FRANCE- STOP
ON THE 18TH OF FEBRUARY 1945. – STOP
OUR SINCEREST CONDOLENCES- STOP”

Tears spilled over and a sob echoed in the dusty attic. She picked up the second envelope, turned it over and gasped. “Brianna Marie Carlisle” Her name! A letter to her? Her hands trembled as she turned it over and broke the seal that held it closed.

“My Beautiful daughter,
I do not know if I will see you again, so I am writing this to make sure you know that we love you. Your father and I left you with Granny Bamford because duty called us back to help our fellow countrymen. The war is so horrible here in France; we never wanted to go back. We were called to go; we could not refuse. We cannot stand here and let people die without trying to help. They need surgeons so badly here. Your father and I cannot ignore the call. He is such a gifted surgeon, he has saved so many lives already. I am unable to let him go without me. The call for nurses is such that they take even the most unskilled. Your father wants me with him. He thinks together we can maybe stem the flow of dead falling from the wounds. Nurses are hard to find and being trained I cannot overlook the call of duty. You are so young, I cannot bear leaving you but I must. Your father also cannot bear to be away from you, but we are needed. Please forgive us my darling Brianna, we hope to see you soon.
We love you with all our hearts,
Your loving parents,
Bridget Marie Bamford and Brian James Carlisle.

Tears dropped onto the page as she remembered the story her grandmother told her long ago.

“You were just two years old when they got the letter in the mail. They had met when the war began at a field hospital in France. She was a nurse assigned to help him with surgery. He was a surgeon who had to try and save as many wounded as he could. They fell in love, somehow in those terrible times. They were already married and she was pregnant with you when they came back from their first tour. It was 1940. They stayed but I could see the need they had to go back. You were born on February 3rd, 1941. they were content to stay home and they loved you with all their hearts. The ache to go help subsided and they focused just on you. But one day the order came, they were asked to go back as they were running out of surgeons and nurses. They couldn’t refuse. The war had killed so many of our friends’ children. You were two when the army came to get them. They only took your mother’s trunk as it held all the medical supplies they could stock. That was the last time we saw them. It broke your parents’ heart to leave you but their duty was calling. I know they saved many lives, many of them came back to tell me of their great deeds.
They had been gone nearly two years and we were hearing that the war was coming to an end. The allies were pushing the Germans back. The shores of Normandy were a blood bath of allied dead but we pushed forward and were winning. Your parents were stationed at a field hospital in Normandy when in the night German planes bombed the hospital. Your parents were killed trying to save a soldier whose legs had been amputated. They became heroes. Two weeks after their death, the war was over.”

The memory faded from Brianna’s mind as she put the letter back in the trunk. It had taken her twenty years to open it, to face the memory and tragedy of her parents’ death. As tears poured freely from over her cheeks, a smile fluttered to her lips. She picked up the old photograph of the young family.
“ I love you to mom, dad,” she whispered. “I’m proud of you.”